Bum Rap

by Paul Levine

  Nadia leaps up, dashes to the rear wall of the office behind Gorev’s desk. Pulls at the Lenin’s tomb painting, which is on a hinge and swings away from the wall. A combination safe is behind the painting. She expertly twirls the dial, this way and that, and within seconds, the door is open. She reaches in and digs around, flipping through a dozen foreign passports. Finds the one she wants, tosses it into her purse. Then pulls a gallon-size freezer bag from the safe and puts that into her purse, too.

  Steve’s ears are ringing from the gunshot, but now he hears shouting outside the office door. Gorev’s name is being called. More shouts in Russian. Banging on the door, but it’s bolted from the inside.

  “Nadia, we need to call the police,” Solomon says. “Right now.”

  “No police!”

  “It was self-defense. I can’t be your lawyer, but I’m a helluva good eyewitness.”

  Nadia rifles through Gorev’s desk drawers, finds something. A key. Then she slips Gorev’s Beretta into her purse.

  “No!” Solomon yells. “Don’t touch that. Gorev’s prints are on it. We need it.”

  She points her own gun—a Glock nine millimeter—at Solomon. “I am sorry. You should have had gun.”

  Still holding the Glock on him, Nadia takes the key and slides open the red drapes behind the desk, exposing a hidden door. She unlocks the door and tosses the Glock at Solomon. “You may need this,” she says as she exits into a rear alley.

  Steve catches the gun, goes to the drapes, and tries the door. Locked!

  More angry shouts in Russian from inside the club.

  Then the gunfire starts from the corridor. Bullets thudding into the outside of the thick wooden door they had entered. Instinctively, Solomon raises the Glock and fires two rounds into his side of the door. That stops the incoming gunfire long enough for him to grab his cell phone and dial 9-1-1.

  As the phone rings, he looks down at the Glock. He has no idea how many rounds are left in the magazine. But he knows two bullets are now in the door. One is in Gorev’s brain. And the gun is in his hand.

  “I am in deep shit,” Steve Solomon says aloud.

  -8-

  Where Is Nadia?

  I guess there’s no sense in my telling you how reckless you were,” I said.

  “None,” Solomon said.

  “Steve knows,” Victoria agreed.

  We were still in the claustrophobic confines of the jail’s lawyer visitation room. Chairs and a metal table were bolted to the floor. Victoria made notes in neat block printing on a legal pad. I preferred working without notes, studying Solomon, looking for any trace of prevarication. So far, nothing. He told the story with apparent sincerity. Hell, it was such a bad story, if he were lying, he’d have a better one.

  “Wandering clueless into the cave of the Russian bear,” I continued. “Gorev was probably Bratva. Russian Mafia.”

  “I guess,” Solomon said.

  “I mean, taking a big lead off third base is one thing, but this . . .”

  “I thought you weren’t going to bust my chops, Lassiter.”

  “You’re right. Let’s just sum it up. The cops find you in a locked room with a dead man. Your fingerprints are on the gun used to kill him, and gunpowder residue is on your right hand.”

  “Nadia was wearing those Holly Golightly gloves or her prints would have been on the gun,” Solomon said in his own defense.

  “But Nadia can’t back you up because she’s disappeared,” Victoria said. “And even though she has a strong self-defense claim, which you could corroborate, she’s unlikely to show up voluntarily.”

  “Because even though she’s likely innocent of murder,” I chipped in, “she’s probably guilty of robbery. Any idea what was in that freezer baggie she took?”

  “None.”

  “Cash?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Drugs maybe?”

  “Like I said, no clue.”

  “What was that bit about her wearing a wire? Is she a government informant? And if so, whose?”

  Steve shrugged and threw up his hands.

  I looked at Victoria’s legal pad. She had printed in neat block letters: WHERE IS NADIA?

  My question exactly. We needed her to win the case.

  I was enjoying working with Victoria. Enjoying her company, too. I made a mental note not to get too damn enamored of the lady lawyer.

