by Steve Brewer
“Suing me is just so tacky,” she said as Ileana, the spa attendant, patted her feet dry.
“Steve didn’t sue you, Mother. He sued your country club. You just happened to be chairperson of the membership committee, so you were named in your representative capacity.”
Irene dismissed that notion with a wave of her freshly painted fingernails. “My name’s on the papers.”
“A technicality.”
“Tell that to Gloria Tuttle and Helen Flagler.”
Gloria and Helen. Her mother’s best friends. The royal bitches of the Biscayne Royale Country Club. Steve had sued the club on behalf of a client who’d been expelled after his conviction for mail fraud. Something about violating the high-moral-character clause of the membership agreement. Steve’s lawsuit claimed that his client was being unfairly singled out, given that a sizeable percentage of his fellow Royale members were philanderers, tax cheats, and alcoholics. He threatened to question every member, under oath, in open court.
“Ouch! Jesus, Ileana.”
“Disculpe, señora.” Ileana dropped her orangewood stick. “Lo siento.”
“You know how sensitive my cuticles are.”
Victoria had come today not only for the pedicure but to seek her mother’s counsel. The problem, as always, was to get The Queen to focus on someone other than herself. If self-absorption were an Olympic sport, Irene Lord would win the gold.
Ileana was rounding the corners of Irene’s little toe with a grit board when Victoria finally pleaded, “Mother, I need your full attention, and I really need your help.”
Irene raised her plucked eyebrows—dyed to match her hair—and smiled tolerantly. “Of course. What’s a mother for?”
It took Victoria fifteen minutes to describe the conflicts of interest, both professional and personal, plaguing her. Then, as Ileana finished up with a delicious calf massage, The Queen weighed in. “You’re in a lose-lose situation. If you win the case, you’ll lose Steve.”
“Why?”
“Men are fragile creatures with tender egos, dear. Let’s say you’re having dinner. If you mention that your man is losing his hair, he’ll never get it up that night.”
“Steve’s not losing his hair. Or his erection.”
“Not yet. But if you beat him in court, what then?”
“Steve’s ego is fine. He never hogs the spotlight when we try cases together. He always gives me credit when we win.”
“Sure, when you’re on the same side.”
“What about when I beat him in tennis? He just laughs it off.”
“Because tennis is your game. You were the college player. He’s just a hacker. But the courtroom belongs to him. It’s his identity. It’s where he keeps his cojones.”
Victoria thought about it while Ileana massaged her mother’s toes, pulling each one as if milking a cow. It wasn’t fair. Prosecuting a high-profile murder case was a huge opportunity. And just why was her mother so concerned about Steve, anyway?
“Why are you worried about my losing Steve when you dislike him so much?” she asked.
“My feelings for Stephen are quite irrelevant. You love him. And he adores you.”
“So you’re actually thinking of me?”
“What’s so unusual about that?”
That’s when Victoria decided. It was simple, really. Her mother was dishing out advice from a prior generation. Maybe the generation before that. The Queen was stuck in a time warp of her own mother’s making. Women nowadays didn’t have to defer to their mates. They no longer had to be subservient. Or worry about hurting delicate feelings.
“Mother, I am not going to back off.”
Irene exhaled a breath that stopped just short of a sigh. “As long as you know the risk.”
“There might be another way.”
“How?”
Victoria slipped a foot into a terry cloth sandal. “I have to get back to the office, Mother.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“I have a motion and a brief to write. Something that will catch Steve by total surprise.”
“Tell me, dear. I love surprises.”
“I’m not going to beat Steve at trial. I’m going to beat him now, before we ever get to the courtroom.”
Fifteen
FOOTBALL AND MURDER
Victoria was having second thoughts about her outfit. Usually, she went for a subdued and professional look. Classy and conservative.
Not St. John Conservative. More like Calvin Klein Conservative. Something in muted tweed, a one-button jacket over a knee-length skirt.
But today was different. Today she was up against the craftiest opponent she would ever face—her lover and partner.
