Kill All the Lawyers

by Paul Levine

  "Jeez, Uncle Steve. Don't you trust me?"

  "About as far as I can throw Shaquille O'Neal. Now, what's going on?"

  "You've got to go in front of some judge, right?"

  "Yeah. The Honorable Alvin Elias Schwartz. So what?"

  "Grandpop says a defendant should always look as sympathetic as possible. That's why serial killers bring their mothers to court."

  "Yeah?"

  "I can make you look more sympathetic. I'm Exhibit A in your trial stratagem."

  "What kind of word is that for a twelve-year-old? 'Stratagem'?"

  "Don't you always say, 'If the law doesn't work, work the law?' "

  "Not like this. I won't use you as a prop."

  "C'mon, Uncle Steve. If the law doesn't work, work your nephew."

  * * *

  Victoria paced in the corridor outside Judge Schwartz's courtroom. Morning calendar, the place overflowing with defendants, their wives, girlfriends, and mothers. Bored cops and sleazy bail bondsmen, overworked probation officers and perjurious witnesses—all the jetsam and flotsam of the criminal justice system. It was a familiar place to Victoria, but still she felt ill at ease. This was the venue of her greatest professional embarrassment. Ray Pincher, the State Attorney, had fired her in Judge Gridley's courtroom, not twenty yards away. She could remember her face reddening, the tears welling, and opposing counsel—Steve-the-Shyster Solomon—hitting on her. An inauspicious beginning to their tumultuous relationship. Now, hustling down the corridor were two judges— Stanford Blake and Amy Steele Donner—robes flying, chatting away. She nodded to them in the way lawyers do, being polite, but not too familiar. His Honor and Her Honor smiled back. What were they saying? She could only imagine.

  "There's Victoria Lord. She got suckered into a mistrial by Steve Solomon, ended up sleeping with him."

  Riding the escalator moments before, Victoria had encountered the head of the state's Major Crimes Division. They exchanged hellos. The man asked what brought her across the bay. Expecting a murder trial, maybe. White-collar crime. Something to ring the cash register at Solomon & Lord, Attorneys-at-Law.

  Not . . . "Defending my partner in his second assault and battery case in a month."

  No wonder she was embarrassed. The humiliation didn't stop with Ray Pincher sacking her. Her partner and lover could be counted on for continuing acts of mortification.

  Down the corridor, the elevator door opened and out walked Steve.

  With Bobby!

  She watched as Steve cruised toward her, slapping pals on the back, howdying prosecutors and defense lawyers alike. Smiling and laughing, a glide to his stride. He could be strolling along a sun-dappled country path on his way to pick strawberries, instead of heading to his own arraignment. He paused a moment to buttonhole Ed Shohat and Bob Josefsberg, two of the top defense lawyers in town. Just Steve's way of letting them know he wasn't in jail, and if they had any cases or clients beneath their dignity, he could use the work.

  "Yo, Vic," he called out.

  "Yo, yourself. Bobby, why aren't you in school?"

  "This is my class project," he replied.

  "Bobby's my stratagem," Steve said.

  She gave him her don't bullshit me look.

  "It's true. Bobby's going to stand by my side."

  "Just let me do the talking," she said. "All you have to say is—"

  "Not guilty. I know, I know."

  "Not guilty, Your Honor."

  "Okay. You're the boss." He turned to Bobby.

  "Look, kiddo, you'll sit next to me and get up when I stand to enter my plea."

  "That's your stratagem?" Victoria asked.

  "And our theme for the case. I was protecting Bobby that night when I inadvertently struck Myron Goldberg. I stand with Bobby, and he stands with me. We're sending a message."

  "With Judge Schwartz's eyesight, I doubt he'll see either one of you."

  "He can see okay. It's his hearing that's off." Steve turned to Bobby. "And if His Honor cuts loose a fifty-decibel fart, try not to laugh."

  Bobby giggled. "He does that?"

  "The old goat passes wind and blames it on the court reporter. So be cool." Steve turned back to Victoria. "Let's go do it. And trust me. 'Not guilty, Your Honor.' Not a word more."

  * * *

  Judge Schwartz, irascible, aged, and flatulent, was running through his morning calendar of motions, bail hearings, status reports, arraignments, and other procedural gimcracks of the criminal justice system.

