by Paul Levine
Feeling ten years old: "I'm the one who threw the baseball through the window, not Janice."
"What are you talking about?"
"In Griffin's case. I lied under oath."
"Jesus."
"Willis Rask said if I told the truth, Griffin would get off. But the state could never pin anything on Robinson."
"Fowles didn't shoot Stubbs?"
"Robinson ordered him to. But Fowles didn't do it. Stubbs got shot when they struggled over the speargun."
"Holy shit."
"Can you believe it? Junior Griffin was right from day one. Stubbs pretty much shot himself and Hal Griffin fell down the ladder trying to go up and call for help."
"What about that magnetic slate? You write that confession?"
"No, I didn't lie about that. Fowles signed the slate because he accepted moral responsibility for the death. I took that as permission to say he shot Stubbs."
"A helluva rationalization. Welcome to the club, son."
"The liars' club?"
"The ends-justify-the-means club."
"Like you and Pinky?"
"Like a lot of people, son. It's not all black and white. There are a thousand shades of gray."
"So I guess I owe you an apology."
"For what? Lying in court? Or busting my balls?"
"Both."
"Forget it. It's over."
"You're letting me off that easy? Don't you want to hit me with at least one I-told-you-so?"
"Hell, no. Ah want you to finish your drink, then fix mah damn satellite dish."
Fifty-four
GO HENCE WITHOUT DAY
Victoria's heart was beating at a staccato pace, and she could feel her face heating up. Hal Griffin squeezed her hand so hard, she heard her knuckles crack.
As the clerk prepared to read the verdict, Victoria feared she wouldn't hear the words above the kerthumping in her chest.
"We, the jury, find the defendant Harold Griffin not guilty on the charge of murder in the second degree."
Yes! I did it. Okay, Steve helped. But I did it. A murder trial.
Griffin let out a long, whistling breath.
Waddle asked that the jurors be polled, and each affirmed the verdict, good and true. Judge Feathers thanked them for their service and told Griffin he was free to "go hence without day." Waddle gave Victoria a tight little "Congratulations" and said he'd be convening the Grand Jury to consider murder charges against Leicester Robinson. Sheriff Rask winked at her and gave two thumbs-up.
Minutes later, on the courthouse lawn, she was surrounded by reporters, courthouse regulars, even a few curious tourists. She answered questions and posed for photos. An enormous bearded man in flowered shorts shoved a microphone in her face. Billy Wahoo, radio host, who now claimed he'd told his listeners Griffin was innocent and Victoria would prove it.
She broke away from the reporters, and Griffin hugged her once, twice, three times, then hurried off. The Queen was waiting at the airport, the Gulfstream's engines were already warming up. They'd planned a little celebration. Just the two of them, his place in Costa Rica.
Junior picked Victoria up and twirled her around, a Ferragamo pump flying off. He retrieved it from under the kapok tree, then knelt at her feet. Prince Charming to her Cinderella. She put a hand on his shoulder for balance and slipped her foot back into the shoe.
You're sweet, dear hunkalicious Junior, but you're not my prince.
Then she saw Steve across the street, standing in the doorway of the Green Parrot, a beer in his hand. Violating the open container law, a misdemeanant in nylon running shorts and T-shirt. She motioned Steve to come over, join the fun, but he shook his head. A moment later, she headed his way.
They walked along Duval Street, Victoria bouncing on her toes, swinging her purse.
Steve knew the feeling. Not so much joy as a lightness in being. First, the crushing weight is lifted, that uber-gravity of responsibility a lawyer bears when defending a client charged with murder. Then a sense of personal redemption: The state with all its money and all its minions condemned your client, branded him a murderer, and you're the tough guy who stood in the alley, arms crossed, saying, "You'll have to go through me, first."
But no chest-thumping, no triumphant exultation. More a vicarious pleasure for this living, breathing person who depends on you the way a patient depends on a surgeon.
"I wish you'd heard my closing." Victoria's cheeks were still flushed with excitement.
"Willis said you were riveting. And ravishing."
"I came up with a theme and drilled it into the jurors, just like you taught me."
"The 'extra step.' Willis told me."
