Die Laughing: 5 Comic Crime Novels

by Steve Brewer

  “Uh-huh.” Judge Gridley, berobed, was on the bench. Victoria, with perfect posture, stood behind the prosecution table.

  Some judges will hold you in contempt for being tardy. Some levy a fine, five bucks a minute, the proceeds going to the Pizza Fund for Needy Bailiffs. But Judge Gridley seemed remarkably sanguine, leafing through a tabloid tout sheet called Lou’s Surefire Picks.

  The door flew open and Steve barreled into the courtroom, looking as if he’d just been dragged through a car wash. Hair tousled, shirt sweat-stained, dark complexion tinged red around the ears. He slipped into his suit jacket and tightened the knot in his tie as he hurried through the swinging gate to the defense table.

  “Good afternoon, Your Honor.” He nodded toward the bench, then gave Victoria a tight smile.

  “What happened to you?” Victoria asked.

  “Later. Let’s get this over with.”

  “Ah, Mr. Solomon graces us with his presence,” Judge Gridley said mildly, without looking up.

  Steve bowed slightly. “I apologize, Your Honor.”

  “One preliminary matter before we take on the defense motion.” The judge closed Lou’s Surefire Picks and looked gravely at Steve. “What’s your take on Florida State at Miami this weekend?”

  “I generally don’t bet against the ’Canes in the Orange Bowl,” Steve said.

  “A wise policy,” the judge allowed.

  “But those national championships seem like ancient history. The line’s pick ’em. I’d go with the ’Noles.”

  The judge grunted his approval and jotted a note on his tout sheet. “Okay, Mr. Solomon. It’s your motion. Stoke your boilers.”

  Before Steve could open his mouth, Victoria said, “The defense motion may be moot, Your Honor. I haven’t had time to discuss this with Mr. Solomon, but the state has a plea offer.”

  “Excellent. Always happy to clear the calendar. You two take as much time as you need, while I check out the Big Ten games.”

  The judge licked his thumb and began turning pages on his tout sheet.

  Steve whispered to Victoria: “Two guys jumped me outside.”

  “What! Who?”

  “Later. What’s this about a plea deal?”

  “Ray Pincher suggested it.”

  “On his own?”

  “No. The U.S. Attorney asked him to do it.”

  “Because the feds are investigating the ALM? Or something else? A different investigation?”

  “How did you know that?” Victoria demanded.

  Steve exhaled a sigh that was almost visible. “Someone’s playing us, Vic.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The shooting’s just the tip of the iceberg. The feds are involved. Pincher, too. Plus a couple guys driving a Lincoln with Hillsborough County plates. It’s a big conspiracy.”

  “A conspiracy to do what?”

  “I don’t know yet, Vic. Jeez, gimme a break. I was only kidnapped a few minutes ago.”

  She narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously.

  “It’s the truth,” he said. “It was a five-minute kidnapping, but still . . . ”

  “And I’m sure you reported this vicious crime to the police.”

  “Not yet, but . . . ”

  She sighed. “I just made a plea offer. Your client’s in a holding cell. Don’t you want to discuss it with him?”

  Steve turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, negotiations are over. No plea. We’re gonna try this case.”

  The judge sighed and refolded his tout sheet. “You sure, Mr. Solomon? Seems to me your train’s on a shaky trestle.”

  “I’m sure, Judge.”

  “So be it. Let’s hear your motion.”

  “Yes, sir.” Steve whispered to Victoria, “Nice outfit today.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Where’d you get it? The Librarians’ Boutique?”

  “Steve, what are you doing?”

  “Warming up. Taking a practice swing.” He winked at her and clucked his tongue. “That belted jacket makes you look very buttoned-up.”

  “It’s a court outfit. How am I supposed to look?”

  “Not like a Republican senator from Kansas.”

  “Mr. Solomon,” the judge prodded.

  “Malfeasance!” Steve boomed.

  “How’s that, Counselor?”

  “Or is it misfeasance? I can never keep them straight. The state must be punished for Ms. Lord’s abuse of the discovery process. We’re talking stonewalling. Cover-up. Shady deals.”

