by Paul Levine
"I'm with you on the insurance companies," Junior agreed. "You wouldn't believe the hoops they made us jump through on Oceania."
"I can imagine," Victoria said. "What'd you need, a hundred-million-dollar binder?"
"Three hundred million," Junior said.
Steve let out a low whistle.
Across the table, Lexy and Rexy seemed bored with the adult conversation. They were pinching each other's upper arms, testing for fat content. They would have found more by squeezing chopsticks.
"Which carrier did you end up with?" Steve asked.
Junior stroked his chin, Steve wondering if food particles ever got stuck in the little clefted canyon. "A foreign consortium," Junior said after a moment.
"Lloyd's of London?"
Another pause, another chin stroke. "No, a Bermuda trust, actually."
"We sued a Bermuda group," Victoria said. "What was its name?"
"Pitts Bay Risk Management," Steve answered, eyes on Junior. "They had the reinsurance on a Sarasota condo project that failed to meet the building code."
Steve paused. Expecting Junior to say, "Yeah, that's the one." Or, "No, we're using Hamilton Liability, Limited." Or whatever.
"Now that I think about it, we turned down the Bermuda company," Junior said. "Placed the insurance with a Pacific Rim group."
"Probably Trans-Global out of Singapore," Steve said. Was it his imagination, or did the world's third-deepest free diver have a case of the darting eyes?
"Sounds like it," Junior said. "Yeah. I think that's the one."
Junior signaled the waiter for a refill on his after-dinner brandy—a forty-year-old Montifaud at forty-five bucks a glass—saying something about its masculine, woody taste. Then his cell phone beeped, and he looked relieved, excusing himself from the table to take the call.
A moment later, the waiter delivered the check in an embossed leather folder as thick as a book. He placed the handsome package in front of Steve, who tried to slide it over to Junior's empty place, but Victoria blocked it like a hockey goalie, and skidded it back to Steve with a wicked look. Steve peeked inside at the four-digit number, made a croaking sound as if a chicken bone were caught in his throat, then slapped the folder closed.
"I don't care about your dreamboat stiffing me with the check," Steve groused.
"Sure you do," Victoria fired back. "You'll have to take out a second mortgage."
They stood outside the restaurant on this warm, breezy night. Waiting for the valet service, Junior's silver Hummer having been delivered first. He'd already cheek-kissed Victoria and smacked Steve goodnaturedly on the shoulder, then drove off, turning north on Ponce de Leon Boulevard with two chattering blondes aboard.
It was Steve's idea that Junior give Lexy and Rexy a ride back to their South Beach condo. After all, Junior was staying at the Astor just a flew blocks away. It was all very logical, especially to Victoria. Steve was trying to set him up. The bimbos a deux would report everything to Steve, who was doubtless hoping the pair would make a midnight sandwich out of Junior in their tenth-floor playpen-by-the-sea.
That goofy plan didn't irritate her half as much as Steve's crashing the dinner party. Junior had seemed on the verge of expressing something for her when Steve rode in with the long-legged cavalry.
"What gets me," he grumbled now, "is how evasive Junior was about the insurance company."
"C'mon, Steve. Junior's not a detail person."
"A three-hundred-million-dollar insurance policy isn't a detail. You can't close a construction loan without an insurance binder in place."
"What's the big deal? You heard him. They placed the insurance with Trans-something-or-other."
"Trans-Global."
"Right. Trans-Global from Singapore."
"There's no such company. I made up the name, and he took the bait."
She was stunned. "Why the cheap trick?"
"To see if he was lying. Which he was."
"He was just agreeing with you to change the subject. Who wants to talk about insurance binders at dinner?"
"Lawyers trying to defend a murder trial."
"That's not it." Victoria pointed a finger at him. "You've made it personal. What do you have against Junior?"
"Other than the fact that he'd like to free dive into your—"
"Don't be crude, Steve. Just tell me. What are you doing? What's the insurance company have to do with who murdered Ben Stubbs?"
