by Paul Levine
It was a few minutes before five o'clock. In an hour, Steve and Victoria were due in kiddie court for the start of Bobby's trial. They had thirty minutes, tops, to get what they needed and hit the road.
“Lawyers are lower than pond scum,” the doctor said. “Lower than whale shit.”
“It's amazing,” Victoria agreed, “the lack of ethics one sees.” She forced a smile. Next to her, Steve fidgeted. She could see he hated the guy.
“Some things even a whore won't do for money,” Dr. Atherton said. “But lawyers . . .”
“Now, about Charles Barksdale,” Victoria purred, feeling the minutes tick away.
“What's black and brown and looks good on a lawyer?” the doctor said.
“A Doberman pinscher.” Victoria knew that old chestnut had been roasted long before she went to law school.
“That's bullshit,” Steve said.
“Steve, I'll handle this.”
“Some of us spend a lot of time working pro bono,” Steve said.
“To salve your guilty conscience?” the doctor said.
“When's the last time you took a patient without insurance?”
“Steve, please,” she said. Dammit! Bobby has more self-control.
“Do you know why my malpractice premiums are six figures?” Dr. Atherton said.
“Because doctors screw up,” Steve said.
“Because lawyers are leeches,” the doctor said.
“I don't have to listen to this shit.”
“Stephen,” Victoria said, her irritation showing. “We need Dr. Atherton's help, and we need it now.”
“That'll be five hundred dollars for fifteen minutes,” the doctor said. “Payment up front. Cash or MasterCard. No American Express.”
“Isn't that a little steep for a consultation?” Victoria said.
“You have thirteen minutes left,” the doctor said, glancing at his watch.
Steve shot a look at Victoria. “I'm maxed out on the plastic.”
Naturally, she thought, opening her purse, as Dr. Atherton buzzed for his bookkeeper.
It only took four minutes, and Dr. Atherton didn't reduce the bill. He said he'd been Charles Barksdale's primary care physician for a dozen years. Never a serious problem. Blood pressure and cholesterol under control, some tennis at the club to stay in reasonable shape. Minor knee surgery two years ago to scrape out some loose cartilage. A few weeks before he died, Charlie came in, complaining of abdominal pain and nausea. He'd been vomiting on and off for a week.
“Stomach virus?” Victoria asked.
“I wish,” Atherton said. “A CT scan showed a thickening of the stomach wall. I sent him over to Cedars for an exploratory laparotomy. They did a biopsy. Unresectable gastric carcinoma with carcinomatosis.”
“Cancer,” Victoria said.
“A really nasty one. Linitis plastica. Advanced, inoperable, and fatal. I gave him some painkillers along with the bad news.”
Victoria took a deep breath.
Steve's gut was right.
The Human Polygraph had told her Katrina was innocent, and she'd scoffed. Then he'd said Charles had committed suicide, and she'd scoffed again. But here was Barksdale's motive for taking his own life. So why not cut his unfaithful wife out of the estate while he was at it?
Solomon's really good at this.
“What exactly did you tell Mr. Barksdale?” she asked the doctor.
“That he had six weeks to six months to live, and he should get his affairs in order.”
“Starting with paying your bill?” Steve asked.
“Steve, stop it.” Victoria turned back to the doctor, who was studying his watch. “What was Mr. Barksdale's reaction to his diagnosis?”
“Quiet. He said I shouldn't tell Katrina if I ran into her at the club. He was going to handle that himself.”
“But he never did. Charles lied to her, told her he had a stomach virus.”
“So she killed him for nothing,” the doctor said, amused. “All she had to do was wait for nature to take its course.”
Victoria let that one go. Something was buzzing in her mind, the flutter of a mosquito's wings. What was it? “This tumor,” she said. “Would it have been visible to the ME doing the autopsy?”
Dr. Atherton snorted. A little puff of condescension. “If you can identify the cancer through a scope, you sure as hell can see it if you split the guy open from stern to stern.”
“Even if the ME isn't an oncologist?” she asked, pressing him.