  “I read the arrest report and asked George Barrios about the wire,” I said. “He claims not to know anything. Says for sure it wasn’t a city investigation.”

  “You already talked to the chief of Beach homicide?” Solomon asked.

  “On the way over here.”

  “You guys are pals?”

  “Actually he arrested me once. When I was cleared, he apologized.”

  “Tell him he’s gonna have to send me roses and chocolates.”

  “Let’s win first; then I’ll tell him.”

  “Barrios is an asshole.” Solomon sounded frustrated.

  “He’ll give you a fair shake,” I said. “He’s smart and honest, and lots of cops are neither.”

  “I suppose you’re friends with State Attorney Pincher, too.”

  “Over the years, I’ve found it helps to be on good terms with the chief prosecutor.”

  “Why—so you can plead your guy out and go fishing?”

  “If we had the time, I’d explain the finer points of lawyering to you, Solomon.”

  “I got nothing but time.”

  “Consider me a rocky island in the middle of a raging river. You’re a capsized soul floundering in the water, headed for Niagara Falls. Now, you can reach out and try to grab hold of me, or you can try to swim against the current. Entirely up to you.”

  “I want a warrior, not an island. I’d always heard you were a tough guy, Lassiter, but frankly, I don’t see it.”

  “You’d be surprised. They don’t call me a shark for my ability to swim.”

  “A shark without teeth is just a mermaid.”

  “Boys!” Victoria wrinkled her forehead and pointed a finger at Solomon, then at me. She could have been an elementary school teacher with two unruly students. “Just when you were working so well together.”

  She was right. We needed to get back on track. “What about Gorev’s brother dropping a woman down a pit six hundred meters deep?” I said. “What the hell was that about? And saying that Nadia and the jeweler know the place. What place? What jeweler? And Aeroflot 100? What’s the big deal about that flight?”

  “You got me,” Solomon said.

  On her legal pad, Victoria wrote, WHO IS THE JEWELER? WHAT ABOUT AEROFLOT 100?

  So many questions. It was still early in the case, but not too early to be worried. I felt as if I were boxing blindfolded and with one hand tied behind my back.

  “You know the weakness of the state’s case,” Solomon said.

  “Not yet.”

  “C’mon, Lassiter. Motive! Why would I kill the guy?”

  Solomon was both right and wrong. Technically, the state doesn’t have to prove motive in a murder case. It has to prove the who and the how . . . but not the why. But the jury wants to know motive. Just why would Steve Solomon plug a total stranger?

  “Because you’re in love with Nadia,” I said.

  “What!”

  “Barrios’s theory.”

  “That’s so insulting,” Victoria said. A lover’s response rather than a lawyer’s.

  “You were so smitten you agreed to help her rob Gorev,” I went on. “Barrios is looking for evidence you’ve been sneaking over to the Beach for a quickie now and then.”

  “He won’t be finding any, because it isn’t true.” Solomon’s eyes flashed with anger. To me, he sure looked as if he was telling the truth.

  “When that fails, he’ll go to the femme fatale option,” I said. “Nadia really did come to your office to hire you. Told you how Gorev is always shortchanging her, and how he keeps cash in an office safe. So, you two were just goi
ng over to get her passport and collect what was owed, and she would show her B-girl gratitude with some tricks she learned in the motherland.”

  “So sex is the underpinning of the case?” Victoria’s voice was part astonishment and part anger.

  “Jurors love sex,” I said. “Keeps them awake.”

  “This is ludicrous,” Solomon said.

  “Anyway, things go south. Gorev tells you to kiss your shyster ass, maybe threatens to turn Nadia over to INS or ICE. You shoot him. Nadia takes what she’s owed and everything else in the safe and leaves you holding the smoking gun.”

  “Felony murder under Section 782.04, subsection one-A, two-D,” said Victoria, Ms. Smarty Pants. “The unlawful killing of a human being while committing robbery. It’s treated as first-degree murder when the robbery victim is killed.”

  “No way they go for the death penalty where the victim is a Russian gangster,” I said. “But under the statute, there’s only one other possible sentence.”

