by Paul Levine
"Not low enough to show systematic exclusion."
"That's what I mean, Uncle Steve. Every trial had at least one black juror and some had two."
"But never more than two?"
"Nope. Unless you count alternates."
"Anything else?"
"The African-Americans were almost never tossed off. Whatever ones got into the box were accepted by both sides."
"Just like the Mays case. Only five on the panel, and three got seated, one as an alternate. Unbelievable odds."
"Maybe it's because the African-Americans were such solid dudes."
"Meaning?"
"The black jurors all seemed to have good jobs."
Bobby handed Steve his notes. Next to the name and address, his nephew had listed the black jurors' occupations. Postal worker. Dentist. Accountant. Homemaker. Paramedic. Dentist. Probation officer.
Probation officer?
"This isn't a jury pool!" Steve thundered. "It's a Rotary meeting. A Republican convention. These guys drive Buicks. Where are the people on work release? On food stamps?"
"Did you watch the beginning of the tape, Uncle Steve?"
"Nothing to watch but an empty courtroom. I fast-forwarded to voir dire."
"You've gotta let it play a while. Mr. Jones came in and was doing something, but I don't know what it was."
Steve rewound the tape to the beginning. Just as before, the camera was on, but the courtroom was empty. Minutes passed.
"Who says trials are boring?" Steve asked.
"Let it play."
A few seconds later, a uniformed bailiff led several dozen people into the courtroom. They wore plastic name tags identifying them as jurors. At the moment, though, they were only potential jurors. Veniremen. More minutes passed. The civilians sat on the hard benches, some reading newspapers, most looking bored.
Reginald Jones walked in, pushing what looked like a grocery cart filled with files. He took his seat below the bench, smiled toward the gallery, and began speaking. No audio here, so Steve couldn't tell exactly what he said. But soon, a line formed in front of Jones' desk, and Steve knew what was going on.
"Jones is asking who wants out of jury service on hardship grounds," he told Bobby.
In a few moments, half the panel queued up in front of the deputy clerk's desk. Apparently a lot of people were caring for dying aunts. It only took another few moments for a pattern to begin emerging.
"He's letting the black jurors go home," Bobby said, just as a young man with dreadlocks hurried out of the courtroom.
"Not all of them. He's keeping the older African-Americans and the better-dressed ones, along with most of the whites."
"But there's a white juror getting excused." Bobby pointed to the next man in line. "He's so big, maybe Mr. Jones was afraid of him."
True, the guy was a load, his shoulders nearly filling the screen. Jones smiled broadly, energetically pumped the man's hand, then handed him a slip of paper. The man nodded and headed for the door. Jurors in the gallery applauded, and the man waved at them, stopping when someone offered a pen and a piece of paper. An autograph hound. Then Steve recognized him.
"Ed Newman," Steve said. "All-Pro guard for the Dolphins in the eighties."
"Maybe he had a Monday night game and couldn't sit on the jury."
"Keep watching. It's getting interesting."
The next person in line, who appeared Hispanic, wore a blue mechanic's jumpsuit, and Steve could make out the logo of the late and lamented Eastern Air Lines. Sorry, no excusal. Behind him, a well-dressed middle-aged white woman. Sorry, ma'am. You gotta stay, too. Then a white middle-aged man in a suit. Another smile from Reggie Jones. He stamped a slip of paper; the man bowed in gratitude and headed out. The camera picked up the black yarmulke on the man's head.
"The guy's a rabbi or something," Bobby said.
"So's Ed Newman. Jewish, I mean."
Newman, one of those brainy football players of a generation ago, went on to law school and had become a fine judge himself. But that's not what Steve was thinking about. The pattern was taking on another dimension, Steve thought.
"A Jewish football player?" Bobby said. "Cool."
"The Dolpins have had a few landsmen. Steve Shull was a linebacker at the same time Newman played. And you remember Jay Fiedler?"
"The quarterback?" Bobby said. "He stunk."
"So did A. J. Feely, and he's not a member of the tribe."
"So what's with Mr. Jones, anyway? Why's he letting off Jews and blacks?"
