Bum Deal

by Paul Levine

  “Don’t lecture me on ethics, Jake. You’re the guy who considers the canons mere suggestions.”

  “I may violate a rule now and then, but only little ones.”

  “Yeah, yeah, I know. You don’t mind getting your hands dirty as long as the stains come out. But you know what? You don’t get to pick which rules you consider worthy of your fealty. The stains don’t come out. You are dirty. You’re just too damn sanctimonious to admit it.”

  The phone line clicked, and he was gone. That left me heading toward Coconut Grove without ice cream or whiskey or salvation. I considered the tongue-lashing I had just taken. Had I been fooling myself? Is there a bright, clearly defined ethical line separating black from white? Was it foolish of me to stake my claim in the gray?

  Just what role did my medical condition play in all this? These days, I sensed my own mortality in a way that would have seemed foreign a short time ago. Subconsciously, did I want to make amends for the crap I’d done in my past?

  I had no idea. But I was certain of one thing: I couldn’t let my friends be hurt through my actions or inactions. I had been driving home, but now I hung a left on US 1 and looped back toward Brickell Avenue. I needed to talk to Solomon and Lord, and what I had to tell them couldn’t be said on the phone.

  -35-

  Best Friends Forever . . . or for a While

  Helluva view, Victoria.” I watched a freighter docking at the Port of Miami across the inlet. “How much you paying a square foot?”

  “Too much,” she said.

  “Not that much,” Solomon said.

  Some things don’t change.

  “Not like you to drop in without calling,” Victoria said.

  “I didn’t want to use the phone,” I said.

  They gave me their puzzled looks.

  “You both should have your office and home swept for bugs and your cars checked for any GPS tracking devices,” I said. “Tell your client to do the same. Plus, he ought to get out of his house and check into a hotel until he goes on that trip to Vietnam.”

  “Holy . . .” Solomon said.

  “Moly . . .” Victoria said. “You want to tell us what’s happening and who’s doing it?”

  “It’s not official, by which I mean, it’s not Pincher or Barrios or any state agents. All extrajudicial, all illegal. I have to leave it at that.”

  “Pepe Suarez,” Victoria said.

  “Said all I’m going to about that. Tomorrow morning, I’m resigning my commission and going back home to the farm.”

  “Honoring the commitment you made to us,” Victoria said.

  “Does this mean you believe Calvert is innocent?” Solomon asked.

  “Insufficient evidence doesn’t equal innocence. But I’m not bailing because of our agreement.”

  “So why, then?” Solomon asked.

  “Because—”

  “Because you’re swimming in the ocean,” Victoria interrupted, “and you see a massive oil spill headed your way. An endless sea of muck and slime that will pull you under.”

  “Overly dramatic, but not far off,” I said.

  Everyone was quiet for a moment. Outside the high-rise windows, a passenger jet from MIA crossed the bay and gained altitude, heading toward the ocean.

  “Okay, we respect your decision,” Victoria said.

  I gave them a small smile. “I guess you guys were right all along.”

  “How’s that?” Solomon asked.

  “You told me it wasn’t in my nature to be a prosecutor. You said prosecutors had no empathy.”

  Victoria’s brow furrowed. “Steve said that. I think you could have been a prosecutor with a heart, but they wouldn’t let you.”

  “Either way, I’m out. And I just want you two to be safe.” I stood, preparing to go.

  Victoria gave me a warm look. “We love you, too, Jake.”

  Solomon clopped me on the shoulder. “Best friends forever, Jake. Or until somebody better comes along. C’mon, pal. I’ll walk you to the elevator.”

  When we were in the corridor, Solomon lowered his voice to a whisper. “Stuff’s been happening with Calvert.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “I’ve tried to keep my personal feelings out of it, Jake. My love for Vic, I mean, and Calvert’s past with her. But from the very beginning, I’ve sensed there was something off with that guy.”

  “Solomon, you oughta stop now.”

  “You’re getting out of the case. What difference does it make?”

  “It just doesn’t seem right.”

  “You’re my best friend. I need to talk to you.”

  “I’m not your therapist.”