  “Life without parole.” Victoria let out a long, slow breath.

  “This is bullshit!” Solomon said. “All I did was go to the club to help Nadia get her passport and back pay. I didn’t shoot anybody.”

  We were all silent a moment. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Victoria scribbling on her legal pad. This time, the letters were smaller. I don’t think the note was for the case, but rather for her to ponder. Feeling as if I were a Peeping Tom, I turned away but not before I saw the painful words: WAS STEVE SCREWING NADIA?

  -9-

  Stand Your Ground Solomon

  Victoria and I were on our way out of the godforsaken jail and headed for our cars. The earlier rain had stopped, but now storm clouds had gathered over the Everglades to the west and were headed our way. One of those bifurcated skies. To the east, over the ocean, pure blue with a few puffy white clouds. To the west, barreling toward us, a churning black sky with bursts of lightning, like the coming of aliens in a sci-fi movie.

  “Do you know the irony here?” I asked.

  “Not really,” Victoria said.

  “Your boyfriend would have a better story if he’d told the cops he shot Gorev.”

  “Hmm.”

  She wasn’t listening. I thought I knew why.

  “Listen, Victoria, if we were playing baseball, this would be the big leagues.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “If you’re batting and the state is pitching, get ready to hit the dirt. They’ll be throwing at your head.”

  “You’re talking about Detective Barrios.”

  “And he’s the nicest guy we’re gonna deal with. Barrios knew I’d tell you the state’s so-called theory. The theme of their case. Solomon’s lust of the Bar girl. But it’s crap. They may not even go with it at trial. He’s just trying to distract us and drive a wedge between you and Solomon.”

  “Okay,” she said, pursing her lips.

  “Say it like you mean it. I need you to be strong. So does Solomon.”

  “Okay!”

  “And get ready for more crap. Next, Barrios will have some snitch in the jail telling Solomon you and I were spotted necking over cocktails at LIV.”

  “Necking? You’re kind of a throwback, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t tweet or blog or order pizza with arugula on top. So, yeah, call me old school. All I’m saying, expect the state to play rough.”

  “By spreading rumors about you and me?”

  “For starters.”

  She smiled. “That’ll give Steve a good laugh.”

  I gave her a sour look. “Thanks a lot.”

  We reached the parking lot. The sky had grown even darker, and the wind had kicked up. Paper bags from a fast-food joint swirled across the pavement.

  “I mean, seriously, Jake. What are you, like fifty?”

  “Forty-eight, okay? I don’t put my teeth in a jar and I still drive at night.”

  “I’m thirty-three.”

  “So? I’ve dated younger women for years.”

  “You mean Dolphin cheerleaders?”

  “Ex-cheerleaders.”

  “And South Beach models. Your reputation is replete with inappropriate women.”

  “Other than women who’ve jumped bail, I didn’t know any were inappropriate.”

  “Really, I heard you were one of those serial seducers.”

  “Only in my misspent youth. I hung out with the wrong crowd.”

  “Football players?”

  “Cops and firemen.”

  “And now?”

  “Now, I help little old ladies cross the street . . . and sometimes tall young ones.”

  We reached Victoria’s car and the raindrops started to fall. It was that time of year. Sun. Clouds. Rain. Sun. Clouds. More rain.

  Victoria opened the driver’s door and ducked inside. I stood there, getting wet.

  “What did you mean before? Steve would have a better story if he told the cops he’d shot Gorev.”

  I thought I’d show off. “Section 776.032 of the Florida Statutes.”

  “Stand Your Ground law.”

  “Exactly. Florida’s protection for scaredy-cats with guns. Total immunity. The jury never gets to hear the case if the judge buys the defendant’s story.”

  “But the defendant must show he reasonably believes the shooting was necessary to prevent death or serious injury. And we would need the missing gun for that. Gorev’s gun.”

  “You would think so. But do you know State versus Mobley?”

  “The two-hundred-and-eighty-five-pound guy who killed two men because one had hit his friend.”

  “Two unarmed men. One had thrown a punch. That’s it.”

