by Paul Levine
Matamoras, Mexico? Tegucigalpa, Honduras?
He'd never been to either place, just liked the sound of the names.
“Now, Ms. Solomon,” the judge began, nailing Janice with a steely look, “my question is this . . .”
Steve sneaked a peek at Victoria. Perched on the edge of her chair, she looked like a bird about to take flight.
“Between the state and your brother,” the judge continued, “who would you choose to care for your son?”
“Your Honor, I have something to say,” Victoria said.
Damn. Steve wondered if his passport was up-to-date.
“Hold on, Ms. Lord,” the judge said. “You'll get your chance. Now, Ms. Solomon—”
“It's important, Your Honor.”
“I said, in a minute.” Judge Rolle gave Victoria a stern look, then turned back to Janice. “The state or your brother, Ms. Solomon? What's your choice?”
Victoria fidgeted in her chair but kept quiet. For the moment.
“I been in enough state facilities to know the shit that goes down there,” Janice said. “Stevie's blood. He's good people. Why not give him a shot?”
“I thought so,” the judge said.
Victoria sat at her table, clutching her note cards in a white-knuckled grip.
What's she going to do?
“Does the state have any more witnesses?” the judge asked.
“My cupboard is bare,” Zinkavich said, “but I move for a continuance until I can locate Mr. Thigpen.”
“Denied.”
“Then I ask that the Court withhold ruling until the State Attorney's Office can investigate the veracity of Ms. Solomon's testimony,” Zinkavich said, desperately.
“Denied.”
“I request for a stay of all proceedings until—”
“Denied. Ms. Lord, please sum up for the Petitioner.”
Victoria seemed stunned. “Oh, Your Honor, I'm not ready for closing argument. But there's something I need to disclose—”
“Ms. Lord, if you're half the lawyer I think you are, you already know which way the Court is leaning. So stand up, talk quick, then sit down.”
Victoria stood, shakily. “This is difficult. I don't know exactly how to say this.”
She was torn, Steve thought. Torn between her heart and those damn rules.
“Ms. Lord, just give me a thought or two about Mr. Solomon, and we'll call it a day, okay?”
Victoria's eyes seemed to focus on a spot on the wall. She sighed. Then she said, “Your Honor, Steve Solomon is the most exasperating man I have ever known.”
“That's a start,” the judge said. “Go on.”
“He has great empathy for people who've got no one to stand up for them. But he's also maddening, impetuous, utterly irrational.”
Winging it, Steve thought. But where would she land?
“He has absolutely no respect for the rules,” Victoria continued. “He makes up his own. He's witty and fun and smart, but he can do some incredibly stupid, thoughtless things. He—”
“Your Honor,” Zinkavich interrupted. “Is this closing argument or couples therapy?”
“Quiet,” the judge said. “I want to see where this is going.”
“I know this man, Steve Solomon,” Victoria said. “Oh, Judge, I know him so well. I've looked deep inside him.”
“Objection!” Zinkavich shouted. “Counsel is testifying. It's totally improper to offer personal opinions on the issues.”
“Counsel is right,” Victoria said, before the judge could rule. “I just crossed the line. It's forbidden by the rules. Frowned on by legal scholars.” Her voice took on a sarcastic lilt. “And, oh, how I've always followed the rules.”
Her face was flushed now, her eyes flashing with sparks. Running on emotion.
“I got straight A's while working two jobs and playing varsity tennis at Princeton,” Victoria said, while unbuttoning her double-breasted jacket. “At Yale, I was the star of the law journal.” She tore off her jacket and tossed it at Steve. His hands came up late, and the jacket covered his face before he could whisk it away.
“I was going to make my mark in the public sector,” she continued, “spend time in private practice, then go on the bench. All mapped out on color-coded note cards. I planned something else, too. A tall, handsome, suitable husband and two-point-four perfect children. And I was going to follow all the rules.”
