by Paul Levine
"It's hard to tell, but yes, that could be mine."
Victoria strolled past the jury box, holding up the poster. "What's that on deck, Mr. Robinson? It doesn't look like heavy machinery or construction equipment."
"Prefabricated steel pods."
"Hundreds of them, right?"
"Five hundred fifty, ma'am."
"When you've cornered the witness, keep the questions simple. Force 'Yes' and 'No,' and pick up your pace."
Thank you, Steve.
"Each one about four hundred to five hundred square feet?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"With conduits for plumbing and electricity and ventilation?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"But no cranes or Mud Cats. No pile drivers or heavy drills?"
"That's correct, ma'am."
"Because this isn't a work barge, is it?"
"No, it's not."
"What is it, then?"
"Well, it's a multi-purpose craft, really."
A fine line of perspiration was visible on Robinson's forehead. She'd made witnesses sweat before, and it was always a thrill. Steve boasted he'd once cross-examined a witness into heart palpitations, firing questions even as paramedics wheeled the man from the courtroom.
"Multipurpose?" A raised eyebrow, a sarcastic tone, idiosyncrasies she'd picked up from Steve. "Would those purposes be gambling and vacationing?"
"You could say that, yes."
She raised her voice. "You say it, Mr. Robinson. Those steel pods are prefab hotel rooms. You're building a floating hotel and casino, aren't you?"
"What if I am?" Robinson shot back. "I'm a businessman. I'm not doing anything illegal."
"And if he gets feisty, kick him in the nuts."
"Nothing illegal," she repeated, "unless you conspired to frame Harold Griffin for murder so you could steal his idea at a fraction of the cost."
Waddle jerked to his feet. "Objection! Counsel's testifying." Like all prosecutors, he hated surprises, and now he looked as if he'd just walked into a plate-glass window.
"Sustained," the judge ruled. "Ms. Lord, please frame your accusations as questions."
Victoria circled in front of the jury box, moving closer to the witness. "If my client built Oceania over the reef, your barge hotel would be barred from the area under maritime safely laws, correct, Mr. Robinson?"
"The immediate area, yes."
"You needed access to that reef. If Oceania were built, your barge hotel would be dead in the water, correct?"
"I'm sure it would affect business somewhat, but who is to say how much?"
"And a luxury hotel and casino like Oceania would really take the luster off your floating Wal-Mart, wouldn't it?"
"That's a matter of opinion."
"Your opinion was that you had to stop Griffin from building Oceania."
"No." Robinson glared at her. "Our projects were completely different."
"Just so the jury understands," she continued, "you were hired by Hal Griffin to do the barge work required in the construction of Oceania. But without informing Mr. Griffin, you began surreptitiously planning a competing project?"
"Like I said, I'm a businessman, Ms. Lord."
Victoria paused, which gave the judge time to leap in. "Anything further, Counselor?"
Victoria had run out of steam. She had established motive. Now Steve would have to link Robinson to Fowles and Stubbs actual shooting. She was ready to sit down, but realized she'd also violated one of Steve's numerous rules for cross-examination.
"Always end strong."
"Just one more thing, Your Honor." She turned back to the witness. "Mr. Robinson, that speedboat of yours. What did you name it?"
She hoped the newspaper photographer was clicking away. Robinson's face burned with all the anger he'd been bottling up.
"The Satisfaction," Robinson said.
"You a Rolling Stones fan?"
That sarcasm again. I hate it when Steve does it, but sometimes I can't help myself.
"It was the name of one of Henry Morgan's ships," Robinson said through gritted teeth.
"Morgan the Terrible?" Feigning surprise.
"Some called him that."
"Didn't he sink ships and burn villages? Plunder, pillage, and rape?"
"You have to understand history, Ms. Lord. In those days-"
"History or not, wasn't Morgan the Terrible a pirate?"
"He had letters of reprisal from the Crown. He would have considered himself a privateer."
"Right," she said, smiling demurely. "And you consider yourself a businessman."
