by Paul Levine
“You watch out for Zinkavich,” Marvin warned. “He may look like a schlub, but he's mean as a Cossack.”
“Even worse,” Teresa said. “Mean as a comunista.”
Six
VICTORIA'S SECRET
Walking into Judge Gridley's courtroom with Marvin and Teresa at his side, Steve took a quick inventory of his life. Zinkavich was gunning for him; his crazed sister was on the loose; and a mysterious pickup truck might be tailing him. Not only that, a case he lusted after seemed beyond his reach. Maybe a woman, too.
Could it be, he wondered, that the high point of the last couple days was spending time in jail with Victoria Lord?
The jurors were in their box. Reading, knitting, staring into space. Ray Pincher was in the gallery, pumping constituents' hands. Judge Gridley was in his chambers, probably on the phone with his bookie.
At the prosecution table, Victoria was shuffling through her neatly arranged note cards. Steve nodded in her direction. “Marvin, give me your quick read.”
The old man squinted through his thick glasses. “Gucci pumps, snakeskin. And that woven leather handbag. Bottega Veneta. Fancy-schmancy.”
“I figure she's an heiress.”
“Not just expensive,” Teresa said. “Good taste, too.”
Steve headed toward her. “Wish me luck.”
“Gai shlog dein kup en vant,” Marvin said. “Go bang your head against the wall.”
Steve sized up Victoria's miniature war room. Her table was ringed with a Maginot Line of law books stacked six high. At her feet were boxes filled with files. On the table were cross-indexed depositions, fat pleadings binders, a box of index cards, and a dozen yellow pads. Lined up alongside were colored pens, Magic Markers, a ruler, and a pair of scissors. A plastic salad container held her uneaten lunch.
As Steve approached, he noticed that her skirt was hiked several inches above the knee. He'd known women lawyers who intentionally gave the jury a peek. Not Victoria. Any show of thigh would be totally accidental. But still appreciated.
He watched her drum her fingers on the table. Rookie jitters. The nails were painted a light pink. He pictured her at an expensive spa. Massage, facial, body wrapped in seaweed. Marvin was right. Fancy-schmancy.
At that moment, Victoria was also looking at her nails. Before racing to court, she had clipped, filed, and painted them a color called “Alaskan Dusk.” They'd been in terrible shape, the polish chipped, cuticles ragged. Now she used a fingernail to scrape some excess polish from a cuticle. Damn, she'd been rushed. When was the last time she spent the money for a manicure, much less a pedicure? These days, she did all her own grooming, including the blond highlights in her hair. Number eight Winter Blonde mixed with twenty volume peroxide. Her mother, who spent endless hours in the best salons, was appalled and let her know about it.
Victoria heard her stomach growling. There'd been no time for lunch. Not when she had to prepare for Solomon's stunts. While she had put on the state's case, he'd been unexpectedly well behaved. What was he planning? Pincher had it right when he advised her: “Keep your cool while he plays the fool.”
Don't worry, boss. Nothing Solomon can say or do will frazzle me.
She made another vow, too.
I'm going to win.
She had the evidence; she had the law; and she was smarter than Solomon.
Victoria imagined herself an architect, drawing up precise plans for a solid house. Solomon was a vandal, tearing down pillars, spray-painting graffiti. To him, laws were meant to be twisted, judges manipulated, jurors confused. He didn't even do research, for God's sake. She indexed every deposition by subject matter and cross-indexed by keyword. Every relevant appellate case was Shepardized, summarized, and yellow-lined. Her closing argument had been prepared for weeks. When Solomon came to court, carrying nothing but a cup of coffee, his hair was still wet from the shower and he was shaving in the elevator.
And here he came now, with that annoying grin on his face. Was he staring at her legs again?
“Got some trial tips for you.” Steve parked his butt on the corner of her table.
She covered up her index cards so he couldn't steal her closing argument.
“Never skip lunch,” he said, pointing at the unopened salad container. “Trials are draining. You need your energy.”
“What do you want, Solomon?”
He picked up a pair of scissors from her table, folded an index card twice, began snipping. “Look at my table. What do you see?”
“Your client. Sound asleep.”