  Steve, Victoria, and Bobby took seats in the front row of the gallery. Steve spotted Ray Pincher sitting across the aisle. Next to the State Attorney sat Myron Goldberg. The periodontist was sporting a fat lip the color of an eggplant and wearing a soft neck collar for no reason Steve could figure except possible civil litigation.

  "Oh, my aching neck."

  Goldberg wasn't needed at the arraignment. No testimony would be taken. Why the hell was he even here?

  The clerk, a young woman with dreadlocks and no apparent facial expression, called out: "State of Florida versus Stephen Solomon."

  The judge peered over the tops of his trifocals as everyone made their way past the bar. "You again?"

  "Guilty, Your Honor," Steve called out. "Of being Steve Solomon. Not guilty of the charge."

  "Didn't ask for your plea."

  "I know, Judge, but I promised my lawyer that's all I'd say." Steve and Bobby took their seats, leaving Victoria standing to do the real work.

  "What now?" the judge demanded.

  "New case, Your Honor," Pincher said. He wore a burgundy three-piece suit. Pincher's trademark miniature handcuffs clinked as he gestured, bowing slightly as if he were a mâitre d' welcoming diners to his overpriced restaurant. "Mr. Solomon has again committed assault and battery."

  "Allegedly," Victoria broke in. "Victoria Lord for the defense, Your Honor."

  "Say, aren't you that lady lawyer who got shat on by a bird down in Gridley's courtroom?"

  Victoria reddened. "A talking toucan, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon fed it prune Danish."

  "Used to eat poppyseed myself, but the damn seeds stick to my dentures."

  "Your Honor, Mr. Solomon will enter a plea of not guilty."

  "Already did," the judge said.

  "In that case," Victoria continued, "the defense waives reading the information and requests trial by jury."

  "Fine and dandy. The clerk will set a trial date not to conflict with the Florida Derby. You like the ponies, missy?"

  "Not particularly, Your Honor. We also move to withdraw Mr. Solomon's nolo plea in the earlier case."

  "On what grounds?"

  "My client was not represented by counsel when he entered the plea."

  "Motion denied. Your client's a lawyer. Who'd he hit this time, Pincher?"

  "Dr. Myron Goldberg, a neighbor," the State Attorney said. On cue, Goldberg rose stiffly, a pained look on his face. "Dr. Goldberg caught Mr. Solomon's nephew peeping in his daughter's window. In the ensuing confrontation, Mr. Solomon assaulted Dr. Goldberg."

  "Not true, Judge." Steve leapt to his feet, and so did Bobby. "I was defending my nephew and my sister."

  "Sit down!" Victoria hissed.

  "I wasn't peeping!" Bobby insisted.

  "First a peeper," the judge said sternly. "Then a flasher. Next thing you know, you're pulling down girls' panties and having your way with them. You know what they did to rapists in ancient Rome?"

  "Crushed their balls between two rocks," Bobby said.

  "The little perv knows his history, I'll grant him that."

  "I'm not a perv!"

  "Pipe down, son. You'll have a chance to prove that."

  "The boy's not on trial," Pincher reminded the judge.

  "Maybe he should be," Judge Schwartz shot back. "He's really starting to torque my tail."

  At that, an unmistakable pop-pop-pop came from the bench, a Gatling gun of rapid-fire flatulence.

  Bobby giggled and said, "Who blew the butt trumpet?"r />
  "That's enough, you little rascal."

  "Because it sounded like a bench burner," Bobby continued.

  Steve put a hand on Bobby's shoulder, trying to quiet him.

  "Are you trifling with me, boy? Do you know who I am?"

  "Alvin Elias Schwartz," Bobby replied, scrunching his face in concentration.

  "No, Bobby!" Steve ordered. "No anagrams."

  "Alvin Elias Schwartz," Bobby repeated. "WAS A SNIVEL ZILCH RAT."

  The judge hacked up some phlegm. "I ought to send both of you straight to clink."

  "Your Honor," Victoria spoke up. "Mr. Solomon has yet to be tried, and there are no charges against his nephew."

  The judge whirled around in his high-backed swivel chair. One revolution. Two revolutions. Three revolutions. The judge disappearing from sight, then reappearing, white fringes of hair above his ears blowing in the breeze. When the chair slowed to a stop, he said: "I question Solomon's mental competence. Where's that shrink's report from the other case?"