  “Hear me out. I’m not saying I have evidence Calvert killed his wife. He certainly hasn’t confessed. But deep inside, I know it. I feel it. The son of a bitch is a murderer.”

  “Barrios said the same thing from day one. But I’m out, Solomon.”

  “I sort of wish you’d stay in.”

  “Why?”

  “Victoria still has feelings for Calvert. Same deal. I just know it deep inside. And without you, who the hell is gonna help me with that?”

  -36-

  Mindfulness for Dummies

  Melissa Gold ooohed and aaahed and purred like a cat.

  We were on the sofa in my living room, her shapely legs propped in my lap, and I was giving her a foot massage, which she might say is the second-best thing I do.

  “Aaah,” she cooed. “I could get used to this.”

  “That’s my game plan, Doctor.”

  “Oooh, right there. Flexor digitorum longus.”

  “What’s with the Gregorian chant?”

  “The muscle you’re digging into on the bottom of my foot. Heaven. What did I do to deserve this?”

  “You didn’t yell at me when I told you I missed my astronaut-under-glass appointment.”

  “Hyperbaric oxygen? That’s okay. Dr. Hoch doubts it has any effect on the tau proteins that cause CTE.”

  “But you prescribed it.”

  “It’s what you would call a Hail Mary.”

  “I didn’t know we were down to the last few seconds of the game.”

  “End of the first half is all, Jake. I should watch my football analogies.”

  I ran my right thumb along a tendon that stretched from Melissa’s heel all the way to her arch. The thumb has been broken three times, the last when I smacked a tight end on his helmet, both to get his attention and to keep him from running a slant over the middle. It hurt now, but the pleasurable purr in Melissa’s throat diminished the pain.

  “I saw Joe Namath at an Old Timers’ dinner,” I said. “He had a hundred twenty sessions of pure oxygen and thought it helped him think clearer.”

  “But Nick Buoniconti tried it at UM Hospital with no positive results.” She shifted her position and flexed her foot, exposing more of the tendons and muscles. “Have you increased the CBD?”

  “Smoking more weed, absolutely.”

  She made a tut-tut sound. “How many times do I have to tell you? Stick to the prescription. You only need the CBD, not the psychoactive THC.”

  “That’s like thinking about sex without actually doing it. Which is pretty much what’s going on at this very moment.”

  “Keep rubbing, buster. Your time will come. You can warm up the Sade channel on Pandora anytime now, smooth operator.”

  I loved that switcheroo, from an esteemed neuropathologist to a sexy bedmate in a Miami minute. That prompted me to move from deep tissue to a lighter, more sensual touch, letting my fingers glide up her calf. She pursed her lips and made a soft mmm-ing sound.

  “Have you been trying to stay in the moment and not worry about the future?” she asked.

  “Mostly I’ve been living in the past.”

  “Seriously, Jake, have you gotten into mindfulness and meditation, as I suggested?” she asked.

  “I bought the book Mindfulness for Dummies.”

  “Bought it? Did you read it?”

&
nbsp; “Tried, but I found myself skipping chapters to see what comes next.”

  I laughed at my little joke, but she didn’t.

  Melissa said, “Oh, how those college cheerleaders must have found you so charming and witty.”

  My hand was caressing the soft flesh behind her knee. I heard another coo, another mmm, and I let my fingers dance a little higher.

  “Have you had any luck in reducing stress?” she asked.

  “Just the opposite. But tomorrow I’m turning everything around.”

  I summarized the case for her. The puzzling Dr. Calvert, the devious Ray Pincher, the smarmy Pepe Suarez, and the thuggish J. T. Wetherall. Told her that I’d be getting out of the case and resuming a normal life, or a reasonable facsimile thereof.

  “I’m sorry it didn’t work out, Jake. I had thought that switching sides might be good for you. A new challenge that could get your mind off all the medical uncertainties.”

  “I remember. You said change can be very therapeutic.”

  She reached down and clamped my hand, which was halfway up her thigh. “Are you blaming me? Holding me responsible for your decision?”

  “No, not at all. I’ve known Ray Pincher for a long time. I should have seen this coming. He’s a man of secret agendas. Always has been.”

