Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  “Gonna mess you up, dipshit.”

  Rich Shactman jacked an elbow into Bobby’s gut, then trotted past him toward the dugout. Bobby dropped to one knee, thinking he might vomit, but he caught his breath and got back up.

  Coach Kreindler gathered the team’s bats in front of the dugout.

  “It’s him or me, Coach!” Shactman tossed his glove against the concrete block wall of the dugout.

  Kreindler turned toward the boy, confused, the aluminum bats pinging against each other.

  “The scouts from Gulliver and Ransom only come to the playoffs,” Shactman whined, “and we’ll never make them with Solomon messing up.”

  “Nu? What would you have me do, Rich?”

  “Throw Solomon off the team. I’m your star.”

  “Gevalt.”

  “So what’s it gonna be, Kreindler? Solomon or me?”

  Bobby heard every word. Watched as Kreindler shot a worried look in his direction. But the coach never answered. Just kept gathering up bats and balls.

  No. Not poison or explosives or a spear. There’s one thing I’m better at than Shactman. Swimming. I’m going to drown him.

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.

  Seventeen

  THE HABITS OF DOLPHINS

  “That was a great throw,” Steve said.

  “It broke a rearview mirror in the parking lot,” Bobby said.

  “Hard and true, right on line to the catcher. A bit high, maybe . . .”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “The mint chocolate chip is supposed to make you feel better, kiddo. I’m here to tell you the truth. You have what they call a long arm.”

  Uncle and nephew were sitting at a table outside Whip ’N Dip on Sunset Drive. Bobby had barely touched his ice cream. Steve had already polished off a cone of peanut butter swirl. And sure, he was trying to cheer up the boy. But Steve meant what he’d said. The velocity of the throw had been astonishing. The skinny kid had a rubber arm.

  “You should be pitching.”

  “Coach Kreindler will never let me.”

  “I’m gonna work with you on your control, teach you a few pitches. Then we’ll show Kreindler what you’ve got.”

  “When will you have time? You’ve got that stupid trial.”

  Another sore point. Bobby desperately missed Spunky and Misty. And he was still pissed about Steve defending Gerald Nash.

  “Everyone’s entitled to a defense, kiddo, even wackos like Nash.”

  “He’s not charged for his beliefs. He’s not even charged with releasing the dolphins. He’s charged with getting a guy killed.”

  Spoken like a true prosecutor, Steve thought.

  “You care more about that bird turd than you do about Misty and Spunky,” Bobby fumed.

  “Not true. But there’s nothing I can do about your pals.”

  “You could have rented a boat and looked for them.”

  “We’ve been through that, Bobby. Where would we look? The ocean’s too damn big.”

  Bobby knew his uncle was right, but he was too upset to let up. “Your client’s full of shit, you know.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “C’mon, kiddo. Why’s Gerald Nash full of shit?”

  “I’m taking the Fifth.”

  Steve had learned a long time ago that a trial lawyer, especially a solo practitioner, needed help. Take the Courthouse Gang, for example. Most lawyers ignored the retirees who hung around the Justice Building, wandering from courtroom to courtroom, seeking free entertainment. Hell, most lawyers never even noticed the oldsters.

  In his first year practicing law, Steve made friends with Marvin (The Maven) Mendelsohn, Teresa Toraño, and Cadillac Johnson. All over seventy, and all had seen hundreds of trials. Together, the three were great at sizing up people, figuring out when they’re lying. Maybe it takes a long life to develop those instincts. Whatever the reason, Steve relied on the Gang for picking juries. He couldn’t afford a high-priced jury consultant, or even a low-priced one, for that matter. He could, however, buy The Maven a Reuben with extra Russian dressing, the standard fee for courtroom advice.

  Bobby added something else to Steve’s team. The kid knew everything. Okay, that was an overstatement. But thanks to his echolalia and eidetic imaging, he remembered virtually everything he’d ever seen or heard. It was a gift, one of the quirks of his central nervous system abnormalities. While Steve couldn’t tell you what he ate for breakfast, Bobby could remember every license plate he’d seen on a drive from Miami to Disney World.