Victoria's voice fell into its courtroom cadence. "In most cases, the defense is content to show there's reasonable doubt as to guilt. But here, we took the extra step. We've proved not just that Harold Griffin is innocent. We've proved who is guilty. Clive Fowles murdered Ben Stubbs."
Steve chose not to disagree. It was, after all, his story.
"I kept drilling it in," Victoria continued. "We took this extra step. We took that extra step. Then I asked the jurors: 'So what did the state do? The state charged the most convenient person, the other man on the boat. The state skipped a step. They skipped over the real killer and hauled the wrong man into court.' "
"Nicely phrased. Easy to remember. What'd you say about Robinson?"
" 'Leicester Robinson is a man of great intellect and ability. But utterly amoral and totally corrupt. Like rotten mackerel by moonlight, he shines and stinks at the same time.' "
"Cute. But didn't I use that once?"
"Twice. But I changed snapper to mackerel for the alliteration."
"Nice work all around. Great job."
She beamed at him then skipped a step of her own. If her mood were any more airy, Steve thought, she'd be floating. They passed an ice-cream parlor, the aroma of hot waffle cones wafting onto the sidewalk. Next, he knew from personal experience, would come her hunger pangs.
"I'm famished," Victoria said. "Want to grab lunch?"
Aha. Right on cue.
"I can always eat, Vic. You know that."
The cafes were jammed with the cruise-ship passengers, unleashed on the town for five hours before the horns blew and they rushed back to the harbor like rats heeding the pied piper.
"What about here, Steve? Your pal's place. We'll get that barbecued tuna you like so much."
Sure enough, they were in front of the Margaritaville Cafe, one of Jimmy Buffett's restaurants. The place was packed, with a line of starving patrons snaking out the door. Most had that pudgy, sunburned, tropical shirt right-off-the-hanger Midwestern look. Steve and Victoria moved to the end of the line.
"And how about some shrimp with andouille sauce?" she continued.
"Absolutely."
"But let's start with chowder with conch fritters and smoked fish spread."
"Anything you want. I'm buying."
"In that case, a couple of rum runners. And key lime pie for dessert."
More than she usually eats in a week.
He had planned to wait until she was on her second rum runner, but as they reached the end of the line, he just blurted it out: "Should we talk, Vic? About the future."
"Yes. I've wanted to."
"You really made a name for yourself with this one, so I'll understand if you still want to fly solo, but I'm thinking we shouldn't break up the firm."
"I'm thinking the same thing."
"Really?"
Could it be this easy?
"Handling Uncle Grif's trial was good for me," she said. "Really good. But we're better together than we are apart."
"Couldn't agree more."
"But you've got to give me room to grow."
"Lots of room. Lots of growing. No problem."
They inched forward but were still nowhere near the front door. "And we need to make some changes," Victoria said.
"Change is good."
"Those ads on
the back of the Metro buses. Our faces right above the tailpipes. Let's get rid of them."
"They're good for business," Steve protested.
"They're tacky."
"They're gone. What else?"
"I want you to stop representing The Beav."
"Why? You know I don't mess around with the girls."
"It's unseemly."
"Jeez, Vic. You're starting to sound like your mother."
She shot him a look and he surrendered. "Okay, okay. Scratch The Beav."
That drew a look from the middle-aged woman in front of them, a tourist with eyeglasses on a faux pearl chain. Her husband wore madras Bermuda shorts with a long-sleeve white shirt.
"I wonder if your buddy's here." Victoria peeked around the people in front of them. The line wasn't moving. "He'd give us the VIP treatment for sure."
"I don't think Jimmy Buffett waits tables, Vic." Tangy smells drifted over them. Something was gnawing at Steve, something other than hunger pangs. "All we've talked about is Solomon and Lord. What about …?"
"Steve and Victoria?"
"Yeah. Aren't we better together than apart in that department, too?"
"I guess so." She leaned over and kissed him. "But I need a little time, okay?"
"I've been thinking about everything that's happened since the day the Force Majeure crashed."
"Me, too. Starting with your wanting to have sex in the ocean."