The blacks and the Jews.
Something came back to Steve, something from the day he'd deposed Pinky Luber. The slippery bastard was complaining about the jury in the first Willie Mays trial, the last case he lost.
"They must have come straight from an ACLU meeting. All shvartzers from Liberty City and Yids from Aventura."
It didn't mean anything then, but it did now. Something else Luber said that day, too.
"You can't trust juries."
Now Steve knew exactly what Luber and Jones were doing. "Bobby, what's the most important part of trial?"
"Jury selection. You always say so."
"Reggie Jones is helping Pinky Luber stack the jury. Knocking off blacks and Jews, the most defense-oriented jurors. The blacks he leaves on are all establishment guys. The defense lawyer has no choice but to accept them. Otherwise, he'll have an all-white panel, and God knows what'll go on in the jury room."
Jones' conduct was illegal, of course, a deprivation of the defendant's constitutional rights. But why was he doing it? No way the young deputy clerk came up with this scheme on his own. This had Pinky's sweaty palms all over it. But so far, it didn't seem to involve Steve's father.
There had to be something more. Something Dad was doing. Otherwise, what's he afraid of?
Steve fast-forwarded the tape to the beginning of voir dire. He'd seen it once, but this time he wouldn't take his eyes off his father. He'd study his old man, watch every gesture, listen to every word. Part of him hoped that his father had been unaware of the conspiracy taking place right under his gavel. But another part, coming from a dark place of repressed anger and alienation, yearned for something altogether different. Part of Steve wanted proof that he was right and his father wrong. Proof that the Honorable Herbert T. Solomon was considerably less than he held himself out to be and his son was considerably more.
Forty
THE PRINCESS VS. THE QUEEN
The sliding door to the balcony was open and the night breeze, moist and smelling of brine, swirled the drapes. Somewhere in the room, a mosquito buzzed.
On the pool deck below the window, a sheriff's deputy leaned against a palm tree. Another deputy sat on a chair outside her door. Victoria's personal bodyguards, courtesy of Sheriff Rask.
Victoria's feet ached and her head throbbed. Her black Prada pumps had been a half size too small when she bought them, and after a day waltzing back and forth in the courtroom, she felt like a victim of Chinese foot binding. The headache came from sitting at the defense table with her shoulders scrunched.
If Steve were here, he'd rub my shoulders. And my feet.
But she was alone in her suite at the Pier House, the sole soldier in a War Room filled with files, books, and the remains of room service conch chowder and Caesar salad. The adjoining suite was dark and quiet, her mother out to dinner with Uncle Grif. It was past midnight. Where were they? Parked at the beach in Uncle Grif's Bentley, listening to Barry White sing "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe" and French kissing in the moonlight. The thought made her cringe.
She was angry at both of them. Uncle Grif should be here, helping her prepare for court. Her mother should be here, just for emotional support. Instead, they were…
God, why does it bother me so much? They're entitled to their lives, aren't they?
She sipped a glass of Cabernet and tried to concentrate on the witness files spread in front of her. Tomorrow, the state would start moving the pieces on the chessboar
d. Six people on the boat, three exit stage left, one dives into the water, leaving the defendant and victim alone for the last cruise of the Force Majeure. The "death cruise," Waddle called it. A phrase he'd added to "greed and corruption, bribery and murder."
She knew the state's order of proof for its circumstantial case. Clive Fowles would set the scene-the cocktail party on the deck-then Leicester Robinson would describe an apparent argument between Griffin and Stubbs.
Victoria had not yet decided how aggressively to handle Robinson. She could object if Waddle tried to elicit his impressions of what was going on.
"Now, Mr. Robinson, would you say that the defendant appeared belligerent with Mr. Stubbs?"
"Objection. Leading and calls for a conclusion."
But you don't object to everything that's objectionable.
"Don't make the jury think you're hiding something."
Steve again. He'd know what to do, just like he'd know how to rub the kinks out of her neck. She missed him.
No, dammit. I don't need Steve. I don't need anyone.
