by Steve Brewer
“I suggest you do your figuring in a hurry,” she said. “We pick a jury in the morning.”
Twenty-six
ON CAT’S FEET
Victoria knew precisely what Steve was doing when she spotted him at 7:45 a.m. in the jurors’ parking lot.
Lurking. Tying his shoes. Pretending to smoke a cigarette. But really spying. Checking out the bumper stickers.
“Ban Fur.” Defense juror.
“My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student.” Prosecution juror.
She watched as Steve sidled up to car windows, peeking inside. She could practically hear his voice.
“People leave clues about themselves everywhere, including their car seats.”
A wad of traffic tickets. Defense juror.
Guns & Ammo magazine. Prosecution juror.
A book by Rush Limbaugh. Simpleminded juror.
If Steve could get into trunks and glove compartments, he’d do it. Watching him, Victoria almost smiled. He made a big deal about spending so little time on trial preparation. But he prepped, all right, in his own devious and cockeyed way.
Now, just after nine a.m., Judge Gridley was perched on the bench. The spectators lounged in the gallery.
Steve manned the defense table. He’d cut his dark hair so that he no longer resembled a beach bum. In his trial uniform—a pin-striped charcoal suit, pale blue shirt, and striped tie—he almost looked like a real lawyer. Gerald Nash sat alongside, a clean yellow pad in front of him, as if he might write useful notes in his own defense. Victoria, surrounded by a picket fence of files and books, sat alone at the prosecution table.
Voir dire.
She knew every single one of Steve’s tricks in picking a jury. His strengths, his weaknesses, his stunts, his surprises. She’d listened to him, learned from him.
“Watch the jurors walk into the courtroom. Study their body language. See who’s a leader and who’s a follower. Eavesdrop on them. Pick their pockets. Steal their purses.”
Figuratively speaking, he meant. Or did he?
Selecting a jury against Steve was like playing singles against Jackie Tuttle, her best bud. Jackie had a smooth, strong forehand and an okay backhand, but she was weak at the net. If Victoria hit to Jackie’s backhand, then lured her to the net with a drop shot, she could blast passing shots for winners four times out of five.
Likewise, she knew Steve’s game by heart.
“When you’re picking a jury, don’t forget that they’re also picking you. They’re deciding which lawyer they like better.”
She’d learned so well, lately Steve had asked her to take the lead in questioning. For whatever reason, she made a better first impression. Okay, she knew the reason. She was gentle and kind, and it showed. Steve could be overly confrontational. Sure, he was graceful on his feet, but it was the grace of—God help me—a shark, cutting through the well of the courtroom, eager to bite off the head of a contrary witness, opposing counsel, or even the judge.
She knew something else about Steve’s tactics, too. The weaker his case, the more outrageous his stunts. Meaning he would misbehave while questioning prospective jurors today. She didn’t know how, but it was inevitable, like pesky mosquitoes following summer storms.
“Don’t worry about jumping offsides. Sometimes the officials don’t catch you.”
Another of his lessons. At the first opportunity, he would start arguing his case. Voir dire—the questioning of jurors—is intended to detect prejudice or bias. Some trial lawyers wait until the opening statement to start planting seeds of their argument, which is still too soon, according to proper procedure. They do it because studies show that a sizeable percentage of jurors make up their minds in opening statements, before the first witness takes the stand.
But to Steve, opening statement was too late.
He starts arguing his case with “Good morning, Madame ‘Persecutor.’ ”
Victoria would be on high alert. At least as prosecutor, she would start first. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she began.
She carefully framed her questions to explain the highly technical charge of felony murder. “Do all of you understand that the defendant can be found guilty, even though someone else pulled the trigger?”
Numbers one through twelve nodded eagerly, a jury box of bobbleheads.
“It’s never enough for the sheep to baa in unison. Get in their faces, one-on-one, and challenge their beliefs.”
Steve again. Never trusting the voice of the crowd. He was right. You needed to separate the individuals from the pack, divide the leaders from the followers, the smart ones from the dummies.
“If you don’t know who’s gonna be foreman by the time the jury takes its oath, you haven’t been paying attention.”
