by Paul Levine
“I'll expose that quack,” he said. “What are her credentials, anyway? Does she have an ounce of compassion? Does she understand that love is more important than charts and tests?”
“Steve—”
“I took Bobby to her hospital. They tried to give him an IV drip of Valium for some tests, and I said, no fucking way.”
“Who are your experts? What's your strategy?”
“Do you know what it smells like in that hospital? Ammonia and laundry starch. If I could bring that stink into court, no judge would give Bobby to the state.”
Out of control, she thought. No sense of objectivity. No plan.
“If we lose,” Steve said, “I'm packing our bags.”
“Give up your Bar license, become a fugitive?”
“If that's what it takes.”
“Have you thought about retaining counsel?”
“Who can argue the case better than me?”
“Someone who's not emotionally involved.”
“You been talking to Marvin the Maven?” Steve put a little gravel in his voice. “‘The man who represents himself has a shmendrick for a client.'”
“Marvin's right.”
“Not this time. See, the theme of my case is love conquers all.”
“Didn't we just try that?” Victoria asked. “‘Katrina Loves Charles'?”
“That was courtroom blather. Love's not about buying watches and diamonds. It's about putting the other person first. What Bobby needs is someone who'll do anything for him, not doctors who want to publish papers about him. What he needs is me.”
“I wonder if that's enough,” she said. “To win the case, I mean.”
“Did you ever see that English movie Love Actually?” he asked.
“Yeah. It put me into glucose overload.”
“First scene, we see all these couples meeting at the airport. Lovers hugging, kissing, reuniting. And Hugh Grant's saying it's wrong to think we live in a world that's filled only with hatred and greed.”
“Yeah, sure. It's a world of milk and honey.”
“What he says is, if you look for it, love actually is all around.”
He had a distant and almost blissful look. In the right time and place, like a Barry Manilow concert or a freshman seminar on Kahlil Gibran, the look might be appropriate, Victoria thought. But in the grungy law office over the Dumpster, faced with the reality of losing his nephew, Solomon's spaciness was alarming.
He's losing it.
“I remember the scene,” she said. “I was thinking, ‘This is gonna be one sugar-glazed donut of a movie.'”
“That's what love is, too. Besides the sacrifice and the caring, I mean. It's a Sinatra song. Moonbeams on the bay. A puppy opening its eyes for the first time.”
“Where's the Solomon I know? The guy who teaches birds to shit on opposing counsel?”
“When I see Bobby sleeping, tears come to my eyes. I'm gonna tell the judge that. I'm gonna translate every emotion into admissible evidence.”
Okay, she thought. Turns out the courtroom shark was a hopeless romantic. And like another romantic, he was preparing to tilt at windmills, riding a spavined steed and carrying a rusty lance.
“I'm having a little trouble seeing how this is going to win your case.”
“That's the beauty of it. It's right in Chapter Thirty-nine of the statutes.” He grabbed a book from his desk. “Look. Section Eight-ten, Subsection Five. The court must consider the ‘love, affection, and other emotional ties between the child and the person seeking custody.' If the judge does that, I win.”
“What about Kranchick's report?”
“Not to worry. I'm gonna wax the floor with it.”
“What about all the other criteria in the statute?”
“I'll deal with them.”
Unwilling to budge, unable to see that he was hot asphalt and his opponents were riding the steamroller. She wondered how she could get through to him. He was always so much in control when handling other people's problems. Now he seemed so lost in his own.
“I just wonder if you should talk to a lawyer who specializes in dependency cases,” she said, diplomatically. “Maybe work together. Turn negatives into positives. Kranchick thinks you're exposing Bobby to improper influences. But you argue that taking Bobby to the office and court is great for his development.”
“I do it mostly because we like to hang together,” Steve said.
“That's good,” she said. “Most boys would love to spend more time with their fathers.”
Steve's face seemed to brighten. “You have a feel for this, Vic. You should represent me.”
“I've never handled a guardianship case.”