"It's a piece of the puzzle that doesn't fit. Oceania's the reason Stubbs was killed. If Junior's lying about Oceania's insurance, what else is he lying about?"
Eighteen
I GREASE THE SKIDS, KID
"Please state your name for the record," Steve said.
"Peter Luber." The pudgeball in pinstripes turned toward Sofia Hernandez, the raven-haired court stenographer whose tricolored nails were click-clacking the keys of her machine. "But you can call me Pinky, hon."
Sofia rolled her eyes, but like every good court reporter kept blessedly silent. She was used to men flirting with her, including one Stephen M. Solomon, Esq., with whom—BV, before Victoria—Sofia used to dally.
"Where do you live, Mr. Luber?" Steve asked.
"Penthouse One-A, Belvedere Condos, Bal Harbour."
"And your office address?"
"Front seat of my Lincoln, boychik."
"You have no office?"
"Least my Town Car don't smell like a garbage dump."
Pinky sniffed and made a face. They were in the Solomon & Lord suite, if that's what you could call their second-floor hovel, the air ripe with rotting papaya from the Dumpster below the window. Steve was taking Luber's deposition in the lawsuit to get back Herbert's Bar license.
"Try to keep your answers responsive to the questions," Steve instructed.
Pinky Luber chomped his cold cigar and glared at Steve. Unhappy at being served with a subpoena, unhappy swearing to tell the truth, unhappy giving any deposition, much less one that poked around in his past. "Then let's move this charade along. I gotta get to the track in time for the daily double."
"What's your occupation, Mr. Luber?"
"Consultant."
Luber had tried enough cases himself to know that a smart witness answers as concisely as possible. A sentence is better than a paragraph, one word far better than two.
"Could you be a little more descriptive?" Steve asked.
"No."
Steve got the message. This wouldn't be like pulling teeth. Pulling teeth would be too easy. This would be like passing gallstones.
"Tell me the names of your clients."
Luber shook his head. "Confidential."
Steve was trying to send a message of his own. If he could, he would mess up Luber's business. Lacking a Bar license, Pinky could no longer ply his trade inside the courtroom. But he found life even more lucrative in the chambers of municipal commissions and the myriad agencies of city, county, and state government. If you needed retail space at the seaport—for a rental car company or a gift shop or a pretzel stand—and wanted to avoid pesky complications like competitive bidding, you hired Pinky Luber, influence peddler extraordinaire.
"Fact of the matter, Mr. Luber, you're a fixer, right?"
"Already told you. Consultant."
"You know a lot of people in government?"
"I been around a long time."
"You're pals with county commissioners? Agency heads? Judges?"
"Yeah. Some of 'em even send me Chanukah cards."
"You're too modest, Mr. Luber. Let's say I wanted to put up billboards along I-95. Would I come to you for help?"
"If you're smart. Which you ain't."
"And just what would you do to get me my billboards?"
"I'd introduce you to some people downtown and hope everyone falls in love."
"So, you're a matchmaker?"
"I grease the skids, kid."
"You ever grease the skids in Circuit Court?"
"That's old news. I did my time. What's
that gotta do with the price of borscht?"
Just then the door opened and Herbert Solomon barged in, his flip-flops smacking the floor with each step.
"Cessante causa cessat et effectus!" Herbert sounded like a Roman senator but looked like a beach bum in paint-splattered denim cutoffs and an aloha shirt festooned with bougainvillea flowers. "Cease and desist, son."
"Are you drunk, Dad?" Steve asked.
"Ah'm removing you as counsel." Herbert turned to Luber and nodded. "Pinky, you're looking good."
"You look like Hawaii Five-O," Luber said.
"You hear me, son?" Herbert said. "Ah'm firing you and dismissing the case."
"You can't fire me," Steve retorted. "You don't have standing."
"In mah own damn case, ah sure as hell do."
"I filed under the private attorney general statute. You're not the real-party-in-interest. The people of Florida are."
"You slippery bastard," his father said. "You think you can get away with that?"
"You did when you sued those phony muffler repair shops."
