Solomon vs. Lord

by Paul Levine

  If he ever dated Victoria, he'd introduce her to Bobby, his relationship litmus test. If she responded to the boy's sweetness and warmth—if she saw past his disability—she might be a contender. But if she was repulsed by Bobby's semi-autistic behavior, Steve would toss her out with his empty bottles of tequila.

  Now what the hell was going on? Did he just hear a sniffle?

  I will not cry, Victoria told herself.

  She didn't know what had come over her. A feeling of being totally inadequate. A loser and a failure and a fraud. Dammit, what baggage had spilled out of the closet without her even knowing it?

  “You okay?” Steve Solomon called out.

  Shit, what did he want now? A lone tear tracked down her face, and then another. Great. Her mascara would turn to mud.

  “Hey, everything all right?” he asked.

  “Just great.”

  “Look, I'm sorry if I—”

  “Shut up, okay?”

  The clatter of footsteps and the jangle of keys interrupted them. Moments later, a man's voice echoed down the dim passageway. “Ready to go back to work?”

  “Go away, Woody,” Steve said. “You're disturbing my nap.”

  Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, skinny as an axe blade in his baggy brown uniform, appeared in front of their cells. He hitched up his pants. “Mr. Pincher wants to see both of you, pronto.”

  A chill went through Victoria. Pincher could fire her in an instant.

  “Tell Pincher I don't work for him,” Steve said.

  “Tell him yourself,” Reed retorted, fishing for the right key. “He's waiting in Judge Gridley's chambers and he ain't happy.”

  Reed unlocked their cells, and they headed down the passageway, Steve whistling a tune, jarringly off-key, and Victoria praying she still had a job.

  1. When the law doesn't work . . . work the law.

  Two

  HUMILIATIONS

  GREAT AND SMALL

  No more tears, Victoria vowed as they approached the entrance to Judge Gridley's chambers. She would rather break a nail, tear her panty hose, and shear off a heel of her Prada pumps than cry in front of Steve Solomon.

  Biting her lower lip, she tried to transport herself to more pleasant venues. A clay tennis court on Grove Isle, stretching high for an overhead smash, the solid thwack of racket on ball. Handling the wheel of her father's gaff schooner—the Hail, Victoria—when she was ten, the wind snapping against the mainsail. Anyplace but here, where her boss lay in wait, armed with the power to destroy her career.

  “Something wrong?” Steve said, walking alongside.

  Instincts like a coyote, she thought. The door was six steps away. She felt her insides tighten; her heart pitched like a boat in a squall.

  “I've known Pincher for years,” Steve persisted. “Why not let me handle him?”

  “Does he like you?” she asked.

  “Actually, he hates my guts.”

  “Thanks, anyway.”

  “Then a word of advice. Don't take any shit.”

  She stopped short. “What are you saying? That Pincher will respect me if I stand up to him?”

  “Hell, no. He'll fire you. Then you can come over to my side.”

  Steve thought the chambers cannily reflected both of Judge Gridley's pursuits, misconstruing the law and bungling pass-interference calls. There were the required legal volumes, laminated gavels, and photos of the judge shaking hands with lawmakers and lobbyists. Then there were old leather football helmets and photos of the striped-shirted Gridley at work on Saturdays in various college football stadiums.

  One wall was devoted to trophies and posters, evidencing the judge's fanatical devotion to his alma mater, the University of Florida. A plaque celebrated Gridley as a “Bull Gator Emeritus,” and on his desk was a stuffed alligator head with its mouth open, teeth exposed, like a hungry lawyer. Only two things were missing, Steve thought: a bronzed jockstrap and Judge Gridley himself.

  Standing on the orange-and-blue carpet was a scowling, trim, African-American man in his forties, wearing a three-piece burgundy suit. When he moved his arms, there was a soft clanging of metal. Raymond Pincher's dangling silver cuff links were miniature handcuffs.