Fifty-two
THE WHOLE TRUTH
The corridor leading to the courtroom was out-ofdoors, really a fourth-floor catwalk. Waiting to be called to testify, carrying his suit coat over an arm, rivulets of sweat ran down Steve's face into his neck brace. The tropical heat seemed to roll waves of pain through his skull.
The door to the courtroom banged opened and Leicester Robinson barreled out. Muttering profanities, his face set in a snarl. Head down, he nearly plowed into Steve on his way to the elevator.
This is good. This is very good.
Victoria must have skinned him and hung up the pelt, Steve thought. She was a better lawyer than he'd been at the same age. Part of Victoria's effectiveness was that she didn't know how good she was. That tiniest bit of insecurity kept her ego under control. Her need to be liked-an affliction he did not share-made her more…well, likable.
There were other differences, Steve thought. He had street smarts, she had real smarts. He wielded a broadsword, she struck with a rapier.
Maybe that's why we're so good together. Maybe when this is over, we'll be a team again. And maybe we'll share the bedroom as well as the courtroom.
As Steve was thinking of all the possible "maybes," the bailiff poked his head out of the courtroom door and made like the town crier: "Mr. So-lo-mon! Stephen So-lo-mon!"
"That would be me," Steve said.
Steve promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
He'd heard the oath administered thousands of times, but taking it yourself was different. As a lawyer, you weren't supposed to blatantly lie. But you could straddle that fuzzy fine line between light and shadow. You could tap dance with a top hat and cane, distracting and entertaining. "Razzle dazzle 'em," as lawyer Billy Flynn sings. You could shade meanings and color the truth. But when you're a witness, you're bound by…
The whole truth.
An acknowledgment that there were different levels of truth.
And nothing but the truth.
Indicating it's possible to tell the truth in the main, but fudge a bit around the edges. As he sat down, Steve still didn't know just what level of truth he was going to dispense.
Victoria's face was flushed as she stood and approached the witness box. "Please state your name and occupation for the record."
"Steve Solomon. Trial lawyer."
"Attorney" always sounding pretentious to him.
"What's your relationship to the defendant Harold Griffin?"
"I represented him until he fired me. Or maybe you fired me. It was hard to tell."
We were naked at the time, but no need to tease the jurors with that tidbit.
"Why were your services terminated?"
"I accused Mr. Griffin's son, Junior, of committing the murder. Mr. Griffin didn't like it. Neither did you. And by the way, I was wrong."
"Why did you accuse Mr. Griffin's son?"
"Do we have to go into that?" Steve pleaded. "It's embarrassing."
"Please."
"It had to do with you. I was jealous of Junior Griffin."
Waddle spoke up. "Your Honor, is this a murder trial or couples counseling?"
"I'll tie it up," Victoria said.
"Do it quickly," Judge Feathers advised.
"Mr. Solomon, did there come a time when you were run off a bridge in an incident with a motorcycle?"
"Did there come a time. ."
One of those expressions lawyers carry in their satchels: "Isn't it true that. .?" "Drawing your attention to the night of. ." "What do you mean my bill's too high?"
"Yes," Steve said. "My old Caddy convertible drowned."
"Did the police determine who was responsible for the attack?"
"A man named Chester Lee Conklin. Goes by 'Conchy.' "
"Did there come a time when you encountered Mr. Conklin again?"
"Yesterday. He was shooting a rifle at me. And at Clive Fowles."
Several jurors stirred. Testimony about shootings will do that.
"Why would Chester Conklin have tried to kill you?"
"Objection! Calls for a conclusion." Waddle needed to make some noise just to disrupt the flow. "And as far as I can see, Mr. Conklin is irrelevant to these proceedings."
"He became relevant," Victoria said, "the moment Leicester Robinson admitted that Conklin was his employee and the defendant Harold Griffin was a business rival."
"Overruled for now," the judge said.
"Mr. Conklin," Steve said, "did not want Clive Fowles to tell me who really killed Ben Stubbs."
"Objection and move to strike," Waddle said. "That's guess-timony, not testimony. Your Honor, I don't know how they do it up in Miami, but I've never tried a case where the defendant's lawyer takes the witness stand and-"
"Ex-lawyer," Victoria said.
