by Paul Levine
“Flury thinks you’re psychotic,” Pincher said.
“He withheld a witness statement favorable to my client.”
“He denies it.”
“Lying prick!” I must have raised my voice, because an elderly couple at a nearby table shot me dirty looks. “Flury violated Brady versus Maryland. Ever hear of it, Ray?”
At the other end of the line, Pincher sighed, then said, “You still undergoing treatment?”
“Injections of God-knows-what. Plus, hyperbaric oxygen therapy.”
“So how’s your . . . ?”
He left it hanging, so I said, “Drain bamage. All gone. I’m tip-top. A-OK. Ready to ride, got a glide in my stride.”
Deflect and evade. So much simpler than describing all those medical tests and illnesses with unpronounceable names.
“I never thought you had brain damage,” Pincher said.
“Excellent news. I’ll fire my doctors and cancel my therapy.”
“Those symptoms of yours. Irritability. Irrational behavior. Unprovoked anger. That’s not CTE. You’re burned-out—that’s all. You need a change of scenery.”
I sipped at the tequila. Rich and smooth, liquid gold. Maybe a hint of licorice in the agave. “Burned-out, sure. I’ve been toting my briefcase from courtroom to courtroom for more than twenty years. Who wouldn’t be a little scorched around the edges?”
“Only because you’ve been on the wrong side too long.”
“Not my fault most of my clients are guilty.”
“That sad old song of the defense bar.”
“If our clients knew our real winning percentage, they’d jump bail and flee to Argentina.”
“Maybe it’s time to do something about it.”
“What? Only represent innocent clients? I’d starve. Sure, I’d prefer a cause that’s just, a client I like, and a check that doesn’t bounce. But these days, I’m happy with a client who doesn’t steal the potted ferns in my waiting room.”
Strands of miniature white lights wrapped around the palm trees blinked on. The sun was setting behind me, the horizon tinted the reddish gold of a ripe peach.
“Tell me something, Jake,” Pincher said. “Is there any defendant you won’t represent?”
“Only those my granny calls bottom-feeding gutter rats. Men who abuse children or women.”
“In those cases, you’d rather be on the sunny side of justice—wouldn’t you, Jake?”
“Sorry to break it to you, Ray, but the criminal justice system is nothing but dark nights and dangerous alleys.”
“Not on my side of the street. I represent the people of the great state of Florida.”
“Good for you, pal.”
“You may not realize it, Jake, but you’re a natural-born prosecutor.”
I laughed and nearly spilled my drink. “The hell I am. My heart’s with the little guy, not the behemoth of the state.”
“Really?” He chuckled at the other end of the line. “Do you believe in the fundamental goodness of humanity?”
“After serving purgatory in the so-called Justice Building, how could I?”
“Exactly! You know the evil that lurks in men’s hearts. You’ve seen it, as I have. You know how many nights I’ve sat at my desk with a bottle of bourbon and a stack of murder scene photos?”
“Who are we talking about here, Ray? You or me?”
“Both of us, but you’re the one perched on the precipice. One faulty step, you’ll plunge into the abyss.”
“Not following you.”
“I’m offering you wings to fly away.”
“Meaning what? When you called, I thought someone was dead.”
“Someone is. A woman.”
“Yeah?”
“I want you to prosecute her husband.”
-3-
Los Tres Amigos
Roughly ninety seconds after I hung up with the State Attorney, Steve Solomon and Victoria Lord—spilling apologies—hustled onto the restaurant patio. I stood and kissed Victoria on the cheek and clopped Solomon on the shoulder. Hard. He clopped me back. Harder. We’re guys. It’s what we do.
“Sorry, sorry, sorry,” Solomon said. “But it’s Vic’s fault.”
“Motion to suppress in federal court ran late,” Victoria pleaded in her own defense. “We’ll win if Judge Sachs follows the law.”
“I give you a twenty percent chance,” I said.
Solomon plopped into his chair, and Victoria elegantly swiveled into hers. The server immediately delivered a Moscow Mule—vodka, ginger beer, and lime—in a copper mug for Victoria and a Funky Buddha beer for Solomon. I had placed their order in advance, and Solomon saluted me with the bottle.
