by Paul Levine
When Steve was a rookie lawyer and was stumped by a case, his father told him: "Whenever you find a loose thread, pull it to see where it leads." Steve had done that. It all led back to the stacked juries and his father's startling willingness to break the law. Still, Steve had more questions than answers. Turning the little car onto the gravel road that led to his father's houseboat, his mood plunged. There would be no joy in proclaiming "gotcha." Herbert was already a broken man. But what took him down that path? Why did he violate his oath? Why did he risk everything?
"Jesus, Dad. Why?"
"Why!" Herbert Solomon fumbled with the drawstring of his ratty old terry-cloth bathrobe. "You drive all the way down here and wake me up to ask why'd ah do it? What kind of a shlimazel are you?"
"A Solomon shlimazel."
"Go home! Don't bother me."
"Quiet. You'll wake Bobby."
Steve had carried the boy to the hammock, where he was purring contentedly.
"Ah know what you're doing," Herbert fumed. "You want to show how smart you are. Well, congratulations. Top of the class."
"I'm not so smart. I still can't figure out why you rigged those juries. And years later, why did Luber say you took bribes in those zoning cases?"
They were in the galley of the houseboat. Herbert poured some rum over ice but didn't offer any to his son. "His son, Barry, that's why Pinky lied."
"I didn't know Luber had a son."
"Barry's dead of an overdose. Back then, he was a punk, in and out of trouble. The state had him on drug charges at the same time the corruption task force was all hot and bothered about Pinky. If he didn't cooperate, they'd come down hard on his boy. Pinky flipped on some small fry in the zoning department, but the government wanted more. Problem was, Pinky didn't have more."
"So he gave them the Chief Judge of the Circuit," Steve said, figuring it out. "Pinky nailed you to protect his son."
"Barry Luber got probation, Pinky got eighteen months, and ah got what you might call a life sentence."
"That son-of-a-bitch," Steve said.
"Blood is thicker, son. Blood is always thicker."
They both chewed that over a moment. Then Steve said: "That leaves only one question. Why'd you do it? Twenty-some years ago, why'd you stack those juries?"
Herbert sipped at his rum. After a third sip, he sighed: "Two words. 'Willie Mays.' And ah don't mean the Say Hey Kid. Ah mean the stone-cold killer."
"I read the transcript and watched the video. Pinky had more than enough evidence to convict. He didn't need to cheat."
"That right, smart guy? Then how'd Mays walk the first time, when there was an eyeball witness? Ah'll tell you how. It was right after the McDuffie riots. Everybody in Liberty City thought white cops killed blacks just for the fun of it. The black jurors wouldn't believe a white man who said 'Good morning,' and they sure as hell weren't gonna send a black man to Old Sparky on a white cop's testimony. Ah can't say as how ah blame them, but ah had other fish to fry, if you'll pardon the expression."
"You were supposed to be the judge. Not the prosecutor."
"The prosecutor needed help. The Florida Supreme Court just came down with State versus Neil. Kentucky versus Batson was on the horizon at the U.S. Supreme Court. A prosecutor couldn't exclude jurors solely on account of race, even though jurors would acquit solely on race. Ah did what ah had to do. If we hadn't nailed Mays, he'd have just gone out and killed someone else."
"If that's the way you felt, you should have quit the bench and become a cop. Or a vigilante."
"Did you see the crime scene photos? The bastard slit his ex-girlfriend's throat and strangled their little baby. Then he walked down the street and bragged about it to his homies."
"So Pinky asked you to rig the jury?"
"Hell, no! It was mah plan from day one. Soon as the second Mays trial fell into mah division, ah called Pinky and Reggie into chambers. Ah laid it all out for them. Reggie like to faint when he heard it. But he was a good kid and did what ah told him. He was perfect for the job. He knew half the families in the old Central Negro District. He didn't just exclude blacks we didn't want. He got us black folks who could help get a conviction."
"I don't see how that's possible."