“You're a trial lawyer, an all-purpose utility player. You can play any position without being afraid of any case or any lawyer.”
“I'm not afraid,” she said. “It's just . . .”
“What?”
“Too much responsibility. I know how important this is to you.”
“That's why I need you. I wouldn't trust anyone else the way I trust you.”
“If I screwed it up . . .”
“You won't.”
“I'm sorry, Steve. I just can't.”
Ten minutes later, Steve was considering the puzzling Ms. Victoria Lord. Most lawyers he knew had inflated egos. They weren't nearly as good as they thought they were. With Victoria, it was the opposite. She didn't know how good she could be. Her humility made her even more effective in the courtroom.
But why wouldn't she help him? That he couldn't figure out. He stole a glance across the room. On this chilly day, with gusts rattling the windowpane, Victoria wore a brown knit skirt fringed at the bottom. A matching hooded cardigan and fleece-lined, high-heeled suede boots completed the outfit, which Steve had never seen before. He wondered if he was starting to memorize her wardrobe, as he had done with her features, her every look. There was the furrowed brow with pursed lips when she studied a law book, the triumphant smile when she pounced on a winning point, the mysterious gaze when she stared into space. And another look, too.
He'd seen it once, and only because he opened his own eyes to find hers closed. When their lips had parted during their one and only kiss, she radiated total rapture.
Now he replayed their conversation of just a few minutes ago. He surely knew Victoria well enough to crack her codes. Suggesting he get counsel, she'd been overly polite, overly delicate. Then he said, Fine, you represent me. And she said no. Why?
There could be only one reason.
He felt his mood plummet. It's not that she lacked confidence in her own abilities.
She thinks I haven't got a chance. She thinks I'm going to lose.
Thirty
WEDDING BELL BLUES
An hour later, Steve was still stewing about Bobby's case, and Victoria was grinding away on the murder case, reading appellate cases, taking notes in neat lettering on her cards. The intercom buzzed and Cece said: “Yo, Vic. Hottie alert. Beefcake on final approach.”
Bruce Bigby, in a double-breasted charcoal suit with a thin chalk stripe, breezed through the doorway, kissed Victoria's cheek, and opened a briefcase, all in one motion.
“Hate to burst in like this, sweetie. Hey, Steve.” He did a double take. “Jeez, your face.”
“Shaving accident,” Steve said.
“Hon, what are you doing here?” Victoria said.
“We've got a thousand things to do.” He pulled a file from his briefcase. “Steve, you've got to be more careful.”
“I'm fine. Stick to your gourds, Bruce.”
“Mind your manners, partner,” Victoria warned.
“Avocados aren't gourds, Steve,” Bigby said.
“Who gives a shit?”
“Steve!” Victoria glared at him.
“I'm sorry, Bruce,” Steve said contritely. “Just having a bad day.”
“Not a problem, Steve. I understand.”
What a nice guy, Steve thought. So even-keeled. So imperturbable.
So irritating. Steve realized he both resented and envied Bigby. Then he felt guilty about it. He owed Bigby for trying to help with Kranchick, even if it hadn't worked. And he wanted to make up for being such a prick just now. Forcing some cheer into his voice, he said: “So what's new on the farm, Bruce?”
“Arctic front's headed our way. We might be burning smudge pots by the weekend.”
“If you need any extra hands, I'm there.” Steve didn't know which would be worse, freezing his ass off, or watching Bigby make out with Victoria in the glow of a smudge pot. “I mean it. You need the fields set on fire, just call me.”
“You burn sugarcane fields, not avocado trees. But a mighty decent offer.” Bigby dropped his voice to a whisper. “Say, Vic told me. I'm sorry about the doctor's report.” He shot a look at Bobby. “Are we allowed to talk about it in front of—?”
“I'm not deaf, dipshit,” Bobby said.
“Bobby!” Steve said.
“My fault,” Bigby said. “Robert, I apologize.”
“So just why are you here, hon?” Victoria asked.