“Jake, my man, you remembered.” He sniffed the brew, so dark it was nearly ebony, and smacked his lips. “I do appreciate the Buddha’s maple-syrup aroma with that hint of bacon and coffee.”
“That’s not a beer,” I said. “It’s a smorgasbord.”
He gave me the sideways smile that always preceded a dig. “It occurs to me, Jake, that we have virtually nothing in common, except we both love Victoria.”
“You love Victoria. I simply like Victoria. A lot.”
“And you and I, Jake, are best friends.” He took a hearty swig of his beer.
“You’re a pest and a nuisance. You’re the aggravating friend I am most likely to kill.”
“Boys, please,” Victoria said. “Jake, how are you feeling?”
“Why does everyone keep asking?”
Solomon shrugged. “I dunno. Maybe because you’re brain damaged.”
“I’m fine.”
No way would I whine about my condition and get buried by two tons of sympathy like sand from a dump truck.
“Are you still seeing those bursts of light?” Victoria asked.
“Perfectly normal. They’re UFOs.”
“Jake . . .” Her tone schoolmarmish.
“Let him alone, Vic.” Solomon rose to my defense. “Jake’s old-school. A man’s man. Never complains. Doesn’t run to a shrink to find out why his daddy never came to his Little League games.”
“He was dead. Knifed in a bar fight in Islamorada.”
“I know, pal. Just a figure of speech. All I’m saying, you’re a throwback.”
“A brew-and-burger guy in a pâté-and-chardonnay world,” Victoria agreed.
“Jake still helps little old ladies across the street,” Solomon pitched in.
“And tall young ones.” Victoria chuckled.
“I’m happy you two kids find me so amusing. But I’m not ashamed to have old habits and old values.”
“And old clothes.” Solomon gestured with his beer. “Your suits are so out-of-date they’re practically back in style.”
“So sue me, Solomon. Then have your kale salad and meditate an hour before your Pilates class.”
This was our usual patter. I’m the third wheel on the tricycle. Sometimes I wonder why Solomon and Lord hang out with me. They’re in their midthirties, and I’m fifty. Middle-aged, if I make it to an even 100 or 102, which seems increasingly unlikely with every doctor’s appointment. We’re all criminal defense lawyers, or at least I was, until ten minutes ago when I was offered a job as a specially appointed prosecutor for one case. I told Pincher I would give him my answer in the morning. Oh, how Solomon will roast me if I take that gig.
Victoria Lord was an Ivy Leaguer with cool smarts. Tall and blonde, the word regal sometimes came to mind. She likes rosé and ballet. Dark-haired and wiry, Solomon is in constant motion. He favors beef jerky and ridiculous beers. In court, Victoria plays by the book, and Solomon burns the book. Despite their differences—or perhaps because of them—they make a powerful trial team.
I’ve taught them a few of my moves in front of the bench. I’ve told Solomon a hundred times to stop jitterbugging across the well of the courtroom.
“Plant your legs shoulder-width apart, and stand there, motionless, solid as an oak. Force the judge and jury to hear your words, not watch
your dance moves.”
Victoria was easier to coach because she was a natural advocate. Smart and focused. In the beginning, like a lot of young women lawyers, she erred on the side of caution.
“Don’t be timid or obsequious, Victoria. Don’t let judges intimidate you, and on cross-examination, go for the jugular and spill blood.”
A quick study, Victoria began wielding a saber at government witnesses, and the ones she didn’t bloody, she drew into the quicksand of their own contradictory statements.
Maybe Solomon and Lord liked me around for the wisdom that comes with experience. Or maybe it’s more than that. Who’s to say why we choose our friends? Just as with lovers, there’s a certain mystery to the chemistry of friendship. Whatever the reason, as Solomon likes to say, we’re Los Tres Amigos.
Once we ordered—sea bass for Victoria, hanger steak for Solomon, calamari in a chili-banana sauce for me—I asked what was the big news that brought us out on this balmy evening.