"Ah should have known you wouldn't have an original thought." Herbert turned back to Luber. "So how the hell are you, Pinky?"
"Jesus, Dad. This is the guy who butt-fucked you."
"Is 'butt-fucked' hyphenated?" Sofia Hernandez asked, typing away.
"Go off the record, sweetie," Herbert ordered, and Sofia's hands flew up like a pianist finishing a concerto.
"I say when we go off the record," Steve protested.
"So, on or off?" Sofia asked.
"Off," Steve instructed, "but only because I said so."
She shrugged and opened her purse, looking for a nail file.
"On the nitro, that's how I am, Herb." Luber patted his chest. "Plus Nexium for the acid reflux. And a whole drawerful of pills for arthritis. And you?"
"Feeling good, Pinky. No complaints."
"Like I was saying to your boy, you're better off out of the rat race. But the big k'nocker don't listen too good."
Using bastardized Yiddish to brand him a "big shot," Steve knew. "Better a k'nocker than an alter kocker," he fired back. Calling Luber an "old fart."
"Steve's always been a hard case," Herbert allowed.
"Dad. What are you doing?"
"Pinky and ah go back a long way."
Steve couldn't believe it. Here was the guy who'd torpedoed his father's career, and the two of them were acting like old war buddies. Next, they'd be exchanging pictures of their grandchildren.
"I won seventeen capital cases in a row in front of your old man," Luber said.
"Yeah, yeah, I know," Steve said. "Just like the Dolphins."
"But like Don Shula used to say, you remember the losses more. I'll never forget the last jury before the streak started. They must have come straight from an ACLU meeting." Pinky hacked up a laugh, his body jiggling like a beach ball. "All shvartzers from Liberty City and Yids from Aventura."
"Happens that way sometimes," Herbert said. "Luck of the draw."
"Those folks wouldn't have convicted Ted Bundy of littering." Luber turned to Steve. "See, kid. Jurors will do what they damn well please. I remember one trial, they were all dressed in jeans and sneakers. Gene Miller writes in the Herald that times had changed. Used to be, jurors would wear coats and ties, dresses or nice skirts. Now, your old man had instructed the jury not to read the papers, but the day after the story appeared . . ."
"All the men wore suits, all the women dresses." Herbert filled in the rest. "Looked like they were going to church."
"So what's the lesson, kid?" Luber said.
"Don't patronize me," Steve said.
"You can't trust juries. Take it from me."
"You don't believe in the system, that it, Luber?"
"Would you want to be judged by people too stupid to get out of jury duty?"
"You believe that, too, Dad?" Steve challenged.
"I don't think about those things anymore."
"Jesus, we had some cases," Luber said.
"We?" Steve shook his head. "You guys weren't partners."
"The law's stacked against the state, so a good prosecutor always gets the judge on his side. Right, Herb?"
Herbert silently walked to the window and stared across the alley.
"You remember the Butcher of Lovers' Lane?" Luber prodded.
When Herbert didn't respond, Luber kept chattering: "I was at the top of my game. Jury voted in thirty-nine minutes to fry his ass. That still the record, Herb?"
"Ah wouldn't know." Herbert still looked out the window.
Steve was trying to figure out the change that had come over his father. At first, Herbert had seemed genuinely pleased to see this rosy-faced son-of-a-bitch. That was strange enough. But now, with Luber telling war stories, his old man's mood had dipped.
What message is Pinky sending that I'm not getting?
Herbert turned around and faced the two of them. "Son, if you've got some questions for Pinky, why not ask them and get this over with?"
"Fine," Steve said. "Sofia, back on the record."
She stretched her arms over her head, then behind her back, which caused her breasts to strain against the fabric of her silk blouse. All three men—one young k'nocker, two alter kockers—took a gander at Sofia's knockers. Smiling to herself, she curled her fingers over the stenograph keys and waited.
"Did there come a time you testified to the Grand Jury in a corruption probe, Mr. Luber?" Steve asked, reverting to the formal cadence of a trial lawyer.
"Yes."
"Did you testify that Herbert Solomon took bribes to rezone agricultural property to commercial use?"