  “Can you be more specific, Mr. Solomon?”

  “I demanded all records related to the decedent, Charles J. Sanders, Lieutenant Commander, U.S. Navy, retired. And what did opposing counsel give me? A military personnel file completely redacted. Billet—classified. Commanding officer—classified. Missions—classified. His DD-214 retirement papers—missing.”

  “Your Honor, we gave Mr. Solomon everything the Department of the Navy gave us. He can take his complaints to Washington.”

  “What about the security video?” Steve demanded. “Cetacean Park has cameras on the dock. They could show exactly what happened between Grisby and Sanders. We requested the tapes and got nothing. Zippo. Zilch. Bupkes.”

  “Mr. Solomon knows very well that a lightning strike knocked the system out the week before the incident. The camera wasn’t working.”

  “Shades of Richard Nixon, Judge. Erased tapes. Missing records. Hiding Brady material.”

  Victoria wheeled toward Steve. “Nothing’s been erased. Nothing’s been hidden. If I had anything exculpatory, I’d turn it over in an instant, and you know it. You are so infuriating—”

  “Judge, would you ask Ms. Lord to address the bench and refrain from her ad hominem attacks?”

  “My attacks?”

  “Your face is turning purple. Careful, or you’ll pop that belt.”

  “You’re the sleaziest lawyer I’ve ever—”

  “Slept with?”

  “Damn you, Solomon,” she hissed.

  “There she goes again, Judge.”

  A shrill whistling noise pierced the courtroom. Interrupted, they wheeled toward the judge. Judge Gridley released a switch that activated a replica of a steam whistle. “Hit the brakes, you two. You’re coming into the station.”

  Victoria knew the drill. One bleat of the whistle meant “Pipe down.” Two meant “Not one more word.” Three blasts and you go to the pokey for contempt.

  “Any more argument, Mr. Solomon? Legal argument, that is.”

  “No, Your Honor. We request—nay, we demand—that the court issue its harshest sanction. Dismiss all charges on account of prosecutorial misconduct.”

  Steve sat down, and Victoria turned to the judge. “Your Honor, I hardly know where to begin. I feel like a dozen rats are nibbling at my feet.”

  “Your shoes are too tight,” Steve whispered.

  “Mr. Solomon hurls accusations that have no basis in fact. He should be reprimanded and—”

  “But they’re nice shoes,” he kept at it. “You buy them new?”

  “Save your breath, Ms. Lord. Defendant’s motion for sanctions stands denied.” Judge Gridley edged out of his cushioned chair and headed for the private door behind the bench, speaking as he walked. “Now, you two kiss and make up.”

  Steve moved to the prosecution table and leaned close. “I always follow a judge’s orders.”

  “No you don’t.” Turning away, Victoria began shoving her folders back into her briefcase.

  “C’mon, Vic. You know I was just doing my shtick.”

  “And it’s always so amusing.”

  “We have different styles. Maybe that’s why we get along so well.”

  “That must be it.”

  “I can tell you’re a little irritated.”

  “And who said you were insensitive to a woman’s moods?”

  “There’s just one thing I gotta ask.”

  “What?”

  “Is sex tonight out?”
/>   SOLOMON’S LAWS

  6. When the testimony is too damn good, when there are no contradictions and all the potholes are filled with smooth asphalt, chances are the witness is lying.

  Twenty-two

  THE SECOND PUZZLE

  Steve wanted to talk to Victoria, but she’d hurried out of the courtroom and disappeared.

  Did she look angry?

  She’d seen him in court so many times, surely she knew he was just playing a role.

  She’s not really pissed off, is she?

  They should talk about the case, share information. Even though they were on opposite sides, weren’t they both out for the same thing?

  Truth. Justice. All that stuff in the books.

  Victoria always railed about how trials should be less adversarial and more concerned with fair results. The criminal justice system should seek the truth, not just convictions or acquittals. Frankly, he never agreed with her, and his goal was always to win. But now, with this shitstorm called State v. Nash, he was willing to try something new.