“We’re getting married, pal,” Solomon answered, beaming.
“Of course you are,” I said. “You’ve been engaged for what—almost three years?”
“No, I mean, we’re really doing it. Right, Vic?”
“Our trial schedule has eased up, so, yes, perhaps we can squeeze it in around Labor Day.”
“How romantic,” I said.
“Oh, you know Vic,” Solomon said. “Work. Work. Work.”
“One presumably innocent dirtbag after another, preyed upon by vindictive law enforcement,” I agreed.
“The ceremony will be at Vizcaya,” Victoria said, referring to the hundred-year-old mansion on the bay between Coconut Grove and downtown.
“And you’re my best man,” Solomon said. “So start working on your toast for the reception.”
“I’m moved, Solomon. Our friendship means a lot to me.”
“You’re not being sarcastic, Jake?”
“No way. This is real.”
It was the truth, but I didn’t want to get all weepy about it. I lowered my voice into stentorian tones suitable for appellate courts and Episcopal weddings, lifted my glass in toasting mode, and said, “As even Steve Solomon’s best friends can agree, Victoria deserves better.”
Solomon barked a laugh, and we toasted each other, glad to be pals, glad to be here, glad the sun was down. It had been another soggy, sweaty, buggy day. The morning’s mashed-potato clouds, white and fluffy, had been replaced by a threatening sky the color of a gray flannel suit. Then came the usual late-afternoon twelve-minute thunderstorm, lightning creasing the darkened sky, a gale driving the rain sideways as if shot from firemen’s hoses. Later it cleared, and steam rose from slick pavement.
Welcome to Hades-on-the-Bay.
At dusk, with the temperature falling to a manageable eighty-two, with the breeze tasting of salt and jasmine, with a glass of tequila at hand and my friends nearby, life was not half-bad. Just then, Victoria’s cell rang. She looked at the caller ID, wrinkled her brow, and answered. “Clark, is that really you?”
Solomon and I had no choice but to listen to her half of the conversation.
“Yes, it has been a long time.”
A pause and then, “Oh, that’s frightening. Do you know where she’s gone?”
Solomon and I exchanged puzzled looks.
“Of course you didn’t, Clark. Why would the police think that?”
At the word police, I put down my tequila.
“Please don’t make any more statements to law enforcement. Tell the detective to speak to me. What you’re calling a missing-persons case, the police obviously think is a homicide.”
The word homicide made Solomon lick his lips, and the hair stood up on the back of my neck. We were pretty much tigers catching the scent of zebras.
“No, Clark. Do not give them permission to search your home.” Another pause, and she said, “Oh, you already did? Yes, I understand. Everyone wants to appear cooperative with the police. But what if Sofia cut her leg shaving, and there are traces of blood in the bathtub? What if an overzealous cop plants evidence or the State Attorney suborns perjury?”
As a possible newbie prosecutor, I resented that last remark.
She listened a moment, then said, “Are the police gone now?” Another pause. “Good. I’ll be at your house at eight o’clock in the morning. I want you to walk me through everything on the last day you saw her.”
She clicked off, and Solomon said, “Who’s Clark, and who’d he kill?”
“He didn’t kill anyone. He’s a surgeon.” She took a breath and exhaled. “And an ex-boyfriend of mine.”
“What? When? Why haven’t I heard of him?”
“Long time ago. I was an undergrad at Princeton. A freshman, really. He had finished his residency and two fellowships and was working at University Hospital in New Brunswick.”
“You saying he’s a lot older? Almost Jake’s age?”
“Not quite. But older, sure.”
“It’s a wonder he can still walk,” I said, “much less kill anyone.”
“He didn’t kill anyone,” Victoria reminded us.
“I always assume my clients are guilty,” I said. “It saves time.”
“I never pictured you with an old guy,” Solomon said. “So who didn’t he kill?”
“His wife. Sofia. She disappeared three weeks ago.”
“Wait!” I said. “Not another word.”
Victoria turned toward me. “What is it, Jake?”
“This Clark. Your ex. He’s an orthopedic surgeon, right?”
