Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  “Be all you can be, Judge.”

  “One caveat, soldier. Should you want out, you gotta ask before an indictment is handed up. If you’re walking point, I won’t have you throwing down your rifle and jumping into the bushes just as you’re about to engage the enemy.”

  “Understood, ma’am.”

  “Okay, let’s do this.”

  I didn’t need a cue card or a repeat-after-me. I’ve done four-hour closing arguments in homicide cases without a note or a break to pee. With the gravity that the words demanded, I said, “I do solemnly swear that I will support, protect, and defend the Constitution and government of the United States and the state of Florida, that I am duly qualified to hold office under the constitution of the state, and that I will well and faithfully perform the duties of Special Appointed State Attorney, the position upon which I am now about to enter. So help me God.”

  “Yes, indeed,” the judge said, looking toward the heavens. “May God help you.”

  -9-

  Into the Light

  The Jakester!” Ray Pincher greeted me, as usual. “The lawyer who put the fog into pettifogger and took the shy out of shyster.”

  “Stow that, Ray,” I said. “I’m here to help you out, and you play that sorry old tune.”

  Ray Pincher retreated behind his desk, a slab of mahogany the size of an aircraft carrier’s flight deck. On his walls were his merit badges from the Kiwanis, the Friends of the Everglades, the National Association of Persecutors—excuse me, Prosecutors. Plus, several dozen photos of the Honorable State Attorney himself shaking hands with various politicians, bankers, and real estate developers who hadn’t yet been indicted.

  “Just welcoming you from the dark side into the light,” Pincher said. “Let me tell you what we’ve got on the surgeon.”

  “First tell me why you’re conflicted out.”

  Pincher swiveled his high-back leather chair and opened a cherrywood humidor on the credenza behind his desk. He pulled out a big, fat Cohiba. “Want to indulge?” he asked.

  I shook my head. The state office building is smoke-free, and especially Cuban cigar smoke–free. Some stogie suckers seem to believe there’s a constitutional right to stand their ground and fire away in any place at any time. Just another one of my beefs about the coarseness of modern life.

  I waited while Pincher used a miniature guillotine to snip a hole in the head of the cigar. Then he put it in his mouth and inhaled the cold stogie. Withdrew the fat cigar, examined it, and struck a long wooden match, which he placed not on the tobacco but on the wrapper underneath the open end. Then he rotated the cigar between thumb and forefinger.

  “How long’s this ritual gonna last, Ray? Do I have time to take a piss?”

  “Just toasting the filler leaves to dry them out.”

  “Your conflict of interest in the Calvert case. What is it?”

  “You know the name Pedro Suarez? His friends call him Pepe.”

  The outer leaves of the cigar were glowing red, but the tobacco was still unlit, and he shook the match until the flame died.

  “Big Sugar,” I said. “The Suarez family owns about a zillion acres of sugarcane. They’ve been in the news for years for Pepe’s charitable giving, his political contributions, and his polluting Lake Okeechobee.”

  “That’s the man. Lives large. Built a medieval castle on a lake near Orlando. Even has a moat with alligators.”

  “I saw him on TV. Lives of the Rich and Disgusting. What’s his connection to the case?”

  “Pepe Suarez is Sofia Calvert’s father. He’s pushing hard to indict his son-in-law.”

  “Who cares what he wants?”

  “Just listen a second, Jake. Suarez claims he warned his daughter against marrying Calvert, that he sensed the guy was a psychopath.”

  “I’m not hearing anything that sounds like admissible evidence. But I’m sensing that Mr. Moneybags contributes to the political campaigns of Sugar Ray Pincher.”

  “True enough.” Pincher struck another match and this time lit the damn cigar, rotating it until the entire foot glowed deep orange. “Pepe has been heard to say that there’s a mansion in Tallahassee that I might find comfortable.”

  “Governor Pincher. So why not prosecute the case yourself? Carry Pepe’s sword into battle. Be his champion.”

  Pincher sipped at the cigar as if it were a fine wine. He exhaled a whiff of white smoke and said, “Why do you think?”