"Whatever. The lawyer takes the stand and opines on who killed the decedent."
"The State Attorney has a point." The judge turned to his bailiff. "Take the jury out for a spell. We're gonna figure this out without mucking up the record."
After the jurors had filed into their little room, Judge Feathers asked Victoria, "Just what is it you're trying to elicit from your partner?"
"Ex-partner," Victoria corrected. "Your Honor, may I voir dire Mr. Solomon in the absence of the jury?"
"Be my guest."
"Mr. Solomon, did Clive Fowles tell you who killed Ben Stubbs?"
"He did."
"I knew it," Waddle said. "There's hearsay coming round the bend."
"Keep your britches on, Dick," the judge said. "Just because I'm hearing it doesn't mean the jury will. Keep going, Ms. Lord."
"What did Clive Fowles tell you?"
"He worked for a third party, someone he wouldn't name. The third party wanted Stubbs to sink Oceania by writing a negative environmental report. Fowles' job was to convince Stubbs to go along. And to kill him if he didn't."
So far, all true.
"And what did Mr. Fowles do in response to these instructions?"
"He sneaked onto the Force Majeure, and when Stubbs refused to do what he was told, Fowles did what he'd been ordered to do."
Sort of the truth.
"Could you be more specific, Mr. Solomon?"
Steve took a deep breath. There was nowhere to run. Telling the literal truth-that Stubbs had been shot accidentally-would get Griffin off the hook, if the jury ever heard the testimony. But the truth wouldn't nail Robinson. "Fowles said he shot Stubbs with the spear-gun. He killed the man, just as he'd been instructed."
Now, that didn't hurt, did it? Actually, yes it did. "Besides saying he killed Mr. Stubbs," Victoria said, "what else did Mr. Fowles do?"
"He wrote a confession and signed it."
"Where and when did this happen?"
"Yesterday. On Fowles' World War Two chariot."
"His what?" the judge asked.
"A two-man underwater craft that looks like a torpedo with seats. You ride it in scuba gear. We were on the ocean floor at the time."
"The ocean floor?" Waddle laughed. "Sounds like the witness has a case of nitrogen narcosis."
"And how did Mr. Fowles write this confession underwater?" The judge was intrigued.
"On a magnetic slate. The kind divers use."
Waddle cleared his throat. "Best evidence rule, Judge. Where's this alleged written confession?"
"Lost at sea," Steve said. "I dropped the slate when Fowles rammed Conklin's boat and they were both killed."
"Jesus on the cross." Judge Feathers let out a low whistle.
"Your Honor, I move to bar all of Mr. Solomon's testimony," Waddle announced. "The alleged confession is a hundred percent hearsay, pure and simple."
"State Attorney's right," the judge said. "Ms. Lord, if you had that slate, I'd be inclined to let Mr. Solomon authenticate it and get it into evidence. But without it…"
"Thank you," Waddle smirked. "Now may we bring the jury back in and try this case according to the rules?"
Just then, the courtroom door opened, and a tall, handsome, suntanned man barged in. Junior Griffin wore flip-flops, chinos, and a muscle tee, and his long blond hair was wet and slicked back. To Steve, he looked like one of those men's cologne commercials.
But what's he holding?
"Hope I'm not too late." Junior was waving a mesh bag. Inside the bag was the magnetic slate.
Steve couldn't believe it.
I'm supposed to be the hero. Not Junior Friggin' Griffin!
"It was only in eighty feet of water," Junior said, nearing the bench. "But the Coast Guard coordinates were a little off. It took me five dives. No tanks, of course."
The court reporter, a young woman in open-toed sandals and a short skirt, was gaping at Junior as if he were a butterscotch sundae. "Could I get your name for the record?" she asked.
"Harold Griffin, Jr."
"And your phone number?" she continued.
"Let's see what you've got there, young man," Judge Feathers said.
Junior opened the bag and handed the slate to the judge. The message was still there: "I killed Stubbs." With Clive A. Fowles' signature.