Victoria had filed a motion to disqualify Steve as defense counsel. He was, after all, a witness to the crime. Further, it was unseemly, if not downright unethical, that the prosecutor and defense lawyer were law partners and lovers.
Stapled to Victoria’s motion was a twenty-two-page well-reasoned brief, citing several dozen cases as precedent. There was no question, no gray area, no room for debate. Steve would have to step aside.
As usual, Steve the Shark filed no written response to the motion. He would rely on his verbal skills, his ability to tap-dance around land mines.
In ten minutes, they would argue the motion before Judge Gridley, and Victoria was confident that before the morning was over, Steve would be tossed from the courtroom like an obnoxious drunk from a tavern.
At the moment, her only worries were sartorial.
She walked into Judge Gridley’s chambers wearing a fiery orange tank top covered by a blue Ellen Tracy shirt jacket. The Armani skirt matched the top, and her Hermés portfolio bag matched the jacket.
Radiant orange and brilliant blue. University of Florida colors. All because State v. Nash had fallen into the division of Judge Erwin Gridley, Bull Gator Emeritus, one of the biggest and baddest reptiles in the state.
She had resorted to the cheap ploy only after watching Steve get dressed earlier that morning. Blue blazer, orange shirt, and that stupid tie crawling with alligators. Shameless. So she had no choice. After he’d left the house for an early hearing, she’d carefully chosen her own outfit.
As she entered chambers, Judge Gridley was nowhere to be seen. The walls displayed the usual plaques and photos; the credenza held an assortment of footballs, helmets, jerseys, and the latest national championship replica trophy. A stuffed alligator head, showing a toothy smile, sat on His Honor’s desk.
Steve was already seated at the conference table, displaying his own snarky grin. “You look like a highway barricade,” he said in greeting.
“And you’re a complete phony. A Miami grad wearing Gator colors.”
Judge Gridley rumbled in, shed his black robe, revealing orange-and-blue suspenders. Bulky, bald, and trifocaled, he plopped into his high-back chair.
Steve immediately began humming “We Are the Boys from Old Florida.”
“What the heck are you two lovebirds doing on opposite sides of the table?” the judge asked in his Panhandle accent.
“Motion to disqualify Mr. Solomon as defense counsel,” Victoria said. She told the judge about her appointment as special prosecutor, her relationship with Steve, and his presence at the crime scene. She cited three appellate court cases in support of her position, and spoke with the confidence of a lawyer who is both factually prepared and legally correct.
As she laid out her argument, the judge fiddled with a flatbed railroad car. Not a real one, a Lionel model. Gridley’s obsession with his alma mater was nearly matched by his love of model trains. A three-inch O-gauge track ran from the desk, around the conference table, and back to his desk again. Lawyers took care not to place their pleadings on the tracks in order to avoid derailments.
Victoria finished her argument, and leaned back in her chair. Judge Gridley turned to Steve. “Ms. Lord’s got more horsepower than the Sunset Limited. I’m inclined to toss you off the train unless you can
get me to switch tracks, Counselor.”
“A defendant is entitled to counsel of his choice,” Steve began. “I’ve been retained by Gerald Nash. Obviously, this situation is delicate because the prosecutor is both my law partner and . . .”
He paused, apparently searching for a word.
And what, smooth talker?
“Playmate,” he concluded.
Victoria bristled. “I’m no one’s playmate, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon and I live together. Currently.”
“If y’all are shacked up, Mr. Solomon, how you gonna try a case against each other?”
“Precisely, Your Honor,” Victoria said. “The only question is, whom shall Your Honor require to withdraw?”
“Yes, whom?” Steve echoed in his smart-aleck tone.
“Mr. Solomon must withdraw. He was present at the crime scene and apprehended Gerald Nash,” Victoria said. “He’s a witness.”
Steve loosened the knot on his alligator tie. “A witness to an uncontradicted fact. My nephew saw Mr. Nash. So did Wade Grisby. So did the cops.”
“Irrelevant, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon can’t be both a witness and defense counsel.”
