State vs Lassiter

by Paul Levine

  “Hey, Lord, we’re gonna be in here a while.” That aggravating voice from the other cell. “So here are the ground rules. When one person has to pee, the other turns around.”

  She shot a look at the seatless, metal toilet bowl.

  Right. As if I’d squat over that fondue pot of festering bacteria.

  When she didn’t respond, he said: “You still there or you bust out?” Somewhere, deep inside the walls, the plumbing groaned and water gurgled. “Suit yourself, but I gotta take a leak.”

  What a jerk.

  Solomon was one of those men you run into in bars and gyms, she thought, so clueless as to believe they’re both witty and charming.

  “No peeking,” he said.

  There was a plague of these men, with a sizable percentage becoming lawyers.

  “Unzipping now . . . “

  Dear God, scrunch his scrotum, zipper his balls.

  “Ahhh,” he sighed, the tinkle-tinkle sounding like hailstones on a tin roof. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” he sang out. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer . . . “

  “I didn’t realize they still made men like you,” Victoria Lord said.

  ***

  I’m getting through to her, Steve thought. Sure, she was still playing that old I am strong, I am invincible, I am wo-man shtick, but he sensed a shift in her mood.

  There seemed to be something different about the feisty Ms. Lord. Nothing like the court stenographers he usually dated. Quiet, rather submissive women who transcribed whatever they heard. And nothing like the SoBe models, whose brains must have been fried by exposure to so many strobe lights.

  He remembered looking around the courtroom when Victoria rose to address the judge. All the players—from his shifty client to the sleepy bailiff—had been riveted. Jurors, witnesses, cops, probation officers, jailers, clerks, public defenders. Hell, everybody watched her, even when he was talking. Yeah, she was a natural, with the kind of pizzazz they can’t teach in law school.

  Maybe the best rookie I’ve ever seen.

  Of course, she had a rigid prosecutorial mentality, but he could work on that, once she forgave him for suckering her into contempt. Not that he minded the downtime. To him, this eight-by-eight cell was a cozy second home, a pied-à-terre with a view of the Miami River from the barred window. Hell, they ought to put his name on the door, like a luxury suite at Pro Player Stadium. Failing that, he scribbled on the cell wall:

  Stephen Solomon, Esq.

  “Beating the state’s butt for nine years”

  Call UBE-FREE, 822–3733

  Steve preferred to defend the truly innocent, but where would he find them? If people didn’t lie, cheat, and steal, he figured he’d be starving, instead of clearing about the same as a longshoreman at the Port of Miami who worked overtime and stole an occasional crate of whiskey. Steve usually settled for what he called “honest criminals,” felons who ran afoul of technicalities that would not be illegal in a live-and-let-live society. Bookies, hookers, or entrepreneurs like today’s client, Amancio Pedrosa, who imported exotic animals with a blithe disregard of the law.

  Steve glanced into Victoria’s cell. She had resumed pacing, a tigress in a cage. Her tailored plaid jacket was draped over an arm. An expensive outfit, he was sure, but wrong for the jury. The high neck accentuated her—well, stiff-neckedness. She should ditch that Puritan look, get something open at the collar, a bright blouse underneath. The matching skirt was fine, a little tighter than he’d expect on the prim prosecutor. A nice ass for someone so flat on top.

  “What do you say, after we get out, we hit Bayside, dive into a pitcher of margaritas?” he said.

  “I’d rather drink from the toilet bowl.”

  Keeping her distance for now, he thought. Made sense as long as they were in trial. “Okay, let’s wait till we get a verdict. Win or lose, I’ll treat you to tapas.”

  “I’d die of starvation first.”

  “You might not be aware, but over the years, I’ve tutored several young women prosecutors.”

  “I’m aware you’ve bedded down a few. And rifled their briefcases in the middle of the night.”

  “Don’t believe everything you hear in the cafeteria.”

  “You’re one of those toxic bachelors, a serial seducer. The only thing that shocks me is that some women find you attractive.”

  Have I missed a signal? Shouldn’t she be warming up by now?

  “I’ll bet any relationship you’ve had, the woman always ended it,” she said.