Victoria turned, walked back to the table, and drew back an arm. For a second, Steve thought she was going to slug him, but instead, she swept an open palm across the table, knocking her files to the floor with a crash. “That's what I think of the rules!”
Three note cards remained on the table. She scooped them up and tore them into pieces, showering Steve with confetti. “And that's what I think of my stupid, color-coded note cards.”
Complete meltdown, Steve thought. He had no idea what she would say next, figured she didn't, either.
“And I'll tell you something else, Judge.”
Here it is. The end of the line. She was going to snitch on him.
“My feet are killing me.” She propped one ankle over a knee, pried off an ankle-strapped Prada pump, and tossed it to Steve. The second shoe came a moment later. The toss was low, but he scooped it up in one hand.
Victoria padded toward the bench in her panty-hosed feet. “Where was I, Your Honor?”
“Somewhere between Mr. Solomon's irresponsible and irritating conduct and your two-point-four perfect children. And may I compliment you on your toenail polish? Malibu Sunset?”
“Painted Desert, Your Honor.”
Victoria moved back to her table, and for a moment, Steve panicked: the brown taffeta blouse might be coming off next. “Steve Solomon's taught me so much,” she said. “‘When the law doesn't work,' he always says, ‘you work the law.' At first, it sounded illegal or at least immoral. But it's not. When used to do good, it's the true meaning of the law. Law tinged with compassion. Law that seeks the truth. Law that protects the innocent. It's the only place where the law and justice truly meet.” She turned toward Steve, her eyes glistening with tears. “Otherwise, we're just robots. Unfeeling automatons. Bloodless and soulless. Sin alma o corazón.”
She picked up a paper clip from the table, twisted it apart, pricked a finger with a sharp end.
Ouch.
She held up her hand. A drop of blood oozed from a fingertip.
“I'm not a robot. I bleed. I feel pain. And I feel love. So does Steve Solomon. I've never known anyone who loves a child more, who gives more of himself to a child.”
She stood there a moment, seemingly dazed, then turned back to the judge. “Your Honor, may I be excused?”
“Go on now,” the judge said, with a wave of her hand, “before you bleed on your skirt. Philippe Adec?”
“Zanella.”
“Lovely. Wish I was tall enough for the A-line.”
Victoria scooped up her purse and headed for the door. Leaving her shoes, her jacket, and her client behind.
“Z, you got anything to add to these proceedings?” the judge asked.
“Only that I wish I'd gone to dental school,” Zinkavich said.
Judge Rolle leaned back in her chair and spun a full 360 degrees. When she stopped, she drilled Steve with a steady gaze. “You must be a handful, Mr. Solomon.”
“Beg your pardon, Judge?”
“To get a woman like that so hot and bothered.” She sighed. “You Solomon men are really something.”
“Yes, ma'am,” Steve agreed, not knowing what else to say.
“Okay, here's the way it's gonna be.” The judge pulled out the court file, made a notation on the cover. “Mr. Solomon's petition is granted. He is awarded full guardianship rights with no limitations other than my request to bring Bobby to chambers for lunch now and then.”
She banged her gavel and headed off the bench. Zinkavich gathered his files and left without a word.
Steve sat there alone, shredded pieces of note car
ds stuck to his jacket.
Holding one of Victoria's shoes, the inside still warm to the touch.
Wondering how it was possible to be so happy and so sad at the same time.
Fifty-three
WHAT A LOSER,
THAT LAWYER
Frank Sinatra was singing, “Bang bang, she shot me down.”
“I hate this song,” Steve said, punching a button on the car radio.
“Wonder why,” Bobby said.
“It's not that. It's just a weak song. Beneath Frank's dignity.”
“Uh-huh.”
They were driving the old Caddy, top down, across the MacArthur Causeway to Steve's office. Bobby sat cross-legged in the front seat, eating a flaky guava pastelito. It was a breezy winter day of picture-postcard beauty. Palm trees swayed, terns hovered over the water, and the gleaming white cruise ships stood out in sharp focus at their berths.