Herbert downed the rest of his drink. "Reggie cherry-picked the master venire list before it came upstairs from the clerk's office. Assigned folks he figured were pro-prosecution to my courtroom. Anyone Reggie thought would hurt the prosecution got shifted to County Court for misdemeanors. Before voir dire, he'd do more trimming. Toss off anyone who wanted out if he didn't like him. Then, right before we're about to pick that first jury, Pinky says: 'While we're at it, let's throw the Jews off, too.' "
Herbert laughed as if Pinky were the new Billy Crystal.
Steve shook his head. "Very funny. A Jewish judge and a Jewish prosecutor acting like Nazis."
"Aw, go call B'nai B'rith and spare me your indignation. You know as well as ah do that Jews are defense jurors. Ever try to get a couple landsmen to go for the death penalty? Good luck, boychik."
"And even after stacking the panel, you still had to signal Pinky which jurors to challenge?"
Herbert poured himself another drink. "He asked me to. Ah was better at seating a jury than he ever was, and Pinky knew it. Funny thing is, we were gonna stop after Mays was convicted. But it worked so damn well. ."
"You did it sixteen more times."
"Looking back now, with the benefit of hindsight. ."
"You wish you'd never done it?"
"Hell, no. Ah wish we'd started earlier. They were all guilty, son. Every last one."
"I'm sure lynch mobs feel the same way."
"Give it a rest. Ah feel a helluva lot better than those damn fool prosecutors who let O. J. Simpson walk. Damn fools tried the case in downtown LA because they wanted a diverse jury. Wanted to be politically correct. Ended up with nine blacks when they would have had one or two, tops, over in Santa Monica. The case was over before it began. The Mays case might have been, too, if we hadn't been proactive."
"Proactive? That a new word for corrupt?"
"Aw, fuck it, Stevie. I know the rules you play by, and they ain't the Marquis of Queensberry's."
"Don't compare what I do with this shit."
"Anyway, ah'm glad you know. I don't have to tiptoe around it anymore. And now you can drop that damn fool lawsuit."
"Why should I? What you did was scummy and made you unfit to be a judge, but you're not going back on the bench. And no one has to know."
Herbert burped out a laugh. "Spoken like a true advocate. Problem is, you're wrong about one thing. That part, 'No one has to know.' "
"Not following you."
"How do you plan to get my Bar license back?"
"By proving that Pinky lied when he accused you of taking bribes in the zoning cases."
"He did, indeed. But when Pinky cut his deal with the state, they made him waive the statute of limitations on perjury. If you prove he lied, he'll go to jail. So he's got to stop you from taking my case to trial."
"How's he gonna do that?"
"He's gonna go back in time, son."
"Meaning what?"
"How many of those seventeen defendants we convicted are still alive?"
"Eight were executed. Three are still on death row.
Six were sentenced to life." Steve did the math, maybe not as quickly as Bobby could have. "So nine are still breathing."
"Pinky knows the number, too. Read their names to me. Told me, if you take him down, he'll fess up as to what we did twenty years ago. What do you think happens then?"
"Nine guys get new trials."
"Nine murderers. Worst of the worst. Ah can't let that happen, son. Witnesses are gone. Evidence is degraded. Files are lost. How many of those nine do you think would walk?"
"No way to tell. Some, I guess."
"Even one is too many. Especially the one named Mr. Willie Mays."
Forty-two
DEUS EX TSUN
AMI
Quick, crisp, and efficient.
That's the way Richard Waddle tried his case, and it had Victoria worried. Lousy prosecutors take too much time, put in too much evidence, narcotize the jury with repetition and detail. The nuggets of damning evidence get lost in the blabber and the blather. But Waddle seemed to realize that jurors have attention spans of eight-year-olds. A solid prosecutor with a seemingly solid case, he asked direct questions and received concise answers.
"Detective, what did you find in Mr. Stubbs' hotel room?"
"A briefcase containing precisely forty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills."