  “My nephew lives with me and scares most women off,” Steve said.

  “He scares them off?”

  “He’s kind of a reverse chick magnet.”

  “That sort of thing genetic?” she asked.

  ***

  An hour later, her feet still ached and the toilet still gurgled, but at least Solomon had shut up. Victoria hoped he understood that she had no interest in him. You hit some men with a frying pan, they think you’re going to make them an omelette.

  But as annoying as she found him, the sparring did help pass the time. And if nothing else, jousting with Solomon might sharpen her courtroom tactics. The trick was not to let him provoke her once they were back in front of judge and jury. She made a vow. Even if he led a herd of elephants into the courtroom, she would maintain a Zen-like tranquility.

  If I get back into the courtroom.

  She wondered if word had reached Ray Pincher that she’d been sent to the slammer. A shudder went through her, and suddenly she felt both alone and afraid.

  ***

  Awfully quiet over there, Steve thought, trying to see her through the shadows.

  What was she thinking right now? Uptown girl inhaling the stale sweat and toxic cleansers of her own private Alcatraz. Probably planning what she’d tell her boss, that pious phony Ray Pincher. Scared he’d demote her to Traffic Court.

  Had he gone too far, Steve wondered, baiting her into those outbursts? Judge Gridley’s contempt citations were sort of like calling unsportsmanlike conduct on both teams. But would Pincher understand? Did he even recognize Lord’s potential?

  Dammit, Steve thought, beginning to feel regretful. He hadn’t wanted to hurt her. He was just trying to have some fun while defending his client.

  Another worry, too. His nephew, Bobby, barely eleven, was home alone. If Steve was late, who knows what might happen? One day last week, when he rushed through the door just after seven, the kid announced he’d already made dinner. Sure enough, Bobby had found a dead sparrow on the street, covered it with tomato sauce, zonked it in the microwave for an hour, and called it “roasted quail marinara.” It had been easier to throw out the microwave than to clean it.

  If he ever dated Victoria, he’d introduce her to Bobby, his relationship litmus test. If she responded to the boy’s sweetness and warmth—if she saw past his disability—she might be a contender. But if she was repulsed by Bobby’s semi-autistic behavior, Steve would toss her out with his empty bottles of tequila.

  Now what the hell was going on? Did he just hear a sniffle?

  ***

  I will not cry, Victoria told herself.

  She didn’t know what had come over her. A feeling of being totally inadequate. A loser and a failure and a fraud. Dammit, what baggage had spilled out of the closet without her even knowing it?

  “You okay?” Steve Solomon called out.

  Shit, what did he want now? A lone tear tracked down her face, and then another. Great. Her mascara would turn to mud.

  “Hey, everything all right?” he asked.

  “Just great.”

  “Look, I’m sorry if I—”

  “Shut up, okay?”

  The clatter of footsteps and the jangle of keys interrupted them. Moments later, a man’s voice echoed down the dim passageway. “Ready to go back to work?”

  “Go away, Woody,” Steve said. “You’re disturbing my nap.”

  Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, skinny as an axe blade in his baggy b
rown uniform, appeared in front of their cells. He hitched up his pants. “Mr. Pincher wants to see both of you, pronto.”

  A chill went through Victoria. Pincher could fire her in an instant.

  “Tell Pincher I don’t work for him,” Steve said.

  “Tell him yourself,” Reed retorted, fishing for the right key. “He’s waiting in Judge Gridley’s chambers and he ain’t happy.”

  Reed unlocked their cells, and they headed down the passageway, Steve whistling a tune, jarringly off-key, and Victoria praying she still had a job.

  Two

  HUMILIATIONS GREAT AND SMALL

  No more tears, Victoria vowed as they approached the entrance to Judge Gridley’s chambers. She would rather break a nail, tear her panty hose, and shear off a heel of her Prada pumps than cry in front of Steve Solomon.

  Biting her lower lip, she tried to transport herself to more pleasant venues. A clay tennis court on Grove Isle, stretching high for an overhead smash, the solid thwack of racket on ball. Handling the wheel of her father’s gaff schooner—the Hail, Victoria—when she was ten, the wind snapping against the mainsail. Anyplace but here, where her boss lay in wait, armed with the power to destroy her career.