True. Slumped in his chair, bird smuggler Amancio Pedrosa was snoring, drool dripping into a rectangular patch of whiskers just south of his lower lip. He was a stocky man in his forties in a rumpled guayabera.
Steve continued snipping at the card. “What else you see?”
“Nothing. There's nothing on your table except a blank legal pad.”
“Almost blank,” he agreed. “Sofia wrote her home number there while we were at lunch.”
“Sofia?”
“The court reporter.”
He nodded toward the attractive, dark-haired woman slipping a new roll of paper into her stenograph machine. Sofia Hernandez smiled back.
The woman's see-through orange blouse seemed inappropriate for court, Victoria thought. It was also a trifle small, or were her breasts simply a trifle large?
“What do you and Sofia do for fun?” Victoria asked. “Have her read back your best objections?”
“C'mon, this for your own good. What do the jurors think when they look at my table?”
“That you're not prepared.”
“That I'm not worried.” He gestured with the scissors toward the wall of law books on Victoria's table. “This little fortress seals you off. Unfriendly. Off-putting. The jury's thinking, ‘If she had to do all that work, she's got a weak case.' So, tip two, come into court lean and mean.”
“You practice your way, I'll practice mine.”
Steve unfolded the scissored index card and handed her the cutout of a long-winged bird. “For you. To remember this day.”
The courtroom door opened, and in walked a tall, handsome man with a great head of silvery blond hair.
“Oh, no,” Victoria groaned. She scooped up her salad container and tossed it into an open trial bag.
The handsome man walked toward them with long strides. He wore gray slacks, a blue blazer, and a white shirt with a club tie. His tie tack was a Phi Beta Kappa key. He looked Steve in the eye and extended a hand. “I'm Bruce Bigby,” he boomed so cheerily he might have been running for County Commissioner. “Are you Steve Solomon?”
“I am, unless you're a process server.”
Bruce Bigby? The name was familiar, but Steve couldn't get a handle on it.
“Heard all about you.” Bigby shook Steve's hand hard enough to crack walnuts. He leaned over and kissed Victoria on the cheek. “Hello, sweetie.”
Sweetie?
“Bruce, what are you doing here?”
“Zoning Commission meets downstairs. How was the avocado salad?”
“Delicious,” she said, shooting a look, sharp as a dagger, at Steve, who judiciously kept quiet. “So thoughtful of you to make it.”
Who the hell is this guy? Boyfriend or personal chef?
“Sweetie!” Bruce Bigby sounded alarmed. “Where's your ring?”
Victoria glanced toward the jury box, then whispered: “It's a little ostentatious in front of the jurors.”
“Nonsense. They'll understand. You've got a man who loves you enough to go whole hog.”
Victoria smiled wanly, dug into her Italian handbag, brought out a small velvet box, and opened it.
“Holy shit.” Steve peered at a hefty slab of a diamond, held up by four pedestals, like one of those houses built on stilts in Biscayne Bay. Running up each side were two rows of smaller yet still chubby diamonds.
Victoria slipped the ring on. It looked heavy enough to give her a case of carpal tunnel.
> “You're engaged?” Steve felt like someone had slugged him in the gut.
“Say, Steve, you like avocados?” Bigby said.
“I don't spend a lot time thinking about them.” He was still processing the information.
Victoria Lord was engaged!
“Because Monday, I could bring two salads,” Bigby said. “Baby lettuce, beefsteak tomatoes, and fresh avocados from Bigby Farms.”
Bigby Farms. Bingo. Thousands of acres between Homestead and the Everglades. Agriculture, real estate, land development…
Bigby said: “Nothing like six grams of fiber to flush you out.”
“Or a thousand grams of beef burrito,” Steve said, sinking deep into depression.
“Those nitrites will kill you, my friend. Thank God I got Victoria to become a vegan.”
Steve could have sworn he'd seen Victoria at the Sweet Potato Pie the other day, sucking on a short rib.
“Lips that touch pork chops shall never touch mine,” Bigby said.
Dammit, why hadn't she told me?