Feeling like a gladiator. A sole practitioner of the art of legal warfare. She surveyed the files spread across the conference table. An uneasy feeling spread over her. She always prided herself on trial prep. Unlike Steve, she believed you won cases in research and investigation, organization and preparation. Master the details. Color code the exhibits. Cross-index the depos. Know the file forward and backward. Steve the Slasher was a big-picture guy. Give him a rough idea of the facts and he'd wing it in court. That's why they made a good team, he always told her. Their skills were so disparate that they made each other better.
"You two put the sin in synergy," a prosecutor once raged at them.
Not that I can't do this alone.
But right now, she could have used Steve's improvisational skills, especially since her preparation had been lacking. With everything going on-her mother's unexplained reappearance, Junior's advances, the break-in of her room, the split with Steve-she hadn't been operating on all cylinders.
Victoria heard the door open in the adjoining room, and in a moment, her mother peeked through the connecting door. "Princess, you're still up?"
"I'll be working most of the night." She tried to see around the door. "Are you alone?"
Irene came into the room. "Grif went straight to bed, if that's what you're asking. Poor man's so uptight he wouldn't be any use to me, anyway."
"Bummer. The guy's on trial for his life, and you're upset you're not going to get off tonight."
"You have it backwards. I thought giving Grif a little release would be good for him." Irene walked over and eased into a chair at the worktable. Her flowery silk chiffon dress was low-cut and form-fitting. How many women her age could get away with that? For a reason Victoria couldn't quite understand, the thought of her mother's youthfulness irritated her.
"Pour me a glass of wine, Princess. And maybe another one for you."
"Serve yourself. I've already had my limit."
"You seem so tense, dear."
"Really? I guess trying a murder case will do that."
Irene unhooked the ankle straps and kicked off her metallic-gold wedge espadrilles. "Does this damn humidity make your feet swell? It does mine."
"Next time you go in for repairs, have your ankles liposuctioned."
"Have I done something wrong, Princess?"
"You mean lately?"
"Oh, Jesus, you have become so tiresome. How long since you've gotten laid?"
"I don't remember you being so crude."
"Nor you so much a prude. On second thought, yes, I do." Irene got up and closed the balcony door. "It's like a steam bath in here. What's the A/C set at?"
"Aren't you too old for hot flashes, Mother?"
"You've gotten bitchier since you dumped that insufferable Solomon." She barefooted back to the table and poured herself a glass of wine. "As for your catty remark, I'm barely middle-aged."
"Only if you live to be a hundred sixteen."
"I know what ails you, Princess, and I have a suggestion. Go out with Junior. He's gaga over you, and I'll bet he's fabulous in bed."
"I have things on my mind. Why don't you service both the Griffins?"
"If I were your age, don't think I wouldn't give Junior a ride. You saw his tool, didn't you?"
"Mother, why don't you go take a cold shower?"
"Not that size always equates with performance. I remember a Spaniard I met in Monaco. Mucho grande. Like a salchicon sausage."
"I'm not having this conversation."
"But a real dud in the sack. Then there was this Frenchman who wasn't carrying much more than a cornichon, but oooh-la-la."
"You're doing this just to aggravate me, aren't you?"
"And you're bitchy because I'm happy."
"That's ridiculous."
"But I am happy, darling." She managed to sigh and smile at the same time. "Grif and me, connecting after all these years."
"Reconnecting, you mean."
"That again? I told you the truth. We never had an affair."
"But Father thought you did. Is that it?"
"No, dammit. Don't you see what's happening? You've been angry with your father all these years. But you can't yell at him, so you take it out on me."
Victoria was quiet a moment. She swatted futilely at the damn mosquito, now buzzing around her ears. "I am angry at him. That part's true."
"Understandable, dear."
"You know what drives me crazy?"
"The suicide note thing?"
"I've asked myself a thousand times. Why couldn't he write something? 'I'm sorry, Princess. Forgive me. I love you.' "
Irene reached out and gripped her arm. "He did love you, dear. He loved you very much."
"A little note. Is that too goddamn much to ask?"
Irene's voice was little more than a whisper. "He wrote a note."
"What?"
"He said he loved you very much."