  “Something wrong?” Steve said, walking alongside.

  Instincts like a coyote, she thought. The door was six steps away. She felt her insides tighten; her heart pitched like a boat in a squall.

  “I’ve known Pincher for years,” Steve persisted. “Why not let me handle him?”

  “Does he like you?” she asked.

  “Actually, he hates my guts.”

  “Thanks, anyway.”

  “Then a word of advice. Don’t take any shit.”

  She stopped short. “What are you saying? That Pincher will respect me if I stand up to him?”

  “Hell, no. He’ll fire you. Then you can come over to my side.”

  ***

  Steve thought the chambers cannily reflected both of Judge Gridley’s pursuits, misconstruing the law and bungling pass-interference calls. There were the required legal volumes, laminated gavels, and photos of the judge shaking hands with lawmakers and lobbyists. Then there were old leather football helmets and photos of the striped-shirted Gridley at work on Saturdays in various college football stadiums.

  One wall was devoted to trophies and posters, evidencing the judge’s fanatical devotion to his alma mater, the University of Florida. A plaque celebrated Gridley as a “Bull Gator Emeritus,” and on his desk was a stuffed alligator head with its mouth open, teeth exposed, like a hungry lawyer. Only two things were missing, Steve thought: a bronzed jockstrap and Judge Gridley himself.

  Standing on the orange-and-blue carpet was a scowling, trim, African-American man in his forties, wearing a three-piece burgundy suit. When he moved his arms, there was a soft clanging of metal. Raymond Pincher’s dangling silver cuff links were miniature handcuffs.

  Steve thought that Pincher, the duly elected State Attorney of Miami-Dade County, would have to loosen up considerably just to be called tight-assed. Pincher billed himself as a crime fighter, and his campaign billboards pictured him bare-chested, wearing boxing gloves, a reminder of his days as a teenage middleweight in the Liberty City Police Athletic League. He’d won the championship two years running, once with a head butt, and once with a bolo punch to the groin, both overlooked by the referee, who by serendipitous coincidence was his uncle. Boxing had been excellent preparation for Florida politics, where both nepotism and hitting below the belt were prized assets. These days, when someone suggested he’d make a fine governor, Ray Pincher didn’t disagree.

  Pincher glared at Victoria, who was biting her lip so hard Steve thought she might draw blood. Suddenly, Steve was worried about her and wanted to save her job. But how to do it? How could he take the heat off her?

  ***

  Victoria said a quick prayer. First that her voice wouldn’t break when she was required to speak. Second, that Solomon would keep his big mouth shut.

  “Hey, Sugar Ray,” Steve called out. “Execute anyone today?”

  Oh, Jeez.

  “Good afternoon, Mr. Pincher.” Victoria nodded stiffly, struggling to remain calm.

  “Ms. Lord, I am disturbed by what I hear and concerned by what I see,” Pincher chanted in a melodious singsong. Before attending law school, he had studied at a Baptist seminary. There, office gossips claimed, he’d been expelled for selling Bibles intended as gifts to Central American orphanages. “A prosecutor is the swift sword of justice, the mighty soldier in the war of good against evil.”

  “Amen,” Steve said.

  Victoria felt her cheeks heating up.

  Dammit! Don’t be such a girl.

  “A prosecutor must never be held in contempt,” Pincher said. “Contempt is for defense lawyers of the flamboyant persuasion.” “Flam-boy-ant” sounding like a flaming French dessert. “Contempt is for the hired guns who sell their souls for filthy lucre.”

  “Or for peanuts,” Steve said.

  “Stay out of this, Solomon,” Pincher said. “Ms. Lord, what is the most important attribute of any trial lawyer?”

  “I’m not sure, sir,” she said, afraid to venture a guess.

  “The ability to lie while saying hello,” Solomon volunteered.

  “Dignity,” Pincher fired back. “Ms. Lord, do you know what happens to prosecutors who bring disrespect to the office?”

  She stood rigidly, unable to speak.

  “Hellfire, damnation, transfer to hooker court,” Steve enumerated.