Victoria spent the next hour going through her prepared questions and listening intently to each answer. Then she reviewed her chart. It was a twelve-grid document with sliding tabs where she could slip prospective jurors in and out of their slots. Number three had a quizzical look on his face. Nobuchi Fukui, CPA. College educated, married, three children. Owned his own home in Kendall, commuted downtown to his accounting firm. A decent prosecution juror.
“Mr. Fukui,” she said. “A man doesn’t pull the trigger, but he’s charged with murder. Does that rule seem harsh to you?”
“Not at all. Not if the fellow precipitated the violence. People have to take responsibility for their actions. That’s what’s wrong with this country.”
“Thank you, Mr. Fukui.” Not just a decent prosecution juror. A great prosecution juror. She turned to the judge. “Your Honor, we tender the panel to Mr. Solomon.”
Steve bounded to his feet and took up his position an even five feet from the rail of the jury box. No legal pad. No twelve-grid chart. He prided himself on being able to remember a dozen names and attach the right one to each juror.
“Let’s start with you, sir. Mr. Fukui.”
“Yes, sir,” Fukui said suspiciously.
“Here’s a real case. Two teenage boys, neither one armed, try to break into a warehouse out near the airport. They’re not very good burglars, never did it before, and they can’t even get inside. Now, here come the cops. They chase the boys across a field. A cop shoots and kills one of the boys. Under Ms. Lord’s theory, the other boy must be convicted of felony murder. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”
“Objection, Your Honor.” When a puppy is naughty, Victoria knew, you have to quickly show who’s the boss. “It’s not my theory. It’s the law.”
“But is it justice?” Steve shot back.
“That’s not the issue,” Victoria retorted.
“Now, there’s an admission for you,” Steve proclaimed, turning to the jury with a knowing look. “The prosecutor believes in law without mercy. Law without justice. A cold, hard, unfeeling law.”
“Your Honor!” Victoria pealed, trying to get Judge Gridley’s attention.
“Okay, you two.” The judge sighed. “We’re gonna get through jury selection without any caterwauling. Now, Mr. Solomon, ask your questions and quit your speechifying.”
“Of course, Your Honor.” Steve turned back to Nobuchi Fukui. “Now, sir, let me take you back to that warehouse. In fact, let me take all twelve of you back there.”
For a moment, two jurors seemed poised to get out of their seats, as if a bus was waiting to drive them to a warehouse near the airport.
“Mr. Fukui,” Steve continued, “do you think the kid who bungled that burglary should be convicted of murder?”
“Well, it’s not really up to me,” the man said. “If that’s what the law says . . .”
Perfect, Victoria thought. Make Nobuchi Fukui the foreman.
“The law,” Steve said dismissively. “The law once said that women couldn’t vote. The law once said that certain folks had to ride in the back of the bus. The law once said the government . . .” He stabbed a finger toward Victoria, as if she were the face of Evil. “. . . yes, the government, could
lock up innocent American citizens because of their Japanese ancestry.”
How cheesy, Victoria thought. Next, Steve will be asking Mr. Fukui if he’d like sushi for lunch.
“Just because it’s written in books doesn’t make it right.”
“Objection, Your Honor.” Victoria was on her feet again. “Mr. Solomon hasn’t even waited for the trial to start before seeking jury nullification.”
“Ms. Lord’s right,” the judge said. “Mr. Solomon, you shall refrain from implying that the jury may disregard the law. That’s my job.” The judge seemed to ponder that for a moment. “That is, I’ll instruct the jury on the law.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” Steve said with a slight bow. Another one of his sneaky tricks. Acting as if he’d just won a motion when he’d been slapped in the face.
“This case is about the cruel and inhuman treatment of animals,” Steve told the panel.
No, it’s not, Victoria thought.
“Now, thanks to your questionnaires, I already know who among you have pets at home, and I feel quite a kinship with you.” He moved closer to number four, a middle-aged woman with enough coppery hair for an osprey to make a nest. Eyeglasses dangled from a beaded chain around her neck. “Mrs. Overton, I’ll bet you love that orange tabby of yours. I know I love mine.”