  Steve thought that Pincher, the duly elected State Attorney of Miami-Dade County, would have to loosen up considerably just to be called tight-assed. Pincher billed himself as a crime fighter, and his campaign billboards pictured him bare-chested, wearing boxing gloves, a reminder of his days as a teenage middleweight in the Liberty City Police Athletic League. He'd won the championship two years running, once with a head butt, and once with a bolo punch to the groin, both overlooked by the referee, who by serendipitous coincidence was his uncle. Boxing had been excellent preparation for Florida politics, where both nepotism and hitting below the belt were prized assets. These days, when someone suggested he'd make a fine governor, Ray Pincher didn't disagree.

  Pincher glared at Victoria, who was biting her lip so hard Steve thought she might draw blood. Suddenly, Steve was worried about her and wanted to save her job. But how to do it? How could he take the heat off her?

  Victoria said a quick prayer. First that her voice wouldn't break when she was required to speak. Second, that Solomon would keep his big mouth shut.

  “Hey, Sugar Ray,” Steve called out. “Execute anyone today?”

  Oh, Jesus.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pincher.” Victoria nodded stiffly, struggling to remain calm.

  “Ms. Lord, I am disturbed by what I hear and concerned by what I see,” Pincher chanted in a melodious singsong. Before attending law school, he had studied at a Baptist seminary. There, office gossips claimed, he'd been expelled for selling Bibles intended as gifts to Central American orphanages. “A prosecutor is the swift sword of justice, the mighty soldier in the war of good against evil.”

  “Amen,” Steve said.

  Victoria felt her cheeks heating up.

  Dammit! Don't be such a girl.

  “A prosecutor must never be held in contempt,” Pincher said. “Contempt is for defense lawyers of the flamboyant persuasion.” “Flam-boy-ant” sounding like a flaming French dessert. “Contempt is for the hired guns who sell their souls for filthy lucre.”

  “Or for peanuts,” Steve said.

  “Stay out of this, Solomon,” Pincher said. “Ms. Lord, what is the most important attribute of any trial lawyer?”

  “I'm not sure, sir,” she said, afraid to venture a guess.

  “The ability to lie while saying hello,” Solomon volunteered.

  “Dignity,” Pincher fired back. “Ms. Lord, do you know what happens to prosecutors who bring disrespect to the office?”

  She stood rigidly, unable to speak.

  “Hellfire, damnation, transfer to hooker court,” Steve enumerated.

  “Termination,” Pincher said.

  “C'mon,” Steve said. “Give her some room. She's gonna be really good if you don't squeeze the life out of her.”

  Great, Victoria thought, a compliment from Solomon, as helpful as a stock tip from Martha Stewart's broker.

  Steve said: “She's already better than most of your half-wits who want to plead everything out and go home at four o'clock.”

  “Not your business, Last Out.”

  Last Out. What was that all about? She'd have to ask around.

  “My point, Ms. Lord, is that you cannot let Mr. Solomon badger, befuddle, or bedevil you.” Pincher often employed the preacher's habit of alliteration and the lawyer's habit of using three words when one will do.

  “Yes, sir,” Victoria said.

  “I myself have tried cases against Mr. Solomon,” Pincher said.

  “You're the best, Sugar Ray,” Steve said. “Nobody suborns perjury from a cop like you do.”

  Cuff links jangling, Pincher wagged a finger in Steve's face. “I recall you bribing a bailiff to take two six-packs of beer to the jury in a drunk-driving case.”

  “‘Bribery' is an ugly word,” Steve said.<
br />
  “What do you call club seats for the Dolphins?”

  “The way they're playing, torture.”

  “You're Satan in Armani,” Pincher said.

  “Men's Wearhouse,” Steve corrected.

  “You have raised contumacy to a high art.”

  “If I knew what it was, I'd be even better at it.”

  “We have a dossier on you. Contempt citations, frivolous motions, ludicrous legal arguments.”

  “Flatterer,” Steve said.

  “Any more circus tricks, I'll have the Florida Bar punch your ticket.” Pincher shot his cuffs and flashed a hard, cold smile. “You don't watch your step, you're gonna end up like your old man.”

  “Leave him out of this.” Steve's tone turned serious.