  “Okay, then.” She released my hand. I withdrew it from under her summery dress, and she swung her legs to the floor and scooted closer to me on the sofa. It seemed like an excellent time to move from touching to kissing, accompanied by Sade’s “No Ordinary Love.”

  “Has Mr. Pincher agreed to your withdrawing from the case?” she asked.

  “He doesn’t want me to, but it’s not up to him. Judge Duckworth has final say, and she told me I could bail anytime before an indictment was returned.”

  “But from what you say about Mr. Pincher and his agendas, might he not have something up his sleeve?”

  Her question made me think of a saloon in one of those old Western movies. There’s a poker game with whiskey bottles on the table and cowboys all around. Plus one professional gambler, a villainous mustachioed guy in a black hat. Sure enough, when he deals from the bottom of the deck and is threatened, he’s got something up his sleeve. A single-shot derringer.

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” I admitted. “But you’re right. Pincher never lets go of what he wants. And if there are two paths toward reaching his goal, he always takes the winding road.”

  Melissa frowned, and little lines furrowed in her forehead. “Sorry I brought that up. I’m sure everything will be okay tomorrow, just the way you’ve planned it.”

  We kissed, and Sade claimed she gave her man “all the love I got.” I closed my eyes, trying to stay in the moment, but damn it, I kept seeing the barrel of a derringer pointed straight at me.

  -37-

  The Fall Guy

  Bruno paced around the judge’s chambers, panting and slobbering. He was Judge Melvia Duckworth’s beloved English bulldog.

  The judge sat at her gleaming mahogany desk, looking into a handheld mirror, patting her graying Afro. I sat in a leather armchair, squirming, wanting to get this over with. If the judge didn’t hurry up, I might join Bruno in pacing and panting, if not slobbering.

  “How do I look, Jake?” Judge Duckworth asked.

  “Like a million bucks, Your Honor.”

  “In trial, you’re a helluva lot better liar than that feeble effort. I’ve got bags under my eyes and old-lady wrinkles that have their own baby wrinkles.”

  “I swear, Judge. You look like a college coed.”

  “Ha! You know Jackson Pettibone, runs the probation office?”

  “Good man. Always gives my clients the benefit of the doubt.”

  “He lost his wife two years ago, about eighteen months after cancer took my Henry. Anyway, Jackson invited me to lunch.” She lowered the mirror and looked at me. “Truluck’s on Brickell.”

  I made an appreciative sound, approving of Jackson Pettibone’s good taste. “Try the seafood primavera. Shrimp, crab, and calamari over linguine.”

  “Might be too messy for a first date.”

  “Your Honor, the reason I’m here—”

  “Maybe just a broiled salmon fillet. Keep it simple, eh?”

  “Sure. Sounds good. The reason I’m—”

  “Why so antsy, Jake?”

  Bruno took that moment to expel a deadly bulldog fart and then continued slobbering.

  “Maybe you can walk Bruno when I go to lunch,” the judge said.

  “Happy to, Your Honor.”

  “Now, what were you saying?”

  “To put it in military terms,” I said to the judge, appealing to her background as an army JAG officer, “I want to be mustered out. Resign my commission.”

  She eyed me with concern. “Your brain on the fritz, Jake? Delusions, dementia, and whatnot?”

  “It’s not that, Your Honor. I’m just not cut out to be a prosecutor. At least not on this case. Not with—”

  “Ray Pincher looking over your shoulder.”

  “More like breathing down my neck.”

  “What happened to the Chinese wall with Pincher on the outside?”

  “It turned into the Maginot Line.”

  “I told you Pincher was a slippery one, but you knew that, Jake.” She sighed and looked at me with even more concern. “Okay, let me get Cynthia in here with the paperwork so I can go to lunch with the handsome Mr. Pettibone.”

  The judge’s phone buzzed, and she picked it up. “Okay, put him on.” She gave me a look and raised her eyebrows. “Hello, Raymond. Yes, always good to speak with you, but I haven’t seen you in church in ages. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. I see.”

  She hung up and looked at me, regret saddening her eyes. “My dear Jake. As you might have gleaned, that was the State Attorney. I’m afraid you’re a dollar short and twenty minutes late. The grand jury just indicted Dr. Clark Calvert for the murder of his wife.”