Oh, Jesus. Steve doesn’t have a tabby. He’s allergic to cats. He curses at cats, from the ones who knock over the garbage can to the ones who sing “Memory” and “Mr. Mistoffelees.”
Mrs. Overton beamed at Steve, instantly suckered by his bull.
“Would you be shocked to know, Mrs. Overton, that cat innards are used by some unscrupulous companies in the manufacture of women’s cosmetics?”
“Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth.
“And that neuroscience labs operate on monkeys without anesthesia, for research purposes?”
“Barbaric,” the woman agreed.
“And that the testicles of little puppies are crushed into a powder that some men use to enhance their own potency?”
“The beasts,” Mrs. Overton whimpered.
Victoria didn’t know how much of that was true and doubted that Steve did, either. When he was on a roll, he roared like a fiery preacher in a revival tent, promising riches for allegiance to the Solomonic way, threatening hell for followers of the state.
“Now, Mrs. Overton, my client, young Gerald over there . . . ”
He pointed at young Gerald, who smiled sheepishly at the jurors.
“. . . has witnessed firsthand the terror and abuse suffered by helpless animals at the hands of heartless and greedy humans. And young Gerald’s sole intent the night of the incident was to protect two magnificent dolphins, those most gentle and intelligent of creatures.”
Mrs. Overton nodded. As did they all. A dozen citizens, good and true, horrified by the rampant abuses against animals.
“And what was it that young Gerald saw that night? Words alone cannot convey the images that were burned into his impressionable mind.”
Steve bent down and reached into his briefcase.
What could he be after? Surely there were no files in there.
A cat!
Steve pulled a plump orange tabby out of his old trial bag, waved it over his head, wrapped two hands around the cat’s neck, and pulled. Hard. Then harder, veins throbbing in his own neck.
“Mr. Solomon!” The judge sounded alarmed.
Elwood Reed, the bailiff, stirred from his slumber and even tried to get to his feet.
Mrs. Overton’s lips trembled.
Suddenly, the cat ripped in half, the head in Steve’s right hand, its body in his left.
Someone in the gallery screamed. Mrs. Overton seemed close to fainting. Another juror gagged.
Stuffing fluttered out of the cat like wispy feathers. The animal was real, or had been. A prior owner had the little tabby stuffed. Steve must have picked it up at one of those dusty curio shops on Calle Ocho.
“Here’s what shaped young Gerald Nash!” Steve thundered. “This is what molded him into a young man who would risk his own life to save the lives of sweet, defenseless animals!”
Victoria leapt to her feet. She was about to object when she noticed Steve’s eyes calmly panning the jury box. Taking inventory. Checking facial expressions. Counting his votes. The horrified ones were defense jurors. The bemused ones, including Nobuchi Fukui, CPA, who wore a slight smile, were prosecution jurors.
“Your Honor,” Victoria said calmly, “I wonder if decapitating a stuffed cat is proper use of voir dire.”
“Certainly not before lunch.” Judge Gridley hit the button and tooted his steam whistle. “Let’s get some victuals and report back at one-thirty sharp.”
***
Steve and Victoria shared an elevator on the way down to the cafeteria. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. One of her bad-boy put-downs.
I won’t give him the satisfaction.
After a moment, he said, “Well, I guess I woke everybody up.”
Still she kept quiet, adding a yawn for emphasis. Or maybe de-emphasis.
“Okay,” he said. “You’re really mad at me, but you won’t show it.”
“My, you’re so good at reading people, Mr. Solomon.”
“Sarcasm doesn’t become you, cupcake.”
“I was going to do you a solid just now.” She shook her head, sadly. “But that ‘cupcake’ thing . . .”
“Why’s that upset you? I don’t care if you call me ‘studmuffin.’ ”
“I don’t call you ‘studmuffin.’ ”
“But if you want to, it’s okay. Now, what’s the solid you want to do me?”
The elevator door opened and they stepped into the lobby. A swarm of hungry office workers headed toward the cafeteria.
“Wellfleet Dynamics, Inc.,” she said.
“What?”
“The license plate you gave me. Those two guys who grabbed you.”
“Yeah?”