  “Because the case is a loser. You’ve got no evidence, and you need a fall guy. Someone to blame. Maybe a guy who might have a meltdown in court due to his medical condition.”

  “To the contrary, Jake. I think you can use your dementia to your advantage.”

  “I don’t have dementia.”

  “Whatever it is. A judge cuts off a certain line of questioning, but you’ll just keep going.”

  “I’ve always done that when I believe in my case. That’s why I’ve been held in contempt so many times.”

  “Sure, in the past you’ve been sanctioned. But now, with your condition, the Americans with Disabilities Act protects you. Jake, my boy, you can get away with murder.”

  My allegedly addled brain tried to process that. Clouds of smoke encircled me, as if from the volcanoes of hell. “Tell me if I’ve got this right, Ray. You have a shitty case, but a deranged prosecutor who violates courtroom procedures might be able to win it. If he loses, who can blame you?”

  “Not entirely right. You’re a helluva trial lawyer, deranged or sane. I hope you win. But should the case go south, sure, you’re the buffer between my office and ignominious defeat.”

  I got out of my chair and walked to the window. Directly across the street was the jail with its enclosed bridge into the Justice Building. Shackled prisoners made the trip each day for arraignments, hearings, and trials. Three hundred yards to the left were the elevated spans of the Dolphin Expressway. Named for the team that played in the Orange Bowl, less than a mile from the courtrooms where I now toil. The Bowl was torn down years ago, replaced—at taxpayer expense—by the billionaire owner of the city’s Major League Baseball team. Money talks in Miami. Hell, it was talking right now.

  “All right, Ray, tell me about the evidence. Or better yet, show me the file.”

  “I haven’t seen the file. As I said, I’m conflicted out. We’ve erected the proverbial Chinese wall in the office, so you’ll have to talk to ASA Flury and Detective Barrios. They’re waiting in the war room down the hall. I can tell you that Flury is quite convinced Calvert killed his wife.”

  “Flury thinks everyone is guilty. He’s also one of the most irritating people on the planet, the skinny version of Chris Christie.”

  “I’ve ordered him to get you up to speed on the file, then bow out. And I’m ordering you not to slug him. Which leaves Detective Barrios.”

  “George is a good man. I can work with him.”

  Pincher placed the cigar in a black onyx ashtray and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial tone. “Barrios has an explosive piece of evidence, the likes of which you have never seen.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anything about the case, Ray.”

  “Oh, come on, Jake. That’s my public posture. Between you and me and the deep-blue sea, I think you’re gonna get a conviction. I’m an optimist, buddy. I think you’re gonna beat this medical problem and be back in the ring, sparring with me at the club.”

  “Not without headgear for my brain and a cup for my balls.”

  “And just maybe, Jake, old pal, when I’m governor, Pepe Suarez will support you for state attorney. What do you think of that?”

  “What I think, old pal, is that you’re peeing on my leg and calling it champagne.”

  -10-

  The Flop-Sweat Stink of Guilt

  I marched thirty paces down the hall from Ray Pincher’s office to the war room, as the pugnacious State Attorney likes to call the windowless dungeon filled with investigative files, ancient corkboards plastered with photos of corp
ses, and trash cans overflowing with takeout lunch containers.

  Detective George Barrios and Assistant State Attorney Phil Flury were sitting at a long oak table stained by a million cups of coffee. Half a dozen file folders were spread in front of them.

  “You smell like a brush fire in the Glades,” Flury said as I entered the room.

  “Blame your boss. He’s violating the Cuban Embargo Act and the Clean Air Act, not to mention his cardiologist’s instructions.”

  “For the record, I object to my office associating with you, Mr. Lassiter,” Flury said.

  “For the record, there is no record,” I replied. “And it’s not your office. Ray Pincher is the duly elected state attorney. He’s the captain of the team, and you’re the water boy.”

  Flury smirked at me and said, “They say you have brain damage. That would explain a lot.”

  “Yo, Jake,” Barrios said, interrupting our fun. “You don’t look half-bad for a guy with Alzheimer’s.”

  “I don’t have Alzheimer’s, George.”

  “If you did, how would you know?”