  “Herbert Solomon felt he was above the law, too.”

  “He was the best damn judge in the county.”

  “Before your time, Ms. Lord,” Pincher said, “Solomon's father was thrown off the bench.”

  “He resigned!”

  “Before they could indict him. Bribery scandal, wasn't it?”

  “You know goddamn well what it was. A phony story from a dirty lawyer.”

  “I was only a deputy then, but I saw the files. Your father's the dirty one.”

  The room had grown tense.

  “What's the penalty for slugging the State Attorney?” Steve said. His hands were clenching and unclenching.

  Pincher balanced on his toes like a prizefighter. “You don't have the balls.”

  The two men glared at each other a long moment.

  “Boys, if you're through wagging your dicks,” Victoria heard herself say, “I need to know whether to go back into court or look for a new job.”

  After a long moment, Steve laughed, the tension draining away. Now she was trying to help him. “Aw, fuck it, Sugar Ray.”

  “Never saw you back down before.” Pincher sounded suspicious, like Steve might sucker punch him the second he dropped his guard.

  “Vickie's influence.”

  “Victoria,” she corrected icily.

  Pincher appraised each of them a moment, tugged at an earlobe, then said: “Ms. Lord, because I know of Mr. Solomon's predilection for provocation, I'm not firing you today.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She exhaled and her shoulders lost their stiffness.

  “For now, consider yourself on probation.”

  His good deed for the week, Steve thought, helping save her job. But what a prick, that Pincher, hacking away at the newbie. Steve felt embarrassed, like he'd been eavesdropping on another family's quarrel. Victoria tried so hard to be tough, but Steve had seen the tremble of her lower lip, the flush in her cheeks. She was scared, and it touched him.

  A loud rush of water interrupted his thoughts, the unmistakable sound of an ancient toilet. A moment later, the door to Judge Erwin Gridley's personal rest room opened, and the judge walked out, carrying the sports section of the Miami Herald.

  “What's all this caterwauling?” the judge drawled. He was in his mid-fifties and fighting a paunch but could still waddle down the sidelines after a wide receiver. Suffering bouts of double vision, he wore trifocals in court, but not on Saturdays, which Steve figured might explain some of his more egregious calls, including too many men on the field when replays clearly showed only eleven.

  “Mr. Solomon and I were reminiscing about old cases,” Pincher told the judge.

  “Mr. Pincher remembers cases the way a wolf remembers lambs,” Steve said.

  “I was just about to tell counsel that I'll be sitting second chair to Ms. Lord for the rest of the Pedrosa trial,” Pincher said.

  “You, working for a living?” Steve said.

  “It would be an honor to have you in my courtroom,” the judge allowed.

  “It's my new hands-on plan,” Pincher said. “One week every month, I'll be in court.”

  “Then who's gonna shake down lobbyists for campaign money?” Steve asked.

  “Keep it up, I'll sue you for slander, Solomon.”

  “Now, don't you two git started.” The judge tossed the sports section onto his desk. “Mr. Solomon and Miss Lord wore me out this morning with their grousing.” He turned to the two of them, squinting through his eyeglasses. “I'm hoping a few hours in the cooler settled your nerves.”

  “We're fine, Your Honor,” Victoria said. “Thank you.”

  “Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow,” Steve vowed.

  “Hah,” Victoria said.

  The judge said: “The clock's running down, so let's talk business.”

  “Yes, sir,” Victoria said. “State of Florida versus Amancio Pedrosa.”

  “University of Florida versus Florida State,” the judge corrected. “Gotta lay five points to take my dog-ass, butt-dragging Gators, for crying out loud.”

  “You don't want to touch that, Judge,” Steve advised.

  “Hell, no. Gator's QB got a stinger on the turf at South Carolina last week. I oughta know. I called roughing on the play.”

  As the three men continued to talk about football in grave tones, Victoria took stock of her career.

  Humiliations great and small.

  “Consider yourself on probation.”