  “Why are you holding out on me?” Steve asked.

  “No hablo Inglés.”

  “Bobby, this is your uncle Steve. We’re tight, right?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “So . . . ?”

  The boy’s abilities were not limited to memorization. If he grew interested in a subject—baseball, supermodels, dolphins—he was able to engage in abstract thinking, too. He could demonstrate mathematically that runs-batted-in are the least meaningful statistic in baseball. He invented a body-fat analysis that could reveal—using only photographs—which supermodels had surgically enhanced breasts. And he was translating dolphins’ clicks and whistles into dozens of words and phrases—that effort interrupted by the felonious Gerald Nash.

  “Why’s Nash full of shit?” Steve persisted.

  Bobby slurped at the ice cream puddling in his cup. “Nash told you the dead guy had a boat with a lift to pick up Spunky and Misty, put them in a tank.”

  “Right. They were going to take them to the Straits and let ’em go.”

  Bobby screwed up his face in a look that said bullshit. “Why go to all that trouble?”

  “Because if they left the dolphins in the Bay, they’d swim right back up the channel to the park.”

  “So why didn’t they? The gate was wide open.”

  “I don’t know. You tell me, kiddo.”

  “The only way they’d come back was if somebody trained them to.”

  “Okay, maybe your two pals would have just hung out in the shallows near the gate until Grisby came for them.”

  “No way. The water’s all skanky there with oil and crud from the Crandon Marina. Spunky would have led Misty to deeper water. Then they’d get hungry and go out to open sea. They’d be free, just like your client says he wanted.”

  “Maybe Nash didn’t know that.”

  “Then he didn’t do his homework.”

  “Okay, kiddo. Spit it out. What are you saying?”

  “Victoria will be pissed if I tell you.”

  “What? You’re conspiring with the enemy?”

  Bobby swirled the ice cream, now a green river with logs of floating chocolate. “I’m hoping Victoria whips your butt,” he muttered.

  “Thanks. You and Dad are my biggest supporters.”

  The boy spooned up some melted ice cream and kept quiet.

  “Let’s make a deal, kiddo. Only share with me what you tell Victoria. Nothing more. No special treatment.”

  “It isn’t that much,” Bobby said.

  “Fine. Whatever you’ve got.”

  Bobby shrugged. “Your client didn’t want to set Spunky and Misty free. If there was a boat to pick them up, it’s because he was going to keep them.”

  Eighteen

  EVERYTHING BUT THE TRUTH

  Steve drove along the Miami River toward the county jail. He needed to confront Gerald Nash and get the truth. Bobby was right: the guy’s story wasn’t holding up. Just why did Nash need a boat to pick up Spunky and Misty? Why risk injuring them? Why slow down your own getaway? Why not just let the dolphins go free?

  Clients lie. They lie under oath, which is bad enough. But they also lie to their own lawyers, which to Steve was both a capital offense and terminally stupid. Steve gave a speech to every lying, thieving
, violent client he’d ever had:

  “Lie to your priest, your spouse, and the IRS, but always tell your lawyer the truth.”

  It seldom worked. He didn’t really expect it to. Clients lie for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they’re embarrassed at what they’ve done. Sometimes, if they admit guilt, they’re afraid you won’t fight as hard for them. That, of course, was ass-backwards. You have to fight harder for someone who actually did the deed. How else could you win?

  Long ago, Steve decided there were several ways to pry the truth from perjurious clients.

  You can plead with the weaselly bastards: “Gerald, please. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what really happened.”

  You can treat your client like an adverse witness. Bob and weave and cross-examine: “But Gerald, yesterday you said the moon was made of green cheese. Were you lying then or are you lying now?”

  Or you can pound them into submission with a frontal assault: “Nash, you self-righteous prick. I know you’re lying, and unless you come clean, I’m going to withdraw and let the public defender mishandle your case.”