  Pincher answered, "Not filed yet, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon missed his last appointment."

  "If that happens again, he's going straight to jail. Do not pass Go. Do not collect two hundred shekels."

  "Judge, don't send me back to that quack," Steve pleaded.

  "Get thee to a shrinkery!" Judge Schwartz ordered. "What's the name of that head doctor?"

  "William Kreeger," Pincher said.

  "That's the one. Go see him. Both Solomon and the kid. I want to know if Solomon's a menace and the little rapscallion's a sicko."

  "Your Honor doesn't have jurisdiction over the minor child," Victoria said.

  "He's in my courtroom, missy. My fiefdom. It's in the Magna Carta. You can look it up."

  "But Your Honor," Victoria pleaded. "Due process precludes—"

  The judge rapped his gavel. Bang! "That's it, Ms. Lord. Both of your clients go see the shrink." Another bang! "Ten-minute recess. My bladder ain't what it used to be."

  SOLOMON'S LAWS

  10. You won't find it in Darwin, Deuteronomy, or Doonesbury, but it's an essential truth of human nature: We'll all kill to protect those we love.

  Twenty-Nine

  THE CON ARTIST BLUES

  Carl Drake's suite at the Four Seasons was pretty much what Steve expected. Beige sofas with thick pillows in the living room, gray marble in the bath, a curved desk of blond wood in the tidy office. The windows looked across Biscayne Bay, glistening turquoise in the midday sun. Key Biscayne was a green atoll in the distance, a dozen sailboats visible on the far side of the causeway. Just what you would demand for twelve hundred bucks a night.

  But who was paying for it? Before he even settled into the sofa, Steve was struck with the notion that The Queen would never get a shilling out of Carl Drake. No matter how much money Drake stole, he seemed to be the kind of guy who enjoyed spending every last cent.

  Steve had filed the usual dilatory motions to slow down the mortgage foreclosure, but that could buy The Queen only so much time. Today, he intended to shake some money out of Drake. It was the first of two unpleasant tasks on his calendar, the second being a court-ordered appointment with William Kreeger, M.D.

  "What'll it be, Steve?" Drake asked pleasantly, standing at the gleaming marble-topped bar. "Champagne? Cristal."

  "No thanks, Carl."

  "Wait. I'm good at this. I know from dinner that you drink tequila after dark. Now, as for the daytime . . ." Drake fingered a bottle of single-malt Scotch, then eyed a bottle of Maker's Mark. "I'm betting you're a bourbon man."

  "Hemlock, if you have it. Drano on the rocks if you don't."

  "Been a rough week, has it?" Laying on a bit of a British accent. Stopping just short of saying "old chap."

  "Carl, this is uncomfortable for me," Steve said.

  Drake poured himself a Scotch over ice, walked to a facing sofa and perched on the arm. He wore linen slacks the color of melted butter and a shimmering blue shirt, the fabric so soft, it invited petting. "Did Irene ask you to come?"

  "She ordered me not to."

  "Do you frequently disregard your clients' instructions?"

  "All the time. I figure if they were so smart, they wouldn't need my counsel."

  Drake gave him a pleasant smile. It seemed to be a well-practiced gesture from a well-mannered, well-accented smoothie.

  Steve took a breath and surveyed the room. A portrait of Sir Francis Drake sat on an easel. A map of the seven seas, circa 1550, was pinned to a display board. A polyurethane block embedded with gold coins— Spanish doubloons, Steve supposed—sat on the desk, a seductive tease for any possible heirs of the sixteenth-century privateer. A calfskin briefcase bulged with papers.

  Steve turned back to Drake and said: "What do you have in the pockets of those fancy pants you're wearing?"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Wallet? Keys? Take them out."

  "Are you robbing me?"

  "When I hang you off your balcony by your ankles, I don't want you to lose anything."

  Drake laughed, the Scotch jiggling in his glass, a golden whirlpool. "I guess that's called a 'shakedown,' isn't it? But from what I hear, you can't afford any more dates in Criminal Court."

  "You're gonna give Irene back her money."

  "Oh, would that I could. The money's already gone to pay expenses in the administration of the estate."

  "Like room service at the Four Seasons?"