So why am I so miserable?
He figured part of it was simply the adrenaline crash, the letdown after a battle. They'd won the headline-making murder trial. He'd won custody of Bobby. A truly joyous event, more important than any case he ever had or would have. Bobby was already talking about an upcoming fishing trip with his grandfather.
But still, a feeling of emptiness crashed over Steve.
Victoria would be stopping by later to pick up her things. And then she'd be gone.
Win the case, lose the girl.
Not that he ever had her, unless you count a stolen hour on a surreal night of firelight and snow. Had it even really happened? Maybe it was all a dream.
There was no reason to feel down, he told himself. Last night, he'd paid a visit to the Barksdale home. Katrina had kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for his splendid work. Her exact words were: “You're a fucking great lawyer and you've got one fine ass.”
She was drinking Cristal, which she offered to Steve, and even though he considered champagne carbonated piss, he said, sure, why not. She wore a white, ripply camisole with cabana pants that tied at the waist, or to be accurate, about several inches below her flat and suntanned belly. She kept flinging her dark hair around, repeating how fucking brilliant he was. Soon she was slurring her words, saying he was positively “edible,” but probably meaning “incredible,” he figured.
She handed Steve a flute of champagne and a cashier's check, her frozen accounts having defrosted after the charges were dismissed. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars to be split evenly with Victoria. After taxes and repaying Teresa the hundred thousand he'd borrowed, Steve figured he'd be about twenty thou in the hole. A few more victories like this, he could declare bankruptcy.
Steve asked where Manko was, and Katrina said he was preparing the boat for a trip to Bimini, just the two of them.
“You remember, I told you we were all going to go to Bimini, before Charlie croaked?”
“Sure, it was part of our defense—why would you plan a trip with Charlie a week after you were going to kill him.”
“Now Chet and I are going. But not Charlie.” Giggles burst from her like bubbles of champagne.
“Is there something you want to tell me, Katrina?”
“Nope.” Another sip, another giggle. “Unless you want to know a big secret.”
He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear that his edible and incredible self had cleared a guilty woman of murder. But he had to know. “Go ahead. Tell me a secret.”
“No,” she said with a little-girl pout. “I shouldn't.”
“Let's play a game, Katrina. I'll confess something if you will.”
“I like games,” she said with a titter. “You first.”
“Okay. Remember that security tape?”
“Sure. First you thought there was a shadow of somebody out in the hall. But then your expert said it was nothing.”
“That's what I told you. Victoria, too.”
“Yeah?”
“I lied.”
“Whadaya mean?”
“It was a simple photogrammetry problem, solved with a trig equation. The shadow was a person about six-foot-three, probably over two hundred pounds. Who does that sound like?”
“My Chet,” she cooed. She put down her wineglass, cocked her head coquettishly. “So you knew Chet was there?”
“I knew.”
“Why didn't you tell Victoria?”
“I wanted her to work as hard for you as I would.”
“Why work so hard if you thought I was guilty?”
“It's my job.”
“That's all?”
“That's a lot.”
“You still think I killed the old perv?” She seemed to be sobering up.
“You tell me.”
“C'mon, you proved Charlie committed suicide.”
“I proved Charlie wrote a suicide note. There's a difference. I figure you and Manko killed Charlie before he had a chance to do the job himself.”
“You've got it backward, silly. Sure, Chet was gonna kill him, but Charlie beat him to it.”
“Is that the truth? You might as well tell me. They can't try you twice for Charlie's death.”
“Final jeopardy, right? But it's the truth, I swear. Charlie committed suicide by strangling himself. You should have seen it. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Gross!”