“Bogus argument, Judge. We’ll stipulate to my client’s presence at the scene.”
“Don’t call my arguments bogus,” Victoria snapped.
“Bogus, bogus. Hocus-pocus.”
You can’t taunt me into losing my cool. Not anymore.
“Your Honor,” Victoria said, calmly, “the case of State versus Linsenmeyer settled this issue. I’ve prepared a brief on the point.”
“Lemme see it.” Gridley grabbed his long-billed engineer’s hat and yelled, “All a-b-b-b-board!” He hit a switch on a console, and a model train started chugging from his desk to the conference table. A classic engine, the Florida East Coast Railway Warbonnet, a scale model of the diesel that a half century ago transported the Gator football team to Jacksonville for the annual game against Georgia.
The train pulled to a stop in front of Victoria, who placed her memorandum on a flatbed car. The whistle tooted, white smoke billowed from a tiny stack, and the train clickety-clacked to the end of the table, where it passed through a tunnel.
“You got a countermemo?” the judge asked Steve as the train emerged from the tunnel and made a slow turn in his direction.
“No, sir. I rely on common sense, the Common Law, and Your Honor’s own uncommon wisdom.” Now he was humming the fight song, “The Orange and the Blue.”
The Warbonnet sped past Steve, tooting twice, spewing a trickle of smoke.
When the train pulled to a stop, the judge grabbed the document, scanned it, and said, “Ms. Lord is right on the law. I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon, but without some contrary precedent, the conductor’s gonna have to toss you off the train somewhere around Ocala.”
“Judge, just because I didn’t brief the point doesn’t mean I don’t have precedent. I’d cite the case of Florida State versus Clemson.”
What case? What damn case is that?
“Also Florida State versus Auburn.”
What the hell is Steve talking about?
The judge cocked his head and murmured a soft “Hmmm.” He picked up a miniature brush and dusted off a freight car. “Bobby and Tommy and Terry. Hadn’t thought of that.”
Bobby and Tommy and Terry?
“When those sumbitches play,” the judge continued, “you got father against sons. You get it, Ms. Lord?”
“Not exactly, Your Honor.”
“Bobby Bowden coaches those dog-ass Seminoles, known in these parts as the Criminoles. His son Tommy coaches Clemson and son Terry used to coach Auburn. If a father and son can coach against each other, why the heck can’t you two oppose each other in court?” Judicial wisdom glittered in His Honor’s eye.
“But a football game isn’t a murder trial,” Victoria protested.
“Damn right. Football’s bigger. This courthouse sees hundreds of murder trials a year. But something like Florida State versus Clemson . . . well, that only happens once a year.”
Victoria was floundering. She didn’t know how to respond. There didn’t seem to be case law to refute the notion that college football is more important than felony murder. On the other side of the table, Steve kept quiet, not even trying to suppress that infuriating grin.
“But let me ask you this,” the judge mused. “You two aren’t gonna be playing footsie under the table, are you?”
“Certainly not,” Victoria said.
“Not till after court,” Steve said.
“Y’all argue when you’re on the same side of the table. I don’t see much chance of collusion, so I’m inclined to let you have a go at each other. State’s motion to disqualify is hereby denied.”
Oh, no. This judge clearly played football too long without a helmet.
“But, Your Honor,” Victoria said, “lawyers have to go for the kill. Crush the opposition. When you’re in a relationship, how can you be expected to—”
“That train’s left the station.” The judge hit a switch and the train’s whistle tooted. “You two are gonna try this case. Now git, both of you. Go home and figure it out.”
“Figure what out?” Victoria said, bewildered.
“How to litigate by day and copulate by night,” the judge replied, hitting the whistle for one long, last toot.
Sixteen
SQUID PRO QUO
His ball cap pulled low over his eyes to shade the sun, Bobby stood in right field, legs crossed, gloved hand brushing a mosquito from his neck. He watched his own elongated shadow stretch toward the outfield fence and tried to figure the exact angle of the sun. If he knew that number, he could compute the length of his shadow within ten centimeters.