  That set both of them to laughing. I didn’t mind Barrios, a veteran cop and an honest guy. He was already past retirement age but couldn’t give up a lifetime of weaving together patches of evidence into the quilts of murder investigations. A small, wiry man, he had a shaved head suntanned the color of chestnuts, and he wore a pale-yellow guayabera.

  Flury, on the other hand, was a noodle-necked weasel in a pin-striped suit trying to oil his way up the ladder in the slippery world of the Miami-Dade judicial system.

  “Before we begin,” Flury said as I eased into a chair, “Mr. Pincher says you have to apologize to me for your unprovoked battery upon my person.”

  “If I’d battered you, Flu Bug, your person would be in traction.”

  Barrios sipped at his coffee, enjoying our byplay.

  “If you’re ridiculing my name,” Flury said, “I’ll file a report with the county Human Rights Commission.”

  “What the hell for?”

  “Based on my German heritage, your remark is, at the least, insensitive and, at worst, a hate crime.”

  Barrios put down his coffee. “Jake, why not just apologize for whatever the hell you did so we can do some work before it’s time to drink lunch?”

  I appreciate commonsense advice, so I took it. “Okay, Flury. I’m sorry if I poked you in the chest the other day and also for my insensitive mocking of your name, which was not intended to ridicule your ancestors but merely yourself.”

  “I graciously accept.” Flury adjusted the nosepiece on his wire-rimmed spectacles. He was in his midthirties, with thinning straw-blond hair and a permanent smirk. He’d never done any manual labor, and I doubted he could bench-press a single volume of Corpus Juris Secundum, the ancient legal encyclopedia.

  “What do you have on Dr. Clark Calvert?” I asked. “Pincher told me there’s something explosive.”

  “A hundred-megaton warhead,” Flury said.

  “Do you agree, George? I trust you more than the rookie prosecutor with the Phi Beta Kappa key.”

  Barrios ran a hand over his bald, tanned dome. “I’d say it was the most unusual and inflammatory piece of evidence I’ve seen in three decades of sniffing around homicides.”

  “Tell me.”

  “In due time, Jake. Let’s start logically with Calvert’s 9-1-1 call and move forward from there.”

  “Okay, it’s your story. Tell it your way.”

  Barrios opened a file and slid an eight-by-ten color photo across the table. It was Dr. Clark Calvert in a conservative blue suit and burgundy tie. He looked to be in his late forties. Dark hair, expensive cut, a little more forehead showing than likely a few years earlier. Tight little smile, thin lips, and eyes so dark they looked like polished obsidian. There was something stern and humorless about the guy, but that didn’t mean anything. A lot of people freeze when posing for a head shot. I tried to imagine Victoria with the guy all those years ago when she was a college freshman and he was a young doctor. It didn’t quite compute.

  “You notice Calvert’s eyes?” Barrios said.

  “He’s got two. And they’re dark. I noticed that.”

  “Maybe it doesn’t show that well in the picture. I spent three hours with him before he clammed up, and trust me—he’s got this weird stare.”

  “Weird how?”

  “Intense and yet distant.”

  “That makes no sense, George.”

  “Like his eyes are boring right through you. I’ve questioned enough killers to recognize a sociopath’s eyes.”

  “Aw, c’mon. Where’s your evidence?”

  “I’m getting there. Twenty-two days ago, Dr. Clark Calvert called 9-1-1 to report his wife missing. A uniformed officer went to his home and took a statement.”

  Barrios handed me a folder containing the officer’s report, a handwritten statement by the doctor, and a half-inch wad of other documents. I started reading.

  The account was straightforward. Calvert told the uniformed cop that he’d quarreled with his wife, Sofia, the morning she went missing. That’s the word he used. Quarreled. Sofia stormed out of their home wearing yoga pants and a sports bra in a bright-turquoise print.

  Calvert told the officer that their arguments had been increasing in frequency. This wasn’t the first time his wife had left in a blizzard of angry words only to return a few hours later. Makeup sex was part of the equation. Not this time. Sofia didn’t come home that night. At 7:00 a.m. the next day, he called police to report her missing.