"Lemme save you some time, kid," Luber said. "If you're asking me to recant what I said about Herb, I ain't gonna do it."
"So your lies stand, is that it?"
"Go pound your pud, bud."
"Son, just get back to your murder case and drop this, okay?" Herbert pleaded.
"I offered to help the kid out," Luber said. "And this is the way he treats me."
"Don't want your help," Steve said.
"I'll give you some, anyway. You oughta be following the green path."
Steve must have looked puzzled.
"The money trail, kid. Hal Griffin's got a hundred thousand cash on his boat, then the cops find forty grand in Stubbs' hotel room after he croaked. But with Oceania, you're talking hundreds of millions of dollars. So if a hundred forty thousand's floating around, there's gotta be more. Find out who's greasing those skids, kid. Follow the money, sonny."
Nineteen
LORD'S LAW
"Not guilty!" Hal Griffin proclaimed in a strong, clear voice. Exactly the way Victoria had instructed him. They were standing in front of Judge Clyde Feathers in a fourth-floor courtroom of the Monroe County Courthouse, three blocks from the harbor in Key West. With Steve in Miami prepping his father's case, Victoria was flying solo, handling Griffin's arraignment by herself. Happy to be in charge.
She had rejected Steve's advice that Griffin sing out: "Not guilty, not guilty. Thank God Almighty, I am not guilty!" All to the rhythm of Martin Luther King's "free at last." Too melodramatic for Victoria's taste.
Lately, Steve had been fussing around with creative pleas, intended to influence the press and prospective jurors. Once he tried "Innocent as the pure, driven snow," an unfortunate choice in a cocaine trial.
But is Uncle Grif really innocent?
For the past two days, at Steve's suggestion, Victoria had been following "the green path," and she didn't like where it seemed to lead. She'd been hauling down mildewy books in the county's Real Property records room, breaking two fingernails and poring over real estate sales. Now she was sure Uncle Grif had misled her, and she planned to confront him as soon as they got back to the hotel.
"Damn it, Uncle Grif. I told you to be honest with me. I can't help you if you lie."
She had been careful all morning not to let Griffin know she was upset. He needed to appear confident a
nd at ease in his first court appearance. Glancing at him now, she thought Griffin seemed dignified and prosperous in a dark, double-breasted suit. But the suit made him even thicker through the chest—more physically imposing—and Victoria made a mental note to have him dress in something slimming when a jury was impaneled.
She wore a double-breasted suit, too. A mauve, Dolce & Gabbana with the extra-wide lapels, a boned bodice, and a fitted skirt. A hip-hugging summer wool fabric made stretchy with a touch of spandex, and no, she didn't need any slimming tricks, thank you very much. Her suede-lined Bottega Veneta woven-leather black purse—large as a satchel—was perfect for carrying a legal file as well as her makeup. What had Sarah Jessica Parker said on Sex and the City?
"Purses are to women what balls are to men. You'd feel naked leaving home without them."
Got that right, girl.
Judge Feathers spent a few minutes with housekeeping details. Victoria waived the formal reading of the indictment. Calendars came out, and the judge set discovery deadlines and a trial date. Then he announced bail would be one million dollars. No problem there. The amount had been agreed upon in advance, and the surety was already posted. Griffin would walk out of the courthouse without ever feeling the shame and discomfort of the orange jumpsuit with the Monroe County jail logo . . . unless he was convicted at trial.
A hot blast of muggy air hit her as they left the courtroom, which opened directly onto an outdoor walkway that led to the elevators. Cameras clicked and questions were shouted as Victoria escorted Griffin through the snarling, slobbering, shoving pack of backpedaling jackals and hyenas, aka journalists.
"Any chance of a plea?" one reporter yelled.
"What's your defense?" shouted another.
"Why'd you do it, Griffin?" a particularly rude reporter called out.
"My attorney will answer all questions," Griffin said, serenely.
Victoria put on her lawyer's look for the evening news—confident but not cocky. "We fully believe the jury will conclude this was all a tragic accident."