  He wouldn’t offer to share evidence with one of Pincher’s dwarves on the other side. But this was Victoria. His partner. His lover. His best friend. He wanted to think through the case with her.

  C’mon, babe. Let’s do some justice.

  He figured her first reaction would be to stiff-arm him.

  “It would be unethical, blah, blah, blah.”

  Now, as he drove home from the Justice Building, fighting the traffic on Dixie Highway, Steve ran through the evidence.

  On the face of it, Gerald Nash appeared one hundred percent guilty of felony murder. But there was just too much that didn’t make sense.

  The mysterious Chuck Sanders.

  Grisby in the park with a shotgun and a fuzzy story about why he shot Sanders.

  Two tough guys who snatched Steve off the street and pumped him for information.

  Steve remembered something his father, the cagiest trial lawyer Steve ever knew, told him years ago.

  “If you come across a piece of the puzzle that just won’t fit, it means there’s a second puzzle where it’ll fit just fine.”

  The first puzzle was why Grisby shot Sanders at all, much less twice. Steve had taken Grisby’s deposition a few days earlier. The owner of Cetacean Park testified that his regular security guard had quit abruptly and moved away.

  Q: So instead of hiring another security guard, you decided to stay up all night and do the job yourself?

  A: Yes, sir.

  Q: With a Remington 870, even though you’d only armed your guard with a can of Mace and a cell phone?

  A: I knew about those fools attacking that monkey lab down in the Keys. Not only that, the State Attorney had warned me I might be next. And don’t forget, I’d been hit before when I owned a dolphin park in California. Undersea World. That’s where the damned Animal Libbers got started.

  Not just one reason for Grisby to be there, his shotgun at the ready. Three reasons. Each one good enough, all by itself. Add them all together and what do you get? Too much sugar in the mojito.

  True stories are full of holes. Life isn’t a smooth freeway across a fruited plain. Life is a winding, pot-holed road, slick with oil, and studded with broken glass. It was one of Steve’s laws. If a witness’ testimony is too damn good, if there are no loose ends or contradictions, chances are his story is as phony as Donald Trump’s hair.

  In his deposition, Grisby testified that he’d been spooked by a noise. Then he spotted Bobby on the floating platform. Telling the boy to stay put, he had walked along a path to the security shed to call Steve.

  So far, all true. Bobby confirmed his end, and Steve had a clear recollection of Grisby waking him up with the phone call. But then the story got murky.

  Grisby claimed he walked out of the security shed and stumbled on Sanders on the path behind the ficus hedge. Sanders had silently paddled an inflatable to the dock, his face blackened, like the Navy SEAL he’d once been. He carried tape, a coil of nautical line, and a Colt .45 automatic Grisby recognized instantly from his own time in the military. Sanders had apparently expected to find an unarmed and sleeping security guard. Instead, shotgun ready, Grisby popped out of the bushes and bellowed at Sanders to freeze.

  Sanders stayed cool, told Grisby he didn’t want trouble, he just wanted the dolphins to be free. Then hell broke loose.

  Two Jet Skis roared up the channel, herding up the dolphins.

  Grisby trained his shotgun on Sanders and ordered him to surrender his handgun and move toward the dock. Grisby wanted to take a shot at the Jet Skiers, at least scare them off. Sanders refused to move, refused to give up his gun. Just stayed put, giving his accomplices time to chase the dolphins down the channel. Grisby yelled and threatened, but the guy challenged him.

  “You’re not a killer, Grisby.”

  “Don’t try me.”

  But Sanders did try him, according to Grisby. Sanders went for his .45. Grisby fired the shotgun, catching the man in the hip with some pellets, but only knocking him to his knees.

  Q: When he was hit, Sanders dropped the gun, didn’t he, Mr. Grisby?

  A: I guess he did, but I can’t say for sure. It was dark. I was scared. I was acting on reflex.

  Q: So, with Sanders on his knees, bleeding and unarmed, this “reflex” of yours caused you to rack the slide on your shotgun?