  She had felt her face redden as Pincher berated her. Why did he have to do it in front of Solomon? It was doubly embarrassing when Solomon spoke up for her, though for a moment, it made him seem almost human. She wondered if the florid tint had faded from her neck and cheeks. Victoria could not remember a time when she didn't blush under pressure.

  She dreaded going back into the courtroom with Pincher perched on her shoulder like one of Pedrosa's illegal birds. All she wanted now was to win and prove she had the chops to be a trial lawyer.

  But what if she lost? Or worse, got fired? The legal market sucked, and her student loans weighed a ton. Each month she wrote a check for the interest, but the principal just sat there—eighty-five thousand dollars—taunting her. The only clothing she'd bought since law school came from Second Time Around, a consignment shop in Surfside.

  Except for shoes. Shoes are as important as oxygen, and you don't want to breathe another person's oxygen, right?

  If she lost her job, she'd have to start selling the jewelry The Queen had given her. Irene Lord, called The Queen for her regal bearing and lofty dreams. Even when her money was gone, she had maintained her dignity and grace. Victoria pictured her mother, dressed in a designer gown for the Vizcayans Ball, her Judith Leiber evening bag flecked with jewels but lacking cab fare inside. She remembered, too, her mother fussing about Victoria's decision to go to law school. A dirty business, she called it.

  “You don't have that cutthroat personality.”

  Maybe The Queen was right. Maybe law school had been a mistake. She struggled to be strong, to cover up her insecurities. But maybe she just didn't have what it takes. Certainly Ray Pincher seemed to doubt her abilities.

  What's this bullshit about Pincher sitting second chair? Steve hated the idea. There'd be no more fun in the courtroom, that's for sure. And Pincher would put even more pressure on Victoria. Steve wondered if she could handle it.

  Doing his pretrial homework, Steve had looked her up in the State Attorney's Office newsletter, the “Nolo Contendere.” Princeton undergrad, summa cum laude, Yale Law School, a prize-winning article in the law journal. Nice pedigree, compared to his: baseball scholarship at the University of Miami, night division at Key West School of Law.

  In addition to the ritzy academics, there was a little ditty in the newsletter: “We're hoping Victoria joins us on the Sword of Justice tennis team. She won the La Gorce Country Club girls' tennis championship three years running while in high school.”

  La Gorce. Old money, at least by Miami standards, where marijuana smugglers from the 1980's were considered founding fathers. The La Gorce initiation fee was more than Steve cleared in a year. Thirty years ago, no one named Solomon could have even joined.

  So why was Victoria Lord slumming
in the grimy Justice Building, a teeming beehive of cops and crooks, burned-out lawyers and civil service drudges, embittered jurors and senile judges? A place where an eight A.M. motion calendar—a chorus line of miscreants on parade—could crush her spirit before her café con leche grew cold. Steve felt a part of the place, enjoyed the interplay of cops and robbers, but Victoria Lord? Had she gotten lost on her way to one of the deep-carpet firms downtown? Stone crabs at noon, racquetball at five.

  Now Steve tried to follow the conversation. Judge Gridley was spouting his views on a college football playoff—a grand idea, there'd be more games to bet on—when they were interrupted by a cell phone chiming the opening bars of Handel's “Hallelujah.”

  “Excuse me,” Pincher told them, fishing out his phone. “State Attorney. What? Good heavens! When?” He listened a moment. “Call me when the autopsy's done.”

  Pincher clicked off and turned to the others. “Charles Barksdale is dead.”

  “Heart attack?” the judge asked, tapping his own chest.

  “Strangled. By his wife.”

  “Katrina?” Victoria said. “Can't be.”

  “She probably had a good reason,” said Steve, ever the defense lawyer.

  “Claims it was an accident,” Pincher said.

  “How do you accidentally strangle someone?” the judge said.

  “By having sex in a way God never intended,” Pincher said. “They found Charles tied up in some kinky contraption.”

  “This is big,” Steve said. “Larry King big.”

  “Charles was a dear friend,” Pincher said, “not just a campaign contributor. To die like that . . .” He shook his head, sadly. “If the grand jury indicts, I'll prosecute it myself.”