A beautiful woman without her engagement ring is like a handgun without a safety. She'd known he was interested. He'd offered her margaritas and tapas and his own personal mentoring. But she wasn't available. And still she let him go on. Had she told Bigby about the schmuck who kept hitting on her? Had they laughed at him over guacamole?
The more Steve thought about it, the hotter the fire burned. What was he doing giving her trial tips? Using kid gloves instead of brass knuckles? Didn't he have an obligation to zealously represent his client?
Damn right. You could look it up. The preamble to Rule Four of the ethical rules.
Zealous advocacy. It's required. Wimps need not apply.
To hell with winning nice. It was time to take Victoria Lord to school and steal her lunch money. He'd slash and burn, scorch the earth, leave bomb craters in the courtroom. When he was done with her, she'd never set foot in the Justice Building again.
Another thought crept into his mind, a searing realization of blinding truth. What he was planning was not so much zealous advocacy as jealous advocacy. Was Marvin right?
“Getting the Barksdale case is your alibi. It's the girl you're after.”
Not anymore. As for his plan to hustle the Barksdale case, forget it. He pictured Victoria down on the farm with Diamond Bruce Bigby, ridiculing Steve. “Solomon is so deluded, he thinks I'd send him Kat Barksdale as a client.”
“Say, Steve, mind if I say something out of school?”
Bigby talking. What the hell did he want?
“Shoot,” Steve said.
Bruce laid a protective hand on Victoria's shoulder. “My sweetie tells me you're one heck of a wily competitor.”
“She said that?”
Bruce laughed like a man who didn't owe anyone a dime. “Actually, she said you're a sleazy son-of-a-bitch who should be disbarred, flogged, and run out of town.”
“She's an excellent judge of character.”
“Isn't your hearing about to start, hon?” Victoria said.
Bigby plowed ahead, looking Steve squarely in the eyes. “I told Victoria you were her baptism of fire.” He stopped, caught himself. “That's not offensive to you, is it, Steve, the word ‘baptism'? I mean, I assume you're Jewish.”
“No problem. It's probably better than ‘Bar Mitzvah of fire.'”
“Anyway, I told her that crossing swords with you would be good training for coming in-house.”
“Not following you, Bruce.”
“After we're married, I want Victoria to come aboard. General counsel of Bigby Resort and Villas. We're converting farmland to vacation ownership units. More than eight thousand potential owners. Can you imagine the paperwork?”
“Time-shares?” Steve asked. “You're selling time-shares in the Everglades?”
Bigby held up a hand. “Please. Time-share is old school, used-car salesmen in cheesy sport coats giving away steak knives. Vacation ownership reflects modern sensibilities.”
“Like calling a garbage dump a sanitary landfill?”
“I can give you a heckuva deal on a unit right on the lake. Throw in upgraded cabinets, too.”
A beep interrupted them. Pulling out his pager, Bigby checked the digital display. “Whoops. Zoning Board's back. Gotta go.”
He brush-kissed Victoria, slapped Steve heartily on the back, and hustled out of the courtroom.
Victoria pretended to study her notes. “Don't say a word.”
“Real estate contracts? You, a paper pusher? And what's that bit with the salad?”
“I'm allergic to avocados.”
“And you've never told your fiance?”
“It would hurt his feelings.”
“Why aren't you that nice to me?”
“You don't have feelings.”
“So, you can be honest with a guy you call a sleazy son-of-a-bitch but you have to lie to the man you allegedly love?”
“This doesn't concern you.”
“May I ask a personal question?”
“No.”
“This Bigby. Does he have a foot-long shlong?”
“You are such a vulgarian.”
“Because I don't know what you see in him.”
“Go back to your table.”
“He's not right for you. He's got no poetry in his soul.”
“And you do?”
“Maybe not,” Steve said. “But at least I wish I did.”
“All rise! Court for the Eleventh Judicial Circuit in and for Miami-Dade County is now in session!” Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, announced His Honor's arrival as if the judge were Charles the Second ascending the throne. “All those having business before this honorable court, draw near!”
Judge Gridley strode in, robes flowing, and with a wave commanded all to sit. “Are counsel ready to proceed?”
“State's ready, Your Honor,” Victoria said.