  A: Yes, sir.

  Q: And still on “reflex,” you aimed at Sanders’ chest?

  A: I suppose I did.

  Q: And finally, on “reflex,” you pulled the trigger and fired the shot that killed him.

  A: It all happened a lot quicker than that. I was in fear for my life. You had to be there. You can’t sit here in a cushioned chair and judge me.

  Not a bad answer. Righteous indignation works real well if you don’t overdo it. Grisby would do fine in front of a jury.

  Nothing in the forensics contradicted Grisby. No way to disprove any of it. Steve shifted his thoughts to the late Chuck Sanders. Navy SEAL. Scuba diver. Hero in the Persian Gulf. Okay, you start with courage and savvy, all that Special Forces stuff. No rations; he’ll eat snakes and drink piss. So, sure, he might stand up to Grisby. Believing Grisby wouldn’t shoot him, Sanders might even have the cojones to walk away from an armed and scared man. But that’s different than going for his own gun.

  Once you point your .45 at the man holding a shotgun, you have to fire it. You have to kill him.

  Sanders had gone to Cetacean Park to steal the dolphins. But not to kill anyone. It seemed out of character for someone with his background and no prior criminal record.

  It was a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

  And how about the two guys who’d jumped Steve? They’d been on a boat just outside the channel, ready to haul away the dolphins. But why? Where were they taking the animals? And who the hell were the “important people” who needed to know what Sanders told Nash?

  All of which added up to one resounding, unanswered question: What was really going on that night? Steve didn’t know, and he was reasonably sure his client was just as clueless.

  Twenty-three

  THROWING A CURVE

  Bobby called out to Spunky and Misty. In his head. Trying to communicate telepathically. First in English, then in the clicks and whistles of dolphinese.

  Well, why not? We send radio signals into deepest space, hoping some extraterrestrials will phone home. Our home.

  Bobby had read all of Dr. John Lilly’s books about dolphins. Sure, lots of scientists considered the guy a nut job, a Dr. Doolittle on acid. But weren’t all pioneers vilified in one way or another?

  Dr. Lilly believed that dolphins not only spoke their own language but composed music. He claimed that ancient dolphins created a society with a working government and folklore passed down through the generations. Dr. Lilly wanted to create a Cetacean Nation of whales and dolphins, recognized as an independent state by the United Nations. It didn’t help the doc’s standing in the sci
entific community that he administered LSD both to himself and the dolphins.

  Bobby didn’t buy everything in Dr. Lilly’s bag, but some of it made sense. Bobby knew that dolphins had a moral code, that they would rescue injured or ill animals. He knew the dolphin’s brain was larger than the human brain. He knew, deep in his heart, that dolphins exhibit emotion in much the same way humans do. He believed that dolphins can love and be loved. What he didn’t know was whether Spunky and Misty could feel what he felt right now. Utter despair.

  Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

  Sitting at the desk in the corner of his bedroom, Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and transmitted his telepathic thoughts.

  “Spunky. Misty. Where are you?”

  No answer. But he sensed something. A buzz, an electrical connection. He wished he could interpret it.

  Bobby heard a car in the driveway. Uncle Steve’s Mustang pulling to a stop. It was easy to tell the growling Mustang from Victoria’s little Mini Cooper, with its lawn-mower sound.

  The buzz stopped in Bobby’s head. There wasn’t room for telepathic communication and the sound of his uncle’s footsteps coming down the hall.

  ***

  Steve wondered if he’d been spending enough time with Bobby. The boy’s moods fluctuated wildly. First he was angry with Steve for not finding the dolphins. Maybe some guilt there, too, the kid blaming himself for not stopping the kidnapping. As if he could have done anything about it. Lately, and even more troubling, Bobby seemed to be in a state of mourning. Staying in his room, refusing to go to baseball practice. Damn few wisecracks or anagrams. Steve had been desperately trying to engage Bobby on how he felt, but the boy seemed to be repressing his emotions.

  The door to Bobby’s room was shut.

  A closed door and a twelve-year-old boy.