  As he walked into the county jail, Steve still hadn’t decided on his approach. He figured he’d just look at Nash and instinctively know what to do.

  The visitors’ room was crowded with wives, girlfriends, and children of the men who were awaiting trial or had been sentenced to less than a year’s incarceration. The place smelled of dried sweat, dirty feet, diapers, and machine oil. From inside, inmates shouted and wailed. Steve had come to believe that modern jails and medieval mental asylums had a lot in common.

  He had been here hundreds of times, but the overweight sergeant at the desk still insisted on making him show his Florida Bar card when logging in.

  “Crenshaw, why do you do this? You know me.”

  “I figure one day, after they disbar you, you’ll show up without that card.”

  Sticking out his tongue at the security camera, Steve signed the sheet. He waited for Crenshaw to hit the buzzer and open the steel-barred door.

  “Can you hurry up, Sergeant? I’ve got a wrongfully accused man waiting for me.”

  “Nope. Regs say I can keep out any visitor who’s inappropriately dressed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your T-shirt, asshole.” He pointed at Steve’s chest and the slogan: “What Would Scooby Do?”

  “What’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s blasphemous.”

  “It’s satirical. Like that old bumper sticker ‘Jesus Saves. Moses Invests.’ It’s all in good fun.”

  “Solomon? That’s a Jewish name, right?”

  “Aw, jeez, Crenshaw. Don’t pull a Mel Gibson on me.”

  “You wanna come into my house, you gotta take that shirt off. Except then you’d still be inappropriately dressed, so I guess you’re shit out of luck today.”

  Steve could have told him to go fuck himself. Or he could have called the ACLU. Instead, he tugged the T-shirt over his head, turned it inside out, and put it back on again.

  Crenshaw glared at him. “All defense lawyers are cockroaches, ain’t that right, Solomon?”

  “Will it speed this up if I say yes?”

  “And this is the roach motel.” The buzzer sounded, and the electric lock clinked open. “One day you’re gonna check in, Solomon, but you ain’t checking out.”

  ***

  Three minutes after being insulted by the bored and burned-out sergeant, Steve wagged a finger at his client. “Nash, you stupid shit! Why are you lying to me?”

  The frontal assault.

  “I’m not lying,” Nash whined. A kid accused of swiping cookies.

  “You didn’t need a boat to pick up the dolphins. If you were really worried about them swimming back to the park, you could have bolted the gate on your way out.”

  Nash shook his head stubbornly. Jailhouse stink clung to his faded orange jumpsuit, and he looked as if he’d lost weight on jail gruel. “We were afraid they’d stay there and be recaptured. Or just swim back up the channel when the gate was opened. That’s what Sanders said, anyway.”

  “My nephew says he’s wrong.”

  “I dunno. Sanders knew all about dolphins. Even their Latin name. Tursiops something-or-other.”

  Then it’s even worse, Steve thought. If Sanders was so damn knowledgeable, he’d lied to Nash. But why?

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Steve said. “Sanders offered to provide the boat, right?”

  Nash nodded. “He said he could get one with a lift and a saltwater tank.”

  “And the two guys on the boat. Where’d they come from?”

  “Dunno. Except they worked for Sanders.”

  “And you have no idea where I can find them?”

  Nash dug a finger into one ear. It didn’t make him look any smarter. “I didn’t meet them until they ferried our Jet Skis over to the Key. Never asked their names and they didn’t offer. Last time I saw them was when they dropped Passion and Sanders and me off.”

  “How about a description? What did they look like?”

  “Two guys in their thirties in good shape.”

  “Great. I’ll look for suspects at Bally’s.”

  “Fuck, man. It was dark out. The guys wore watch caps. They never made eye contact.”

  “Anything? Tattoos. A limp. Three arms?”

  Nash seemed to think about it. The effort slackened his lips and opened his mouth, as if he’d suffered a stroke. “One guy was real muscular, the other more wiry. And he had a scar on his forearm.”