To Steve, she sounded on edge. Not quite “what the hell are you doing in my office when I've got work to do?” But maybe just a tinge of annoyance.
“The wedding, sweetie,” Bigby said. “You do remember?”
“It's all she talks about,” Steve said, and Victoria gave him a warning look.
“I'm a little busy right now,” she said.
Bigby spread the contents of a file on her desk. “Seating charts, floral arrangements, musical selections, speeches to write. Really, sweetie, we're way behind the curve.”
“I'm sorry, Bruce, but it's been hectic here.”
“I know. I know. Murder and all, but really . . .”
“Look, I'm gonna take a walk on the beach,” Steve said. “You two stay here and pick out place settings.” He preferred a colonoscopy with a garden hose to listening to their wedding plans.
“We could use your help with final menu choices,” Bigby said.
“I'm partial to barbecue,” Steve said.
“Not unless it's made of tofu,” Bigby reminded him.
Steve got to his feet. “I'll be at Tenth Street Beach if you need me.”
“Isn't that the topless beach?”
“Funny, I never noticed.”
“Hang on a sec, Steve. I want to ask you for a favor.”
“Anything, Bruce.”
“I'd be honored if you'd be one of our ushers.”
“Me? I don't have any training.”
“You'll learn at the rehearsal.”
“I don't know. Somebody trips and falls, they might sue me.”
“Just think about it. And do you want to sit on the bride's side or the groom's side of the church?”
“The Jewish side,” Steve said.
The intercom buzzed again, and Cece announced that State Attorney Pincher was calling. Steve and Victoria exchanged looks—What's he want?—and Steve hit the speaker button. “Hey, Sugar Ray. Coerce any confessions today?”
“Got that discovery you requested.” Faint amusement tickled his voice.
“Great. I'll send my courier over.”
“You don't have a courier.”
“I forgot. Be a pal and send the stuff over with one of yours.”
“Oh, I think you and your partner ought to come over here, pronto.”
“Yeah, why's that?” Steve heard laughter in the background. He pictured an office filled with Pincher's flunkies.
“'Cause I want to see your face when your case goes straight to Hades.” Again, the ripple of sycophantic laughter. The phone clicked dead.
Steve turned to Victoria. “Pincher's gonna sandbag us, but I don't know how.”
“Then the sooner the better.”
“Right. Let's get going.”
Victoria gathered some papers, dumped them in a briefcase. No muss, no fuss. Steve admired how she just got down to business, readied for the fight.
“Sorry, hon,” she said. “The menus and seating charts will have to wait.”
“And the flowers?” Bigby said.
“You choose. Really, Bruce. You're better at it than I am.”
“If you say so,” Bigby said, disappointed.
“I'm partial to birds of paradise,” Steve said, heading for the door.
8. There is some shit I will not eat.
Thirty-one
MY PARTNER
“What happened to your face, Solomon?” Ray Pincher asked. “Your secretary beat you up?”
Steve put on his best Jack Nicholson: “Your wife got excited and crossed her legs a little too quick.”
Pincher scowled, but his crew—two female prosecutors and Delvin Farnsworth, the homicide detective—snickered.
“Hated that movie,” Pincher said. “Evil prevailed. ‘It's Chinatown, Jake.' What kind of crap is that?”
“What do you have for us, Ray?” Steve wasn't being paid enough to listen to Pincher's movie reviews.
“I'm getting there,” Pincher said.
Victoria and Steve were sitting on one side of a long rectangular table in Pincher's conference room. There was a nice view from the windows, if you like concrete expressway trestles fifty feet high.
Pincher was wearing a jet black vested suit with a lavender shirt, lavender tie, and lavender kerchief in his pocket. Way too much lavender for Steve's taste. “Solomon is usually a formidable opponent,” Pincher said, turning to the detective. “Reprehensible, but formidable. Lately, though, he's been off his game.”
“We drove over here for this?” Steve said.
“Maybe it's because this case is out of his league,” Pincher continued serenely.