“Defense is ready, willing, and able, Your Honor,” Steve said, sliding off the prosecution table.
“Mr. Solomon, call your first witness,” the judge ordered.
“The defense calls Mr. Ruffles,” Steve said.
“Objection!” Victoria leapt from her chair and knocked over a stack of books.
“On what grounds?” the judge asked.
“Mr. Ruffles is a bird,” she said.
2. In law and in life, sometimes you have to wing it.
Seven
TWO BEAGLES IN THE BARN
A white cockatoo named Mr. Ruffles sat on the limb of a plastic tree, swiveling its head left and right, one blue-rimmed eye locked on Victoria. The fluffy bird, its feathers the color of sugar, resembled some dazzling sweet confection, she thought, a coconut cake maybe. The bird had a curved beak the color of blue curacao and intelligent, liquid eyes. On its head, a flaring sulfur crest added a punctuation mark, like a sapphire brooch on a gown.
“Hello there, fellow,” Judge Gridley said. “What's your name?”
“Feed me, dickwad,” Mr. Ruffles said.
Scowling, the judge turned to Steve. “Counsel, control your bird.”
Steve signaled Marvin the Maven in the front row. “My associate may be able to help.”
Marvin toddled through the swinging gate, opened a small deli bag, and began feeding the bird a prune Danish, one nibble at a time.
Victoria quickly decided that her job was to keep Solomon from turning the courtroom into a zoo and herself into a laughingstock. The judge had sent the jurors back into their little room to bitch and moan in private while the lawyers argued whether a cockatoo could testify, or at least talk a bit.
“Birds represent love in mythology,” Steve began.
Victoria felt Pincher's eyes on her back, heard his pen scratching on his notepad. “What's love got to do with anything?” she demanded.
“A revealing question,” Steve shot back, “considering the unfortunate choice you've made in your personal life.”
“That's totally improper. Your Honor, defense cou
nsel should be admonished for the ad hominem attack.”
“Settle down, both of you.” Judge Gridley tossed aside Lou's Sure Picks, a betting tip sheet. “Mr. Solomon, just what the heck are you saying?”
“Every bird must be heard,” Steve said. “It's in the Constitution.”
“Where?” Victoria demanded.
“It was implied when the Founding Fathers chose the bald eagle as the symbol of the country.”
“That's ridiculous. In the history of the Republic, no bird has borne witness in a court of law.”
“Ms. Lord overlooks The Case of the Perjured Parrot.”
“Don't think I know that precedent,” the judge said.
“One of the early Perry Masons,” Steve said. “A parrot named Casanova witnessed a murder.”
“Your Honor, this is ludicrous,” Victoria said. “A bird can't swear to tell the truth.”
“Tell the truth!” Mr. Ruffles said, spitting crumbs of prune Danish.
“Shut up!” Victoria said. Startled, the bird hopped from its tree to Steve's shoulder.
“Your Honor, Ms. Lord is harassing my bird,” Steve said.
The judge's gavel cracked like a rifle shot. “C'mon up here, both of you.”
As she approached the bench, Victoria felt her pulse racing. But just look at Solomon. A bird on his shoulder, a shit-eating smirk on his face. The judge was going to ream them both, and the idiot didn't even seem to care.
“Y'all want to have your dinner tonight in the stockade?” the judge asked.
“Certainly not, Your Honor,” she said respectfully.
“Chipped beef on toast again?” Steve inquired.
“My outburst was provoked by Mr. Solomon, Your Honor. And his friend, Ruffles.”
“Mister Ruffles,” protested Mr. Ruffles, flapping his wings.
“Ms. Lord doesn't understand creative lawyering,” Steve said.
“Mr. Solomon doesn't understand ethics.”
Judge Gridley exhaled a long sigh. “When I checked my calendar this morning, it said, ‘State versus Pedrosa,' not ‘Solomon versus Lord.'” He leaned back in his leather chair. “You two remind me of a couple beagles I have on my farm outside Ocala. One male, one female, always yapping and nipping, raising general hell. Tried keeping those two apart, but they'd just yowl. See, they couldn't stand each other, but couldn't stand to be apart. They just loved the fight.”