  She had not been seen or heard from in the three weeks and one day since she went missing. Not by her husband, her parents, or her friends. Also, not a beep from her cell phone. All calls to her number went to voice mail. Police could find no pings of outgoing calls.

  Something else in the file caught my attention. An earlier 9-1-1 call. Three months before the disappearance, Calvert sought assistance when Sofia had blacked out. When paramedics arrived, they found her bleary but conscious, with red marks around her neck.

  “Consensual asphyxiation during sex,” Dr. Calvert told the rescue crew. Sofia confirmed it. The doc had revived her with CPR while the medics were on their way. They administered oxygen for half an hour and left, with Calvert apologizing for the “needless inconvenience.”

  And now the disappearance. For ten days it had been nothing but a missing-persons case. Then Sofia’s well-connected father, Pepe Suarez, called Pincher, who called Barrios. The veteran homicide detective dropped whatever drive-by shooting he was investigating and scooped up the file like a cornerback grabbing a fumble skittering across a frozen field. Oh yes, the rich and powerful can pull the levers of government pretty much at will.

  Suarez told Barrios it had been a stormy marriage and that his son-in-law, Dr. Calvert, was un loco de manicomio, which I took to mean a major nutjob. Barrios interviewed Calvert, who was cooperative at first. He allowed crime scene techs to scour his house with their luminol and poke into corners with their miniature brushes, flashlights, and cameras. But their evidence bags remained empty. No blood, no fibers of any interest, no signs of a struggle or a room cleaned with bleach. The cadaver dog had remained as silent as the watchdog in The Hound of the Baskervilles.

  Finally, Calvert wondered aloud why he was talking to a homicide detective.

  “Do you think my wife is dead?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “But if she’s dead, you think I killed her.”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “I watch television. Cops always think the husband did it.”

  “Did you?”

  “You should leave now, Detective.”

  Barrios came away with nothing, other than his cop antenna picking up the flop-sweat stink of guilt. The doctor lawyered up—enter Solomon and Lord—and there would be no more interviews.

  I closed the file just as the sound of a police siren came up from the street below. We were right around th
e corner from the county jail. “From what I see, George, you’ve got nothing. Where’s the nuclear weapon you’ve been teasing me with?”

  “We’re getting there,” Flury said.

  “Four days ago,” Barrios said, “I get a call from a guy named Billy Burnside. Tennis instructor at Campo Sano, which happens to be the Calverts’ country club.”

  “I see this coming,” I said. “Is Billy handsome and fit with a suntan he didn’t get out of a bottle?”

  “Yeah, Billy ironed out the kinks in Sofia’s backhand and wrinkled her sheets.”

  “Banged her twice a week,” Flury said, in case I didn’t get it.

  “Tennis instructor,” I said. “What a cliché. I guess her personal trainer was busy.”

  “Motive!” Flury piped up. “Now we have the motive for Calvert killing her.”

  “Not unless you can prove he knew of the affair,” I said. “And it wouldn’t hurt if you had a body, a murder weapon and, oh, I don’t know, some fingerprints or DNA. I hope Billy Burnside isn’t the nuclear weapon that’s been giving you a boner.”

  “Just a step in the ladder,” Barrios said. “Burnside told me that the Calverts saw a psychiatrist for marriage counseling. Guy’s name is Freudenstein.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “Harold Freudenstein. Full-fledged shrink with credentials. Used to be on staff at Mount Sinai. Then he started prescribing marijuana and peyote for everything from depression to psoriasis. Hospital tossed him, and he’s had a private practice for the last dozen years or so.”

  “Freud-en-stein,” I said melodiously. “A combination of Freud and Frankenstein.” I turned toward Flury. “I’m not insulting Austrians or monsters, so don’t report me to the Human Rights Commission, Flu Bug.”

  Barrios continued, “The shrink sees the couple together, and afterward, he writes them a letter.” He pulled a thin folder from the file. Skidded it across the table to me. “Take a look.”

  It was a single page on the stationery of “Harold G. Freudenstein, MD.” I read it once and then a second time to make sure I had it right.

  “This is real?” I asked.