That again, Steve thought. Why had a discovery session turned adversarial before it had even begun?
Sitting next to Pincher, Farnsworth scratched his mustache with a knuckle. Taking notes—or doodling, Steve couldn't tell which—were the two prosecutors, Gloria Mendez and Miranda Cooper. Steve knew both women as competent but skittish in the courtroom. Neither one would give you a decent plea deal, terrified of being upbraided by their boss. Like most young ASAs, they'd made a Faustian bargain. If they could put up with their egomaniacal boss for a few years, laugh at his jokes, remind him of his brilliance, Pincher would pave the way to a deep-carpet firm downtown.
Steve had never been able to make those kind of compromises. He remembered being only eight or nine when his father starting calling him “Olaf,” but never told him why. Years later, in English class at Beach High, Steve read the e.e. cummings poem “i sing of Olaf glad and big.” And there he was, in iambic tetrameter: “There is some shit I will not eat.”
It would make a good law, he decided, mindful that Olaf spoke the defiant words while red-hot bayonets were jammed up his ass.
“Solomon completely misread his client,” Pincher continued. “Like a sloppy base runner, he gets picked off. That right, Last Out?”
“Let's just get this over with,” Steve said, in no mood for Pincher's bullshit.
“My guess, he's preoccupied by his own squabble over in kiddie court.”
The son-of-a-bitch. Goading me about Bobby.
“Why don't we just stick to this case?” Victoria said.
“How is that nephew of yours, Solomon?” Pincher asked, ignoring her.
Steve wouldn't take the bait. “Bobby's fine. Thank you for asking.”
“Kid's a little weird. But then, with Solomon's family tree, what can you expect?”
Steve felt a hand gripping his forearm. Victoria, urging him to remain calm. He showed her a tight smile he hoped was reassuring, but she looked alarmed.
“Maybe it's genetic,” Pincher continued. “Some damaged Solomon gene. I guess they'll figure it out over at Rockland.”
Steve felt a hot wave rush over his body, as if he'd just opened the door to a blast furnace. He strained to keep his voice steady. “Unlike these ass wipes of yours, Pincher, I don't have to pretend you're smart or funny or even halfwa
y human. So cut the crap. Give us what you've got.”
Pincher pretended not to hear him. Or not to care. “The kid's mother—that'd be Solomon's sister—exchanges sexual favors for intoxicating substances. What do they call that, Del?”
“A coke whore,” Farnsworth said.
“Indeed,” Pincher agreed. “A harlot so low as to treat her own child worse than barnyard swine. Oh, suffer the little children.”
Steve felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He wondered how long it would take him to leap across the conference table and latch on to Pincher's neck. How much time would he have before Farnsworth clubbed him with a gun butt?
“Corruption and carnality run in Solomon's family,” Pincher prattled on. “I have always thought of the courthouse as a holy place, but Solomon's own father was a money-changer in the temple.”
An image formed in Steve's mind. He was picking up Ray Pincher, throwing him through a window, watching his body explode like a crushed melon on the flagstone courtyard nine stories below.
“There is some shit I will not eat,” Steve said, so quietly only Victoria heard it.
He's going to do something really stupid, Victoria knew. She could hear Steve's breath quicken, could sense his muscles tighten.
“As for the weird kid,” Pincher said, “the state's gonna put him in a fishbowl . . .”
“There is some shit . . .” Steve's voice, barely a whisper.
“. . . stick needles in his brain, and figure out what fucked him up, the Solomon gene or the coke whore's abuse.”
“. . . I will not eat!”
Steve launched himself across the table and was instantly aware of a strange sensation. Like a steer roped by a cowboy, he was yanked to a sudden stop. He seemed to be suspended in air for a split second, then tumbled back into his chair. Bewildered, he looked down and saw Victoria's hand snagging his belt in a white-knuckled grip. She'd been playing tennis since age four and could crack walnuts in her fist.
“You want to let go?” he said.
“Not yet.”
“I was just stretching my legs.”