The woman in front of them turned and gawked over the top of her eyeglasses.
"I'm going to be a better person," Steve said. "A better dad to Bobby. A better son. A better partner to you."
"Don't get too much better, Steve. I kind of like you the way you are."
"Really? You don't want me to change?"
"Just one thing. From now on, total honesty. Complete candor and openness. Not even a white lie."
"No problema. By the way, did you know I was Phi Beta Kappa?"
"I'm serious, Steve. The truth. The whole truth. And nothing but the truth."
Not exactly the phrase he wanted to hear. "The most beautiful words in the English language," he said.
There was a commotion in front of them. A buzz in the conversation. Then someone applauded. A balding, suntanned middle-aged man in shorts, sandals, and a flowered shirt came out of the restaurant. People in line stopped him and shook hands. Some whipped out tour maps and pens and seemed to be asking for autographs.
"Steve! Look, it's Jimmy Buffett."
Steve craned his sore neck to get a better look. "You sure? Looks like one of those impersonators to me. Maybe he's got one in every restaurant."
"No, it's him. C'mon, Steve, say hello to him."
"Why so excited? You're not even a fan."
"But you're a major parrothead. And you're his bud. Maybe you can plan a fishing trip."
In a moment, Buffett worked his way to their position.
"Jimmy!" She grabbed one of his hands with both of hers. "I'm Victoria Lord, and here's your buddy Steve." She looked around. "Steve?"
He had wedged himself between two tourists. Victoria grabbed him by an elbow and dragged him over. "Maybe you two can chase the wily wahoo, or whatever it is you like to do."
Appearing confused, the man extended a hand to Steve. "Hi, I'm Jimmy Buffett. Welcome to Margaritaville."
"Steve Solomon." They shook hands.
"Wait a second," Victoria said. "Don't you two drink and fish together with Sheriff Rask?"
"You know Willis?" Jimmy said. "Helluva guy.
Well, nice meeting you, Steve." He moved down the line and shook some more hands.
Victoria cocked her head and studied Steve, who seemed to be counting the eyelets on his Reeboks.
"You can't change, can you, Steve?"
"We are who we are."
"You're right." The line moved a few paces, and they stepped with it. The aroma of fresh-baked bread grew stronger. "My mother. Your father. You. Me."
"What are you saying, Vic?"
"You taught me more than how to cross-examine. Remember what you said about your father? 'Love means accepting the other person just the way he is. Because he has to do the same.' "
"Yeah?"
She moved closer and nestled her head on his shoulder. "What's the ocean temperature today?"
"Warm. Eighty, eighty-one, maybe."
"Sounds wonderful. I know a secluded beach just off mile marker thirty-two."
"And …?
"You have swim trunks in the car?"
He shook his head.
"That's all right, Steve." She slipped her arms around him and drew close. "You won't need them."
SOLOMON'S LAWS
1. If the facts don't fit the law …bend the facts.
2. Always assume your client is guilty. It saves time.
3. Beware of a sheriff who forgets to load his gun but remembers the words to "Margaritaville."
4. You can sell one improbable event to a jury. A second "improb" is strictly no sale, and a third sends your client straight to prison.
5. "Love" means taking a bullet for your beloved. Anything short of that is just "like."
6. The client who lies to his lawyer is like a husband who cheats on his wife. It seldom happens just once.
7. When meeting an ex-girlfriend you dumped, always assume she's armed.
8. If a guy who's smart, handsome, and rich invites you and your girlfriend to a nudist club. . chances are he's got a giant shmeckel.
9. The people we've known the longest are often the people we know the least.
10. Choose a juror the way you choose a lover. Someone who doesn't expect perfection and forgives your bullshit.
11. If you're afraid of taking a big lead, you'll never get picked off. . but you'll never steal a base, either.
12. When a man and woman are in total sync- thinking each other's thoughts, making each other laugh, bringing each other joy-they've hit the sweet spot, and just being together is better than. . almost as good as sex.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-7d6c40-ab0e-174c-e984-0cd1-f4d1-abd128
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 28.05.2012
Created using: calibre 0.8.53, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.3 software
Document authors :
Paul Levine
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