“Linitis plastica looks like somebody planted sod in your stomach. Long, wavy fibers like blades of grass. Even if the ME was half blind and dumb as a lawyer, he couldn't miss it.”
Waiting for the elevator, Steve pounded the DOWN button. They had twenty minutes to get to court in rush-hour traffic.
She said: “Why wasn't the cancer—?”
He said: “In Dr. Yang's autopsy report.”
She said: “Yang's competent and honest—”
He said: “Which leaves Sugar Ray Pincher.”
“Something's wrong,” they said in unison.
Okay, he thought. We're on the same page now.
Okay, she thought. This is the meaning of “synergy.”
The elevator door opened. They went in and headed down to the parking garage.
Steve said: “Why would Pincher screw around with the autopsy—?”
“When killing a sick man is just as much murder as killing a healthy man?” she said, completing his thought.
“Damned if I know,” Steve said, “but if I'm half the cross-examiner I think I am, Dr. Yang will tell us.”
“A bit of advice: Use a rapier instead of a sledgehammer.”
“You're telling me how to cross, Lord?”
“Sweet Jesus,” she said, using one of her mother's expressions. You tell a man to use his turn signals, he thinks you're castrating him. “Don't be so touchy, Solomon. You're a terrific lawyer.”
“Don't patronize me.”
“All I'm saying, sometimes you come on a little strong.”
He bristled. “That's my style. I mug the opposition. You hug them.”
“Okay, keep doing what you do. I'll do what I do. Maybe that's what makes us a good team.”
“You just figuring that out, Victoria? All this time and you're just figuring that out?”
The elevator door opened and he walked out ahead of her, shaking his head.
Forty-four
FESSING UP
Steve was driving and Victoria was in the passenger seat, going over her note cards. They were headed north on Ronald Reagan Avenue, so named because the former President once ate a Cuban sandwich at a restaurante there. They would cut over to Coral Way, take Twenty-seventh Avenue, and they'd be at the Juvenile Justice Center with maybe two minutes to spare. Steve knew he was running out of time to fess up.
“There's something about Bobby's case I haven't told you.”
“Yeah?” Putting down her cards, sounding worried.
“I've got some evidence that'll totally discredit Kranchick.”
“What is it?” Sounding dubious now.
“She's using an illegal drug. Something not approved by the FDA.”
“Wow. You sure?”
“Positive. But you can't use the evidence.”
“Why not?”
“Because we stole it.”
“We?”
“Okay. Me. Actually, Cadillac, at my request. He rifled her wastebasket.”
“The wastebasket?” She shook her head. “Like the Winnie-the-Pooh case?”
Steve knew the case. The judge dismissed a suit against Disney in part because the plaintiffs went through the company's garbage. “Pretty much. Which is why you've got to be subtle.”
“How is one subtle with illegally obtained evidence?”
“Get Kranchick to admit she's using an unapproved drug.”
“And just how do I do that?”
“Play on her pride. She really believes what she's doing is
right. No matter how unethical it is.”
As they crossed the Twenty-seventh Avenue bridge, he told Victoria about the opinion piece, Kranchick expressing support for dangerous medical research that had been condemned by medical ethicists. “She's not afraid of taking unpopular positions, of being out of the mainstream. Her principles are her own, not the FDA's.”
“So she's like you?” Victoria said. “She makes up her own laws?”
“Mine don't put people's lives at risk.” Steve ran a yellow light, another motorist honking at him. They were less than a block away, passing a run-down strip mall with a discount liquor store, a muffler shop, and a pawnshop—Casa de Empeño. “The key to cracking her is that she's not ashamed. She has a sense of honor about what she does. Which is why I don't think she'll lie.”
“Your gut again, right?”
“Yeah. Plus my research. Something you taught me.”
He pulled the car into the parking lot, thinking the Juvenile Justice Center resembled a prison more than a courthouse. Concrete block pods were built around a barren concrete terrace that had all the warmth of a prisoners' exercise yard. The building's windowless stucco walls had once been white but were now streaked with permanent rust stains. A grim, impersonal place. Steve wondered how Bobby would react to the unfamiliar surroundings. They would find out tomorrow when they brought him to meet the judge. Tonight, he was with Marvin and Teresa, eating a Cuban sandwich and drinking a mamey milk shake at the Versailles on Calle Ocho.