  “Which arm?”

  “Don’t remember. And it wasn’t a scar exactly. More like a chunk missing with scar tissue built up. Like a bullet might have grazed him.”

  “Either guy say anything?”

  “Not to me.”

  “To Sanders, then?”

  Nash shrugged again. A lazy slacker shrug. “Only thing I remember, right before we put the Jet Skis in the water, Sanders said something about the wind picking up, asked if the Gulf Stream would be rough. One of the guys told him not to worry about it.”

  “Were those his exact words? ‘Don’t worry about it’?”

  “More like, ‘Stop worrying. You do your job, we’ll do ours.’ ”

  “Why would you cross the Stream? If you were gonna release the dolphins, you had lots of open water without going that far.”

  “I never thought about it. Me and Passion weren’t going along for the ride. We were gonna ditch the Jet Skis under the Rickenbacker, then pick up her car.”

  “So you never asked Sanders why he was going to all the trouble to gather up the dolphins, take them somewhere, and set them free again?”

  “I just figured Sanders wanted to release them on the Great Bahama Bank. You know, where there’s a lot of fish to eat.”

  “Why not just take them to Red Lobster?”

  “Okay, so maybe I didn’t think this through. Maybe I didn’t plan it right.”

  “You didn’t plan it at all. Sanders did. Maybe with Passion’s help.”

  Nash looked shocked, as if he’d never thought of that, either.

  “My nephew thinks you weren’t setting the dolphins free. You were kidnapping them.”

  “No frigging way! I believe animals have certain inalienable rights. You know that.”

  He seemed genuinely offended and sounded believable. A believable schmuck. He’d let Sanders, someone he barely knew, take over the job. He didn’t know the guys who worked for Sanders, and his own girlfriend had disappeared and never contacted him. Now Sanders was dead, and through an odd quirk in the law, Nash faced life in prison, even if he’d done nothing more violent than break a lock on a channel gate.

  Nash was technically guilty of felony murder. But Steve was starting to feel sorry for him. He’d been used and didn’t even know it. The guy was a lost puppy, and Steve had no leash to bring him home.

  Steve wanted to find the two guys on the missing boat. He wanted to find Passion, the missing gir
lfriend. He wanted to find a peaceful solution for the Middle East. But right now, he had none of those things.

  “You believe me, don’t you, Solomon?”

  “Yeah.”

  “ ’Cause I’m telling you the truth, dammit.”

  “Okay, got it.”

  “But I’m still in big trouble, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So what are we gonna do? In court, I mean?”

  “Until I come up with something better, the hammer defense.”

  “Huh?”

  “Classic legal strategy, Nash. If the law is on your side, hammer the law. If the facts are on your side, hammer the facts. If neither is on your side, hammer the table.”

  Nineteen

  DRESS LIKE A WOMAN,

  STRIKE LIKE A TIGER

  Steve knows he has a weak case, Victoria thought. Why else would he file a frivolous motion seeking sanctions against the state for discovery violations? She had turned over all the evidence. She’d filed her witness and exhibit lists, and the full police reports, not just the portions containing Nash’s statements, as required. She’d made witnesses available for depositions. She’d filed a notice of “similar fact evidence” that she intended to introduce involving Nash’s participation in other animal liberation raids.

  But Steve, in his gunslinger mode, had filed a vituperative motion. He’d accused her of “trial by ambush,” of “secreting essential exculpatory evidence,” of “wanton breach of the Brady rule,” and other nonsense. He sought dismissal of the charges for “wholesale violation of the letter and spirit of Rule 3.220.”

  At least he got the rule number right.

  Now Victoria walked briskly down the fourth-floor corridor of the Justice Building, the heels of her brown suede pumps clicking on the scarred tile. She carried a soft leather briefcase, and her quick pace made it appear she was late for court. Instead of twenty minutes early.

  “A purposeful stride. Chin up.”