  “Termination,” Pincher said.

  “C’mon,” Steve said. “Give her some room. She’s gonna be really good if you don’t squeeze the life out of her.”

  Great, Victoria thought, a compliment from Solomon, as helpful as a stock tip from Martha Stewart’s broker.

  Steve said: “She’s already better than most of your half-wits who want to plead everything out and go home at four o’clock.”

  “Not your business, Last Out.”

  Last Out. What was that all about? She’d have to ask around.

  “My point, Ms. Lord, is that you cannot let Mr. Solomon badger, befuddle, or bedevil you.” Pincher often employed the preacher’s habit of alliteration and the lawyer’s habit of using three words when one will do.

  “Yes, sir,” Victoria said.

  “I myself have tried cases against Mr. Solomon,” Pincher said.

  “You’re the best, Sugar Ray,” Steve said. “Nobody suborns perjury from a cop like you do.”

  Cuff links jangling, Pincher wagged a finger in Steve’s face. “I recall you bribing a bailiff to take two six-packs of beer to the jury in a drunk-driving case.”

  “‘Bribery’ is an ugly word,” Steve said.

  “What do you call club seats for the Dolphins?”

  “The way they’re playing, torture.”

  “You’re Satan in Armani,” Pincher said.

  “Men’s Wearhouse,” Steve corrected.

  “You have raised contumacy to a high art.”

  “If I knew what it was, I’d be even better at it.”

  “We have a dossier on you. Contempt citations, frivolous motions, ludicrous legal arguments.”

  “Flatterer,” Steve said.

  “Any more circus tricks, I’ll have the Florida Bar punch your ticket.” Pincher shot his cuffs and flashed a hard, cold smile. “You don’t watch your step, you’re gonna end up like your old man.”

  “Leave him out of this.” Steve’s tone turned serious.

  “Herbert Solomon felt he was above the law, too.”

  “He was the best damn judge in the county.”

  “Before your time, Ms. Lord,” Pincher said, “Solomon’s father was thrown off the bench.”

  “He resigned!”

  “Before they could indict him. Bribery scandal, wasn’t it?”

  “You know damn well what it was. A phony story from a dirty lawyer.”

  “I was only a deputy then, but I saw the f
iles. Your father’s the dirty one.”

  The room had grown tense.

  “What’s the penalty for slugging the State Attorney?” Steve said. His hands were clenching and unclenching.

  Pincher balanced on his toes like a prizefighter. “You don’t have the balls.”

  The two men glared at each other a long moment.

  “Boys, if you’re through wagging your dicks,” Victoria heard herself say, “I need to know whether to go back into court or look for a new job.”

  ***

  After a long moment, Steve laughed, the tension draining away. Now she was trying to help him. “Aw, screw it, Sugar Ray.”

  “Never saw you back down before.” Pincher sounded suspicious, like Steve might sucker punch him the second he dropped his guard.

  “Vickie’s influence.”

  “Victoria,” she corrected icily.

  Pincher appraised each of them a moment, tugged at an earlobe, then said: “Ms. Lord, because I know of Mr. Solomon’s predilection for provocation, I’m not firing you today.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She exhaled and her shoulders lost their stiffness.

  “For now, consider yourself on probation.”

  His good deed for the week, Steve thought, helping save her job. But what a prick, that Pincher, hacking away at the newbie. Steve felt embarrassed, like he’d been eavesdropping on another family’s quarrel. Victoria tried so hard to be tough, but Steve had seen the tremble of her lower lip, the flush in her cheeks. She was scared, and it touched him.

  A loud rush of water interrupted his thoughts, the unmistakable sound of an ancient toilet. A moment later, the door to Judge Erwin Gridley’s personal rest room opened, and the judge walked out, carrying the sports section of the Miami Herald.

  “What’s all this caterwauling?” the judge drawled. He was in his mid-fifties and fighting a paunch but could still waddle down the sidelines after a wide receiver. Suffering bouts of double vision, he wore trifocals in court, but not on Saturdays, which Steve figured might explain some of his more egregious calls, including too many men on the field when replays clearly showed only eleven.