“I don't know if I can pull this off,” Victoria said.
“Sure you can.”
They got out of the car and headed inside, a jet on final approach to MIA screaming over their heads. She still looked troubled. “We both could go to jail and lose our licenses.”
“If you do it right, Kranchick will never know where we got the information.”
“And if I do it wrong?”
“We'll both go to jail and lose our licenses,” Steve said.
Forty-five
HERBERT SOLOMON'S SON
Standing in front of the bench, Zinkavich announced formally: “Jack Zinkavich for the people of the State of Florida.”
Not all of them, Steve thought, as his partner got to her feet.
“Victoria Lord, on behalf of Stephen Solomon.”
Just little ole me, Steve thought.
They were in the cramped courtroom of Judge Althea Rolle. The judge was a petite black woman with a streak of gray in her tightly cropped hair. Two teddy bears sat on her desk. Drawings by sixth graders covered the walls. Dozens of snapshots were taped to a blackboard, the judge posing with happy families who had just adopted children. There would be no jury here; Bobby's fate was entirely up to Judge Rolle.
The lives of Juvenile Court judges were schizophrenic, Steve figured. They packed off troubled teens to Youth Hall in delinquency proceedings. They handled the gut-wrenching cases known as TPRs—Termination of Parental Rights—yanking kids away from abusive or neglectful parents. And occasionally they brought joy to families who adopt children no one else wants.
Like Jack Zinkavich, Family Services poster boy.
The judge looked up from her file, studied Steve a moment. “You wouldn't be Herbert Solomon's son, would you?”
“Guilty, Your Honor.” Steve was used to the question but never knew what to expect next. Sometimes there would be a sad shake of the head, sometimes a scowl, and sometimes . . .
“What a wonderful man.”
Steve eased out a breath.
“A judge with a heart,” she continued.
“Ex-judge,” Zinkavich piped up, an open box of Krispy Kremes on his table. Steve spotted a dulce de leche—a top seller in Miami—a cinnamon twist, and an iced donut, with its dark little rim around the top, like a chocolate yarmulke. Salivating, he realized he'd violated one of his own rules—he'd skipped lunch—and dinner was hours away.
“I was so sorry when I heard about your father's troubles, Mr. Solomon,” the judge said. “Would you give him my best wishes?”
“I'll do that, Your Honor,” Steve said. “Thank you.”
Zinkavich cleared his throat. “Judge Rolle, may I inquire into the extent of your relationship with the Petitioner's father?”
“I never slept with him, if that's what you mean.”
Zinkavich's head jerked back, causing his several chins to jiggle. “Of course not. I just meant—”
“But if he'd asked me, I don't know what I'd have done.”
“I just wondered how close the two of you were,” Zinkavich said.
“How many cases you try before me, Z?”
“Twenty-five or so.”
“Am I always fair to you?”
“Yes, ma'am. You usually rule with me.”
“Yes, I do, even though you're a royal pain in the butt and a total weenie.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You win, Z, because Family Services almost always has the best interests of the child at heart, and that's my sole consideration.”
“I understand, ma'am.”
“Now, I've never met Mr. Stephen Solomon and I don't care if his father's the Prince of Wales. You understand that?”
“I think so, Your Honor.”
“So while I have a little colloquy with the gentleman, why don't you just stuff your mouth with a double-glazed?” Judge Rolle turned to Steve and softened her tone. “We're a little less formal on this side of the river.”
“I see that, Judge.”
“Broke my cherry with your father.”
“Beg your pardon . . . ?”
“Tried my first case before Herbert Solomon. You never forget your first one.”
Or your last, Steve thought.
“Auto accident case,” the judge continued. “Ink wasn't dry on my diploma, and I couldn't get a shred of evidence in. Every question, these two snippy insurance lawyers would hop up and object. ‘Irrelevant.' ‘Hearsay.' ‘Improper predicate.'”