His mind drifted. He wasn’t thinking about the pitcher or the batter or the consequences of a fly ball floating his way. He was thinking about the wad of bubble gum in his mouth that had lost its flavor, about the yellow jackets buzzing around the wildflowers, and about Rich Shactman.
What’s the best way to kill The Shit?
Poison?
The Beth Am Bobcats were ahead 9 to 6, no thanks to Bobby. He’d struck out twice and dribbled a feeble ground ball to the first baseman his last time up. So far, no one on the Plymouth Church Pioneers had hit a fly ball to right field.
One of the hexacyanides? Pour it in Shactman’s Coke.
The prick had clobbered two home runs, strutting across home plate each time, posing, chest thrust forward, as his father shot video.
Plastique? Blow him to kingdom come.
Bottom of the seventh inning, the last inning in the Palmetto Sunday School League. Bobby vaguely knew there were two outs. The game would be over any moment, and he could get out of the sun.
Speargun? Grandpop shoots Florida lobsters . . . when the Marine Patrol isn’t around.
Bobby wondered what was taking so long. Now he noticed the bases were loaded with Pioneers. He heard the clunk of metal bat hitting leather ball. He looked up.
Oh, shit.
Short fly ball over the second baseman’s head, into right field. Bobby took off, a flurry of elbows and knees. He wished he could run like Uncle Steve, smooth and fast.
“Catch it, dickwad!” Rich Shactman screamed from center field.
The ball reached its apogee; it started its descent. Bobby’s brain crackled.
Catch the ball and the game’s over.
If it drops in front of me, it’s only a single. One run scores; maybe two. We’re still ahead by a run.
Or I could dive and make the catch.
On Sports Center, they always show those diving catches on the Top Ten plays. Major leaguers make it look easy. Slide on your rump; reach out; grab the ball underhanded just above the grass; hoist the glove to show the ump you caught it clean.
Go for it!
Bobby tried to slide, but his legs tangled and he tumbled forward, arms spread, as if he’d been shot in the back. A second later, he felt a thump as the ball bounced off his butt and
landed in the grass.
“Pick it up, dipshit!”
Shactman again, louder. Running toward Bobby, maybe to pummel him, maybe to grab the ball himself.
The runner from third walked home.
Bobby scrambled to his feet, whirled, located the ball just behind him.
The runner from second scored standing up.
Bobby picked up the ball, but for reasons known only to the gods of the game, he dropped it. Picked it up again, dropped it again. Shactman was shrieking.
The runner from first crossed the plate. The score was tied.
Bobby picked up the ball cleanly this time. The batter neared third base at full speed. The third base coach waved him around, betting Bobby couldn’t make a decent throw to the plate.
Plenty of time. I can do this.
Miguel Juarez, the husky catcher, a ringer on the Beth Am team, stood at the plate, waiting for the throw.
I can throw the ball to him on the fly. Yes, I can.
The batter rounded third, head down, hauling ass for home. Bobby remembered everything Uncle Steve had taught him. He planted his back foot and stepped forward, reaching down with his right arm and extending his left arm for balance. He kept his eyes on Miguel and came over the top, releasing the ball just after his arm passed over his head. The motion was smooth, and Bobby was amazed at how hard he’d thrown the ball.
“A cannon for an arm.” That’s what they say on Sports Center about Vladimir Guerrero.
The throw was right on line. Straight at Miguel Juarez, guarding home plate. This was gonna be AMAZING.
“What a throw by Bobby Solomon! Our top play tonight on ESPN. Does that kid have a gun or what?”
Hands on hips, Miguel looked up. Watched the ball sail over his head. Over the backstop. Over eight rows of bleachers. And land in the parking lot with the sound of glass shattering.
The batter scored and leapt into the arms of his ecstatic teammates. High-fiving, yelling, laughing, smacking one another on the shoulder, blowing bubbles with their gum. Final score: Plymouth Church Pioneers 10, Beth Am Bobcats 9.