  “That case is on appeal.”

  “Nope. Florida Supreme Court denied cert this week. Third District opinion stands.”

  “You surprise me, Lassiter. You pretend to be a cowboy, banging your way through the saloon doors. But you still read appellate cases, like a young associate trying to make partner.”

  “I learned a long time ago it’s best to be underestimated.”

  “The Mobley case . . .” Victoria was thinking about it. It’s what lawyers do. Read precedent. Noodle a bit. Try to apply facts from other situations to your own, hoping the legal principles help your case.

  Mobley surprised a lot of people even more than the verdict in the George Zimmerman shooting of Trayvon Martin did. Here’s what happened. There’s an argument between a man named Chico and two abrasive young men inside a restaurant. Chico’s friend is the 285-pound guy, Mobley, who sees the argument and gets worried. He goes to his car and gets his .45 caliber Glock. When his pal Chico leaves the restaurant, one of the young men punches him, hard, in the eye. The second man approaches Mobley and seems to be reaching under his shirt. Bang! Actually five bangs. Mobley fires five shots, killing both unarmed men. That’s right. There was no weapon under the second guy’s shirt.

  The judge held an immunity hearing and found the big guy’s fear was unreasonable and ordered a trial. A jury would still have the chance to disagree with the judge and find the shooting justified under Stand Your Ground. But here’s where it gets interesting. The appellate court in Miami reversed the trial judge. Mobley’s fear was reasonable. Shooting the two unarmed men was justified.

  Immunity granted. Charges dismissed. The jury never got to hear the state’s case.

  “So you’re saying that we don’t need Gorev’s gun if he was threatening Steve in some other way,” Victoria said. “Throwing a punch or even a stapler.”

  “Hey, it’s Florida. Toss a beach ball at me, I’ll empty my .45 into you and be home in time for Jimmy Kimmel.”

  “But it’s all hypothetical, anyway.” Victoria frowned. “Steve didn’t fire the shot. If anyone has immunity under Stand Your Ground, it’s Nadia.”

  “Which means . . .”

  “If we can find Nadia and convince her to come back and every piece falls into place . . .”

  “If she only took from the safe what belonged to he
r,” I said. “And if she’ll testify that Gorev had a gun, which Solomon will corroborate.”

  “And if she admits the shooting, out of fear for her life, she gets immunity and everyone goes home.”

  It was a lot to hope for, like the Miami Dolphins winning the Super Bowl, instead of finishing eight-eight every year. But trial lawyers, like athletes, relish a tough fight.

  We exchanged see-you-laters. Victoria backed out of her parking spot, and I stood there a moment, watching her through the windshield, the wipers clacking back and forth. We were working well together, thinking along the same lines. I headed for my car, feeling invigorated. It was a challenging case, but we had a client who swore he was innocent, and he might just be.

  I got into my Eldo, turned the ignition, and felt the old V-8 rumble to life. I sat there, my mind reviewing the past hour or so. Introspection has never been my strong suit, but I had a sudden realization. That invigoration? That pleasant little buzz? Sure, some of it had to do with the case. But what I really liked was being with Victoria. A second thought then, an itchy little one in the back of my brain, as scary as the pop when a ligament tears.

  Why isn’t Victoria Lord my partner . . . in law and in life?

  -10-

  True Confession

  Steve Solomon wanted to bang his head against the steel toilet. Jail cell model. No lid and no seat.

  He was mad as hell. At himself.

  Victoria seemed to believe his every word. Lassiter, too. Of course, he had shaved the facts like a whittler with a sharp knife and a piece of pine.

  He had considered telling them the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But he’d boxed himself in by talking to the police at the crime scene.

  And damn it, I know better!

  When there’s a dead body in the room, you never, ever answer cops’ questions without your lawyer present. Which is to say, your lawyer answers the questions by saying, “We have nothing to say at this time.”

  Find out what the cops know before you tell them your version. And always call your lawyer!

  But he had never asked for Victoria. Even after being read his Miranda warnings—which he knew by heart anyway—he’d just blurted it all out.