"Mr. Solomon, is this the written confession you were talking about?" the judge asked.
"It is."
"And you saw Mr. Fowles sign this?"
"I did."
"All right, then. Let's bring in the jury. I believe Ms. Lord has some evidence to introduce."
Fifty-three
FORGIVEN BUT NOT FORGOTTEN
Two days later, in a blissful daze of Tylenol with codeine, Steve was semi-snoozing in the rope hammock strung between two sabal palms along the shoreline at Sugarloaf Key. He would have fallen asleep if his father hadn't been spouting profanities as he crab-crawled across the roof of his houseboat, wrestling with his satellite dish.
"Suck egg, cornholer!" Herbert yelled, then banged the dish with a wrench.
The Solomons were genetically impaired in home improvement genes, Steve knew.
"Still snowing," Bobby called out from inside the living salon. He was watching the TV screen as his grandfather tried to realign the dish.
"Hey, lazybones!" Herbert growled. "You might give us some help over here."
Steve rocked back and forth in the hammock. "If you'd fix the leak, so the boat wouldn't list to starboard, you wouldn't have to keep moving the dish."
"Like you know electronics."
"So why ask me to help?"
Bare-chested, wearing paint-splattered shorts, Herbert was glistening with sweat. He grunted as he tried to muscle the dish a few millimeters.
"Dad, why don't you come down before you have a heart attack?"
"Don't go spending a fortune on the funeral," Herbert ordered. "Not that you would."
"A blizzard now," Bobby reported from inside.
"To hell with it." Herbert climbed down the ladder to the rear deck.
Bobby stuck his head out a window. "Uncle Steve, can you fix the TV?"
"Do your homework. Television's bad for you. Especially Fox News."
A few minutes later, Steve heard the unmistakable clinking of ice cubes in a glass. He opened his eyes to see his father approaching the hammock. He carried two large glasses swirling with golden liquid.
"May I assume that's not root beer?"
"Ain't gator sweat, neither." Herbert sat down in a plastic chair alongside the hammock. "Scotch with a shpritz of soda."
"I hope it's m
ore than a shpritz. Those are sixteen-ounce glasses."
"Should last us a spell. Good for what ails you."
"Is Bobby doing his homework?"
"He is if his teacher assigned a website with cameras inside the cheerleaders' locker rooms."
"Great." Steve sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the hammock. "Ooh."
"You okay, son?"
"When I was running on adrenaline in court, I was fine. Now I'm just a little woozy."
Herbert handed him a drink. "L'chaim."
Steve tilted his glass toward his father. "Confusion to the enemy."
The men drank, and Herbert said: "So what do you hear from Victoria?"
"Jury went out at eleven this morning."
"You oughta be there."
Steve shook his head, and billiard balls bounced between his ears. "It's her case. Not mine."
"So?"
"When she gets a verdict, it should be her moment. She deserves her autonomy."
"What kind of word is that? 'Autonomy'?"
"Victoria's word."
"Thought so." The old man took a long pull on the Scotch. "So we gonna talk, or what?"
"I dismissed the Bar suit, if that's what you're wondering."
"That ah already know."
"How?"
"Pinky Luber told me."
"You're still talking to him?"
"Talk? Hell, ah'm taking Pinky fishing next week."
"I still don't get it, Dad. It's like you forgot what he did to you."
"Ah haven't forgotten. Ah've forgiven."
"Is that some Zen thing, Dad? How do you get to a place where you just move on?"
"Comes with age and experience. And the knowledge that we're all damaged pieces of equipment."
Steve let himself smile. That was pretty much what he'd told Victoria. "We're all flawed." Could he hold his father to a higher standard than he held himself? "I shouldn't have poked around in your life, Dad. I had no right."
"Like ah said, the truth can be painful. You mad at me for what ah did all those years ago?"
"No, I guess not. Not anymore."
Herbert raised his glass in a salute. "You're a good kid. Ah should tell you that once in a while."
Steve let that soak in a moment and took another sip. The alcohol was already going to his head, and he'd barely made a dent in the drink. Then he blurted out: "I lied in court, Dad."