"Did you also investigate his recent financial transactions?"
"He purchased a waterfront lot in Key Largo for three hundred thousand in cash less than three months before he was killed."
"And the source of that money?"
"The funds were wired from the account of a shell corporation in the Cayman Islands."
"Who owns that corporation?"
"The sole shareholder is the defendant, Harold Griffin."
Slam, bam, thank you, Detective.
Sitting next to Victoria, a silent Hal Griffin was not looking chipper. A little gray in his usually ruddy cheeks. He'd told Victoria he wasn't sleeping well.
Welcome to the club, Uncle Grif.
Delia Bustamante swiveled into court wearing an ankle-length, espresso-colored peasant dress that would have been demure had she not left the drawstring untied at the neck. The curvaceous cook and activist jiggled to the witness stand, and when she raised her right hand to take the oath, her right boob peeked out of the tiered dress top. After some preliminaries, Waddle asked whether Griffin had offered her a job, and the answer lifted Victoria out of her chair.
"Mr. Griffin tried to buy me off to shut me up about Oceania."
"Objection, and move to strike! Ms. Bustamante cannot testify as to my client's intentions."
"Sustained. The jurors will disregard the witness' last statement. Ms. Bustamante, just tell us what the defendant did and what you did."
"Okay, Judge. He offered me more money than even I thought I was worth. But I wouldn't take a cent from that man."
Leicester Robinson, the well-read barge operator, testified he saw Griffin and Stubbs arguing. Watching through the salon window, Robinson couldn't hear what was said, but claimed he could tell from the animated gestures that both men were angry.
And yes, Griffin shoved Stubbs. Victoria cross-examined.
"What you're calling a shove was really just a finger to the chest, correct?"
"Stubbs took a step back. I call that a shove."
"But there was no striking, no blow with the fist, isn't that right?"
"Where I come from, you don't raise your hand to another man unless you can back it up. Unless you can go all the way. But then, maybe your client did go all the way."
"Your Honor, I move to strike the unresponsive answer."
Clive Fowles testified that Griffin instructed him to place a waterproof bag filled with cash-he didn't know how much-in a lobster trap near Black Turtle Key the day before Stubbs was shot. Usually all business, Richard Waddle had some fun with Fowles.
"Were lobsters in season, Mr. Fowles?"
"No, sir. It's only a two-day season in July."
"So, among other things, your boss is a poacher, a lobster mobster?"
"Objection. Argumentative."
"Sustained."
"All that cash is pretty unusual lobster bait, isn't it, Mr. Fowles?"
"I suppose."
"Mr. Griffin tell you what the money was for?"
"No, sir."
"But you figured it was for Ben Stubbs, didn't you?"
"Objection. Calls for a conclusion."
"Overruled."
"I thought the money might be for him, sir."
"So, even though lobsters aren't in season, public officials are?"
Waddle tried to get Fowles to corroborate Robinson's version of the argument between Griffin and Stubbs, but the boat captain had developed a case of witness blindness, aka three-monkey disease. He heard no evil, saw no evil, spoke no evil.
"Come now, Mr. Fowles, are you telling the jury you didn't observe the exchange of words between the two men?"
"I have a habit of tending to my own business."
"You like Mr. Griffin, don't you?"
"He's a good man."
"A good man who signs your paychecks, correct?"
Okay, point made, Victoria thought. Fowles was being loyal to his boss, and the jury would see that.
All three witnesses agreed that the others had gone ashore before the boat left the dock. Standing on the dock, Leicester Robinson and Delia Bustamante watched Junior dive off the bridge and swim away.
The lunch recess was just minutes away when Victoria spotted Steve in the gallery, sitting next to Sheriff Rask. She hadn't known Steve was coming. No calls, he just showed up.
After the judge called the noon recess and Griffin hurried to the outside patio to sneak a smoke, Steve sauntered up to the defense table. "Hey, Vic. How's it going?"