  "As a matter of fact, my travel expenses are included. But the payoff to Irene will far exceed—"

  "At dinner, you said there were no fees."

  "I'm afraid I wasn't totally forthcoming. But I was loath to discuss business on Irene's birthday, and my little deception seemed a good way to short-circuit the conversation."

  "You're good, Drake. You're what my father would call 'slick as owl shit.' "

  Drake hoisted his glass. "A toast to your father, then."

  "Did you know the bank foreclosed on Irene's condo?"

  Drake's suntanned face froze momentarily. "The hell you say."

  "She's too embarrassed to tell you. Just like you're too embarrassed to tell her you're a con man. There's no estate of Sir Francis Drake. You're just pulling a scam. I'm guessing that ritzy briefcase of yours holds a first-class ticket to wherever scumbags go when the Grand Jury starts issuing subpoenas."

  Drake stood, walked to the bar, and poured himself another Scotch. "Foreclosure? I don't understand it. Irene led me to believe she had millions."

  "It's a role she plays."

  Drake gave a little rueful laugh. "Seems I'm the one who's been conned."

  "One difference, Drake. Irene didn't steal your money."

  "I never intended to hurt her. She's very special to me."

  "I'll bet you say that to all the widows."

  "This is different." He took a long pull on his drink. His crisp British accent seemed to have been replaced by flatter tones—Chicago, maybe—and his shoulders slumped. Losing some of his polish, Drake seemed uncomfortable and out of place, like Vice President Cheney in a Speedo.

  Drake nodded toward the briefcase. "The plane ticket's there, all right, Solomon. Rio de Janeiro. I'm usually gone by now. I stayed only because of Irene. The damn truth is, I'm in love with her."

  "Great. Invite me to the wedding. After you pay her back."

  "I wish I could. Truly. But the money's gone."

  Steve considered himself a human polygraph machine. Looking at Carl Drake at that moment, the man's mask slipping away, his brow furrowing, his voice choked with regret, the machine said the con artist was telling the truth. For some reason, that only made Steve angrier. "Dammit, Drake. You say you love her, but you stole the roof from over her head."

  "Are you going to hang me off the balcony, then?"

  "I would, but I sprained my wrist hitting a guy. I'd probably drop you."

  "Then what shall we do?"

  "Let's have that drink," Steve said. "Bourbon will be just fine."

  * * *r />
  Cabanas—tents of flowing white cotton—blossomed like sails in the breeze. At poolside, Steve and Drake sat in the shade of a sabal palm and sipped their drinks, a soft breeze scented with suntan oil wafting over them.

  "You could still go to Rio," Steve said. "There's nothing I could do to stop you."

  "Too depressing," Drake said. "That's where Charles Ponzi went."

  "The Ponzi pyramid scheme?"

  "That's him. Fled to Italy, then Rio. Became a smuggler."

  "Must be your hero. Like me following Rickey Henderson. A's to Yankees to Padres to Mets. Stealing bases wherever he went."

  "Charles Ponzi died in the charity ward of a Brazilian hospital." There was a touch of sadness in Drake's voice. "I don't want to end like that."

  Steve took a second to admire two sun-worshipping young women in bikinis. "Rickey Henderson ended up back in the minors."

  "The shame is, I'm quite good at my work," Drake told him. "When I find a mark, I always look for the weakness that lets me pry loose the money."

  "Greed, I would think."

  "Sure, with the traditional cons. But I was always drawn to people who yearned to be something larger than themselves. You tell people they're descended from Sir Francis Drake, all their defenses evaporate. They dream that their current lives were destined to be greater or more meaningful. Then I turn a seemingly harmless conceit into a way to relieve them of their money."

  "You don't sound particularly sorry about being a thief."

  Drake shrugged. "We are who we are."

  Echoing Irene's words. An incontrovertible fact of human nature.

  "So what happened to the money, Drake?"

  "I paid off debts. Gambling losses. A real estate investment trust that went belly-up. Even a gold mine that tapped out. I'm broke."

  "Why not stay until you rip off enough people to get ahead?"

  Drake sniffed at the suggestion. "That's what an amateur would do. A professional knows that it's better to bail out a month early than a day late. I had my usual story ready. Complications with the estate. Must fly to London. That buys a few weeks, and by then, I'm setting up shop in South America."