"You're making this up. Lying to make me feel better."
"Nonsense. I only lie to make myself feel better." She sipped the Cabernet, made a face. "Your taste in wine is really abysmal."
"Jesus, Mother. Was there really a note?"
"Your father wrote that he loved you more than he could express and his biggest regret was that he'd never know the woman you would become."
Suddenly, her mother was right: The room had gotten very warm. "All these years! Why didn't you tell me?"
"I had my reasons." For the first time Victoria could remember, The Queen almost looked her age.
"Why? What else did it say? Did Dad accuse you of having an affair with Uncle Grif? Why not just admit it, after all this time?"
"There was no affair."
"Then why did you destroy the note?"
"Who said I destroyed it? It's in my safe-deposit box. I thought someday you'd be old enough-mature enough-to read it. Apparently, that day has not yet come."
Irene stood, smoothed her dress, and glided to her room, carrying her shoes. Without looking back or saying good night, she closed the door between the suites and slid the bolt shut.
Two hours later, Victoria lay in bed, listening to the palm fronds slap against the balcony wall. She longed to talk to Steve, but it was too late to call him. No matter the problems between them, he was the closest person in the world to her. At this moment, at this awful, heart-aching moment, she had never felt so alone.
She heard the buzzing again, the damned mosquito. Now where was it?
Ouch. She felt the sting on the side of her neck.
Forty-one
A SOLOMON SHLIMAZEL
Suicidal lovebugs-coupling in the air-smacked the windshield, dying instantly in one last orgasmic splat. So many peppered the Smart that Steve swore the miniature car swerved with each machine-gun burst of pulverized bugs.
Just after two a.m. they approached Sugarloaf Key, Bobby asleep in the passenger seat, a good trick in the tiny cockpit. On the way south
, Steve rehearsed what he would say to his father, but he still didn't know quite how to do it.
Just how do you say to your old man: "Gotcha"?
It had taken several hours and three run-throughs of voir dire to tie Herbert Solomon to the conspiracy. At first, Steve had made a mistake focusing solely on his father when watching the video. As with a football game, you can't just keep your eye on the quarterback.
His father's role in the scheme was subtle. It did not require him to speak a word. After questioning each prospective juror, Pinky Luber had paused and scribbled a note to himself. Nothing unusual there. Most lawyers jot down their impressions before being called on to accept or challenge. Studying Luber, Steve discovered a "tell." Like the poker player who fingers his chips or stares down his opponent before bluffing, Pinky had a tic, too. Just before writing his note, Pinky always shot a look at the bench. Herbert Solomon never returned the look. Invariably, at this moment, the judge poured himself a glass of water. His old man must have had an iron bladder, because he took a drink each time Pinky finished with a prospective juror.
It wasn't until the third viewing that Steve saw the signal.
The lid of the pewter water pitcher.
When Herbert left the lid up, Pinky kept the juror on the panel. When Herbert closed the lid, off went the juror. Each and every time.
Steve remembered that pitcher. It sat on his father's bench for years. There was a matching tray with an inscription from the Florida Judicial Conference. Distinguished Circuit Judge of the Year. Maybe there was still time for a recount.
Herbert Solomon was hip-deep in the conspiracy. Pinky Luber had won seventeen straight murder trials with help from a clerk who stacked the panel and a judge who pruned an already bloodthirsty group into a lynch mob.
It was a brilliant, if blatantly illegal scheme. Herbert Solomon had presided over hundreds of capital cases. He could read jurors better than any prosecutor, and his help would be invaluable to Luber. The poor defense lawyer, meanwhile, was outgunned, three to one.
There was little chance the conspiracy could be discovered. As long as there were some African-Americans on the juries, who would notice that the larger panels themselves were skewed? Not the ever-changing cast of defense lawyers. Only the judge, the prosecutor, and the clerk who hatched the scheme. But why did they do it? And why, years later, did Pinky Luber implicate Herbert in a zoning scandal? There seemed to be no connection between the rigged murder trials in which Herbert was a player and the zoning bribes where he wasn't. And just what was the link between those two events and the suit to get back Herbert's Bar license?