“Yes.”
“Is his last name Calvert?”
She nodded. “Dr. Clark Calvert. How did you know?”
“Ray Pincher says the doc killed his wife.”
“The State Attorney told you this?” Victoria’s blue eyes went wide.
“Why would Pincher even talk to you about it?” Solomon asked.
“Because he asked me to—”
“Clark didn’t kill her!” Victoria interrupted. “They had an argument, and she took off. He looked for her all day. When she didn’t come home that night, he reported her missing the next morning. He isn’t hiding anything.”
“Fine. If that’s what the evidence shows, I won’t even take the case to the grand jury. No indictment, and you can invite the doc to your wedding. Plus one, if his wife shows up.”
Solomon gestured toward me with his fork. “What do you mean you won’t take it to the grand jury?”
“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you. Pincher asked me to put my hand on a Bible and promise to support, defend, and protect the Constitution from the likes of you. If I say yes, you’re looking at a specially appointed assistant state attorney.”
“I don’t believe it, Jake,” Victoria said. “This is one of your practical jokes.”
“Nope. But like I said, if I’m handling the case and there’s insufficient evidence, everybody goes home. On the other hand, there might be a homicide case to try with you two kids on one side of the courtroom and me on the other. Oh, the tricks you will learn.”
They exchanged worried looks. “He’s not joking,” Victoria whispered.
“He could be delusional,” Solomon whispered back.
“I can hear you guys, so you might as well speak up.”
“We’re just worried that with your . . . ah . . . illness and . . . ah . . . treatments . . .” she fumbled along.
“Maybe you think Pincher appointed you to prosecute,” Solomon pitched in, “but it really didn’t happen.”
“I’m not delusional,” I said. “I’m not brain damaged. And you two are starting to piss me off. What did you say your names were again?”
-4-
Little Gold Handcuffs
Solomon spent the next ten minutes busting my chops while Victoria studied me, a quizzical look on her face.
“Forget it, Jake. It’s Chinatown.”
“What are you talking about, Solomon?”
“The Justice Building.
The downtown power establishment. Corruption. Dirty deals. Secrets and payoffs. You’ll step into a sinkhole, and we’ll never see you again.”
“Isn’t that a tad melodramatic?”
“Okay, try this. You can’t prosecute because it’s not in you.”
“Why not?”
“Prosecutors have no heart. No soul. No empathy. They’re automatons, tools of the state.”
I swatted away a gnat that was dive-bombing my ears and sipped at the Don Julio, the fourth one just as mellow as the first. A motor yacht in the thirty-five-foot range churned through the channel from the nearby marina.
“Good prosecutors stand for justice,” I said. “They don’t coach cops to lie or bury exculpatory evidence. I admire them, and maybe I ought to be one, at least for a while.”
I was just repeating Pincher’s sales pitch, but strangely enough, I was beginning to believe it. I didn’t mention Pincher also agreed to forget about my bruising Phil Flury’s delicate torso if I switched sides.
“No way, Jake,” Solomon said. “You’re a rebel, a rule breaker.”
“You’re the rule breaker. I just believe in the vigorous defense of individual rights.”
“Precisely! The individual, not the great gray monolith.”
“Victims are individuals, too.”
“Irrelevant! You’re antiestablishment, and prosecutors are the embodiment of the establishment.”
Victoria reached across the table and took my free hand, the one not wrapped around the tumbler of tequila. “Are you ready for this kind of change in your life, Jake?”
“Not really. I’ll have to buy a new suit. Gray with a starched white shirt and a tie the color of blood.”
Victoria kept after me in that soft, persuasive voice she used with juries. “I’m not sure you understand the magnitude of what you’re doing. It’s not like getting traded to the Patriots and the next week you just put on a different uniform.”
“I wasn’t traded. The Dolphins cut me from the roster. The Saskatchewan Roughriders offered me a contract, but I’d have to drive a cab three days a week and wash my own uniform.”
“I’m not speaking literally, Jake. I just want you to think strategically. What’s your goal? What’s your long-term plan?”