“The Lincoln is registered to a Florida corporation called Wellfleet Dynamics, Inc. I’m not sure how it helps you, but there it is.”
“Where are they located?”
“They’re not. Corporation’s inactive. It was formed by a lawyer in Tampa in 1989, the same day he formed Wellfleet Financing, Wellfleet Aerodynamics, Wellfleet Navigation, and a bunch of others. They’re all shell corporations.”
“Someone’s gotta own their stock.”
“Secretary of State’s records don’t show shareholders.”
“The lawyer who filed the papers. What’s his name?”
“Tully Meadows of St. Petersburg. Died in 1998.”
They paused at the door to the cafeteria. Two leather-booted motorcycle cops strutted by, in the middle of a joke about pulling over Janet Jackson.
“Was she speeding?”
“Nah. She had one headlight out.”
“How does an inactive corporation renew the car’s registration every year?” Steve asked.
“I’d guess the parent company sends a check. But DMV—”
“Doesn’t keep records of who pays the fee, just whether it gets paid.”
“Right.” There was some satisfaction in their ability to finish each other’s sentences, she thought.
“I need to find the parent company,” he said.
“Even if you do, how will it help you defend Gerald Nash?”
“One step at a time, Vic. A leads to B, and B leads to C. Those guys who snatched me hired Sanders. Which means Wellfleet, or whoever owns Wellfleet, needed someone who knew about dolphins. When I find out who that is, I’ll know what they were gonna do with the dolphins. And maybe that will answer the question of why Grisby blasted the shit out of Sanders.”
“Seems like too many questions, too many steps,” she said.
“But if I get it right, Vic, the last step will prove that Gerald Nash is innocent.”
Twenty-seven
EVEN STEPHEN
Victoria headed off for lunch with one of her witnesses, and Steve searched for his posse. He found Marvin (The Maven) Mendelsohn and Teresa Toraño, those septuagenarian lovebirds, coming out of the cafeteria.
Steve quickly asked Teresa to use her prodigious Internet skills—she’d signed up for AOL the first day of its existence—to help him figure out who owned Wellfleet Dynamics, Inc.
“Only if I tell Victoria everything I tell you,” Teresa replied. “Quedamos parejos.”
“Even-Stephen, Stephen,” Marvin added. “We gotta stay neutral.”
“Jeez, Marvin. I’m at war here, and you’re going Switzerland on me.”
“If we were gonna choose sides, Stephen, it’d be the shayna maidel, not you.”
“Marvin, what are you saying? You and I go way back.”
“Nothing personal, boychik, but those animal rights guys are just thugs and terrorists.”
“Forget my client,” Steve implored him. “What about me?”
For years, Steve had bought corned beef sandwiches—“with extra fat, if you don’t mind, boychik”—for Marvin and the Courthouse Gang. And now this. Steve considered The Maven a pal. More than that, a grandfather figure, and a terrific asset in trial. Marvin used forty years’ experience selling women’s shoes to help Steve in jury selection.
“Women with open-toed sandals are good for the defense. Conservative black pumps, good for the state.”
Marvin had some theories about purses, too, but Steve couldn’t tell a real Gucci from a knockoff, so that didn’t do him much good.
“I can’t believe you two are bailing on me,” Steve complained.
“You’re asking too much,” Teresa said. “A nosotros nos encanta Victoria.”
“Teresa’s right,” Marvin agreed. “It’s not that we don’t love you. We just love Victoria, too.”
***
An hour later, having agreed to his posse’s Even-Stephen terms, Steve huddled at the defense table with his client. Ten feet away, Victoria flipped through her color-coded note cards. The judge and jury had not yet returned from the lunch recess. Marvin and Teresa sat in the front row of the gallery, equidistant from the state and the defense tables. Marvin thumbed through a copy of Ladies’ Footwear Quarterly. Even though he’d sold his shoe store many years earlier, he kept up with the trade. Teresa, her fingers still nimble, and perfectly manicured, worked on her laptop computer. She wrote a daily blog called “Abuela Cubana,” where she’d been extolling the virtues of organic arthritis medicines and giving out the recipe for roasting a whole pig for Christmas Eve dinner.