She seemed totally guileless, and Steve felt a mixture of relief and revulsion. Okay, maybe, she wasn't guilty, but she wasn't exactly innocent, either. Had justice been served? He supposed it had. Katrina had wanted to kill Charlie, but we punish people for what they do, not what they wish. If every woman who wanted to strangle her husband was indicted, criminal defense lawyers would all drive Ferraris. Katrina was morally guilty, of course. If there truly were a judge on a heavenly throne, a real Court of Last Resort, Steve figured she'd face some ultimate justice. But as far as earthly law was concerned, Katrina had been rightfully acquitted. He'd done his job well.
She downed the rest of her champagne. “So, congratulate me.”
“For not killing your husband?”
“For marrying Chet.”
“Thought you said Chet was just a sport fuck.”
“But a good one.” She laughed. “We're getting hitched in Bimini.”
“Congratulations.” Two scorpions on a yacht, he thought. He wondered how long it would take one to sting the other.
“Before we go, there's something I need you to do.”
“Yeah?”
“Can you make me one of those prenups?” Katrina asked.
The Caddy was just passing Parrot Jungle when Steve's cell phone rang.
“Althea Rolle called me this morning.” Herbert Solomon sounded peeved.
“Oh, shit. I was so drained last night . . .”
“You forgot to tell me some big news.”
“I'm sorry, Dad. Really.”
Herbert harrumphed into the phone. “Anyway, ah'm glad for you. And Bobby.”
It sounded as if forgiveness was forthcoming, so Steve relaxed a bit.
“So if we're on for the weekend, ah'll gas up the boat,” Herbert said.
“We're on. Thanks, Dad. For everything.”
“You don't know the half of it.”
“What's that mean?”
“Where's mah hundred thousand?”
A Saab convertible with its radio blaring salsa passed the Caddy, and Steve wasn't sure he'd heard his father correctly. “What'd you say, Dad?”
“When Marvin paid me a visit, ah was steamed. Hurt, too. Mah own son wouldn't ask me for help.”
What the hell? He'd heard right, after all. He just couldn't believe it. “It wasn't Teresa's money?”
“Sweet lady, but she was mah courier, that's all. Ah cashed in mah pension. It's what a man does for his son.”
Steve was so astonished he nearly rear-ended an SUV hauling a little runabout on a rickety trailer.
“You still there, son?”
“You gave me all that money without even knowing what it was for?”
“Ah didn't know then. But your sister paid me a visit on her way out of town. Now ah know.”
Steve felt a wave of heat roll over him. So this is what shame feels like.
“Ah was surprised,” Herbert continued.
“I don't know what to say, Dad.”
“It was generous of you, son.”
“Generous?”
“Paying for Janice's drug rehab like that. A damn fancy place, too.”
Drug rehab? Is that what Janice told him the hundred K was for? Or is he just making this easier for me?
“You did the right thing, Stephen. You took care of family. Your sister and your nephew.”
Steve couldn't be sure, but he sensed his father knew the truth. What a strange way for the two of them to come together, enmeshed in a family conspiracy. “We gonna catch some fish this weekend, Dad?”
Herbert laughed. “You bring the beer, I'll bring the bait.”
Steve slowed the Caddy as a giant Hummer pulled in front of him from the adjacent lane. They were five minutes from the office. The radio was tuned to a sports talk station, a caller complaining that the Dolphin Dolls didn't shake their booties the way the Cowboys' cheerleaders did. Bobby was on his second pastelito and had just popped the top on a Jupiña pineapple soda. Sugar overload any second.
“Will Victoria still come over to the house?” Bobby said. “You know, after . . .”
“Doubt it, kiddo. Married women hang out with their husbands, at least for a year or so.”
Bobby seemed dejected. Which made two of them.
After a moment, Bobby said: “I could light a stink bomb in the church.”
There'd been a message on the phone yesterday. Bigby calling to remind him of the rehearsal next Friday. The groom's cheery voice depressed Solomon even more. Why had he agreed to be an usher? He could already hear the comments, could anticipate the torturous death by a thousand compliments.