She shrugged. "You know how it is. Some moments are better than others."
"Getting crucified, huh?"
"I see you're making nice with the opposition."
"Willis keeps me updated on Conchy Conklin."
"They find him yet?"
"He's disappeared. But if he's still in the Keys, they'll get him. There's only a finite number of bars."
"A large, finite number."
"How 'bout lunch?"
"Oh, I'm meeting Junior."
"Ah."
"I need to prep him."
"Can never prep enough. Especially dim witnesses."
Too tired to fight, she let it go. "Have you been working on your father's case?"
"Don't want to talk about it." Like a proper gentleman, Steve grabbed her briefcase and walked her out of the courtroom. "How's your mom?"
"Don't want to talk about her."
Not now, she thought. Later, when the trial was over, she'd tell Steve about her mother's latest dramatics. Her father's suicide note and the mystery around it.
Father's alleged suicide note. Wondering if she could believe anything her mother told her.
They rode the elevator in silence. In the lobby, Steve seemed to want to hand over her briefcase but didn't know quite when and how to do it. It was like a lousy first date that neither party knew how to end. They left the building, and as they passed the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn, Steve said: "Look, this is ridiculous. If you need any help. ."
She stopped in the shade of the tree, which bloomed with red flowers.
Sure I need help. With the case. With my mother. With my life.
"Thanks, Steve. I. ."
"Excuse me, mate." Fowles approached, looking a little bashful at the interruption. "Ms. Lord."
"You've been excused, Mr. Fowles," Victoria said. "If you want to go home, you can."
"Oh, I know that. I just. ." He was fumbling with his hands as if he didn't know quite where they belonged. "How's it going, do you think?"
"Too early to tell. But you did fine. Really."
"I hope it turns out okay. For Mr. G, I mean. No way he would have killed that arse-wipe."
"Now, there's a closing argument if ever I heard one," Steve said.
"Good luck, then." Fowles raised his right hand, two fingers spread, in his Winston Churchill mode. "V for Victory, Ms. Lord."
"Thank you, Clive."
Fowles seemed to have run out of things to say. "Think I'll go have a pint."
"Bar's right across the street," Steve said. "The Green Parrot."
"Don't I know it." Fowles let himself smile. As if on cue, a bell clanged inside the old bar, signaling that someone had just tipped the bartender.
Fowles nodded his good-byes and headed across Whitehead Street.
"What's with him?" Steve asked.
"If Uncle Grif is convicted, he's out of work."
>
"Yeah, maybe." Steve watched Fowles disappear into the bar, passing under the sign in the doorway: No Sniveling Since 1890. "Anyway, like I said, Vic, if you need anything, I'm here for you."
Do I need anything? Let's make a list. Peace of mind. Self-confidence. And a stunning cross-examination wouldn't hurt, either.
"I'm fine," she said.
"How are your experts coming along?"
"The prof from Columbia will say it's possible Stubbs shot himself loading the speargun. The angle of entry is a little problematic, but it might work."
"Except …?"
"What you said that first day. We can sell one improbability to the jury, but when we start compounding improbables, we lose."
"Griffin being knocked unconscious being the second improbable."
"Without an explanation, it kills us. If we're saying Stubbs shot himself, then there's no assailant hiding on board who also knocks out Griffin. We're stuck arguing that Griffin fell down the ladder and conveniently knocked himself out. No one will buy it. Hell, I don't buy it."
"You check the weather for that day?"
"I remember the weather. It was warm and clear. We were standing in the surf, and you were trying to get into my bikini."
"The way I remember it, you were putting the moves on me."
"Just one of our many differing observations."
"You really should check the weather with NOAA."
"Eighty-one degrees, sixty-nine percent humidity. Southeast wind at ten to twelve knots. Light chop on inland waters. Three foot seas." She gave him her best smart-ass smile. The smile she'd picked up from him. "Like to know the barometric pressure?"
"What about the Coast Guard?"
"What about them?"