“Old trick,” Steve said, “to rattle a young lawyer.”
“Your daddy kept sustaining their objections in that sweet drawl of his. ‘Ah wuz you, Miss Rolle, ah'd rephrase that question.' Finally, he called us up to sidebar. I thought he was gonna ream me out for being incompetent, but instead he turned to those white boys and said, ‘Ah'd like to hear the little lady's questions, so y'all crackers shut your traps, 'cuz your next objection lands you in contempt.' That shut 'em up real quick.”
“Sounds like Dad,” Steve said.
“He didn't always follow the letter of the law but he sure adhered to its spirit. I like to think I do the same.” She opened a file, then turned to Zinkavich. “Now, why does the state say the petitioner should not be granted guardianship of his nephew?”
Zinkavich didn't bother standing up. “Because Mr. Solomon is incapable of caring for a special-needs child. Because he has prevented testing and treatment of the child that our experts have determined to be necessary.”
The child, Steve thought. As impersonal as a lawsuit over property. Had he reminded Victoria to refer to Bobby by name?
“Because Mr. Solomon exposes the child to inappropriate adult materials,” Zinkavich droned on. “And because he has violent propensities and committed serious crimes when he acquired de facto custody.”
“You can prove all of that?” the judge asked. She seemed taken aback, Steve thought. Maybe shocked to learn that Herbert's son might not measure up to his father. She wouldn't be the first to reach that conclusion.
“Every word, Your Honor.” Zinkavich seemed to swagger, even though he was sitting down. “Indeed, we will prove that granting Mr. Solomon guardianship rights would violate both the letter”—he showed a self-satisfied smirk—“and the spirit of the law.”
“Don't suck up to me, Z. Ms. Lord, I take it you disagree with the state's characterization of your client.”
Victoria stood. To Steve, she looked nervous. On unfamiliar ground. A new judge, new legal issues, and a ton of responsibility.
“Steve Solomon is wonderful with Bobby, Your Honor,” she said. “Sensitive, loving, and nurturing. It's true that Bobby has special needs, but he also has special gifts. In the course of the case, you'll hear from Bobby so that you can appreciate the marvelous way his mind works.”
Right, Steve thought. How many kids know twenty-six synonyms for “penis” and twenty-six for “vagina,” each starting with a different letter?
“You'll see how much Steve cares for Bobby and how much Bobby cares for him,” Victoria said. “By the close of our case, I think you'll agree that Steve Solomon is a terrific lover.”
“Lover?” the judge said.
“Father,” Victoria said, blushing. “I meant ‘father,' of course.”
“Of course. Okay, Ms. Lord, let's take some testimony.”
“Petitioner calls Dr. Doris Kranchick as an adverse witness,” Victoria said.
Doris Kranchick stomped through the swinging gate of the courtroom as if advancing on goal. Her hair was pulled back, and her only makeup was a pinkish powder intended to cover the scar than ran down her cheek but only served to accentuate it. She wore plain black flats, a no-nonsense suit, and a white blouse with a frilly white bow that Steve figured was Zinkavich's attempt to soften her appearance. It worked about as well as a tiara on a plowhorse.
Victoria used a friendly, conversational tone, something Steve thought he should try sometime. She asked Kranchick about her educational background, running smoothly through college, medical school, her internship, residency, and fellowships. She complimented the doctor on her stellar academic record and noted how extraordinary it was to also be a champion athlete. The two women spent the next few minutes chatting about lacrosse.
“I still play the sport,” Kranchick said proudly. She slipped a hand in each suit pocket and pulled out two yellow balls.
The only balls Doris Kranchick was likely to ever hold, Steve thought.
Victoria moved on to the monographs Kranchick had written, the studies she'd directed, the programs she initiated at Rockland State Hospital. It was all very relaxed, the litigation equivalent of a base runner lulling the pitcher to sleep before stealing a base. Then, the preliminaries over, Victoria asked: “Precisely what is Bobby's medical condition?”