  “That’s not possible, Your Honor. I haven’t even said hello to the jurors. Haven’t set a foot in their room.”

  “Then this takes runaway grand juries to a new level.”

  “Makes no sense, Judge.”

  “I’m sorry, Jake, but as I told you in the beginning, I can’t muster you out post-indictment. And I’d caution you against going AWOL.”

  “I don’t get it. How’d they render an indictment? Who presented the evidence?”

  “Raymond didn’t say. He knew you were in here, by the way.”

  Pepe Suarez and J. T. Wetherall. Following me as if I were the enemy. And maybe I am.

  “I can’t win this trial. No one can, and Pincher knows it.”

  “Then why’s he doing this?”

  “He needs someone to blame. I’m his fall guy.”

  IN THE CIRCUIT COURT OF THE ELEVENTH JUDICIAL CIRCUIT IN AND FOR MIAMI-DADE COUNTY, FLORIDA—SUMMER TERM 2017

  INDICTMENT

  MURDER SECOND DEGREE Fla. Stat 782.04 (2)

  STATE OF FLORIDA

  vs.

  CLARK GORDON CALVERT

  * * *

  IN THE NAME AND BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE STATE OF FLORIDA:

  The Grand Jurors of the State of Florida, duly called, impaneled and sworn to inquire and true presentment make in and for the County of Miami-Dade, upon their oaths, present that on or about the third day of June 2017, within the County of Miami-Dade, State of Florida, CLARK G. CALVERT evincing a depraved mind, did unlawfully and feloniously, by an act imminently dangerous, kill a human being, to wit: SOFIA SUAREZ-CALVERT, by strangulation of said SOFIA SUAREZ-CALVERT, in violation of Fla. Stat. 782.04(2), to the evil example of all others in like cases, offending and against the peace and dignity of the State of Florida.

  Laura M. Dunlap

  Foreperson of the Grand Jury

  -38-

  The Lion in Winter

  I cleared the metal detectors and the armed guards using my ID card as a specially appointed prosecutor, a “temp,” as Corky called me. I burst
into Ray Pincher’s office and unloaded. “What the hell were you doing in the grand jury? You’re supposed to be out of the case.”

  He didn’t even look up. He was sitting at his desk, signing a stack of direct Informations, the charging documents in cases that don’t go to the grand jury. The stack was a foot high.

  “I haven’t left my office all morning.” Pincher kept on signing.

  “But I was there,” a voice said.

  In one of the client chairs, Phil Flury turned around to face me. I hadn’t seen the little weasel. “With Calvert planning to leave the country, it seemed prudent to push the matter.” He stood and handed me a document, making a show of blowing on it. “The foreperson’s signature is still wet.”

  I took a quick look. “Strangulation? Tell me, Flury. Was Sofia’s hyoid bone fractured?”

  “Who knows? We don’t have a body.”

  “And therefore, no bruises on the neck. No fingerprints or fingernail marks you can tie to Calvert.”

  “No.”

  “Or Calvert’s DNA under Sofia’s fingernails.”

  “Obviously not.”

  “What sucker’s gonna prosecute this smelly fart of a case?” I said, still thinking of Bruno the bulldog.

  “I’ve got faith in you, Jake.” Pincher finally looked up from his busywork. “Phil tells me that Dr. Freudenstein held the grand jurors spellbound. The old shrink performed brilliantly.”

  “A trained seal can perform brilliantly when it’s not being attacked by a shark,” I said.

  “Ah, you mean cross-examination,” Flury said.

  “Solomon and Lord will eat Freudenstein alive if the judge admits his testimony, which is a long shot in itself.”

  “Give the judge some of that Lassiter mumbo jumbo.” Flury was smirking, enjoying my predicament.

  “Ray, Freudenstein can’t withstand cross. It’ll be a bloodbath.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure,” Flury said, even though I wasn’t talking to him. “You should have seen the grand jurors’ faces, especially the women, when Freudenstein read his Tarasoff letter: ‘Mrs. Calvert, it is my considered medical opinion that you are in danger of great bodily harm or death if you continue to reside with your husband.’”