by Paul Levine
“You cannot rule out the possibility of accidental death, can you, Dr. Yang?” Steve said.
“Could be accident, that's right.”
Steve made sure the reporters in the gallery saw him smile. He gave Victoria's neck one last squeeze, released her, and sat down. “Nothing further.”
Victoria knew that her face was flushed. She wondered if anyone else noticed. Next to her, Katrina leaned over and whispered. “Before we're done today, do you think he can do that to me, too?”
Dr. Yang had left the courtroom and Homicide Detective Delvin Farnsworth was answering questions by the time Victoria felt her body temperature return to normal. She didn't know Farnsworth but had checked around. A twenty-year veteran with a brush mustache and alert, dark eyes, he had a reputation for honesty and competence. She had read his report, so there no were surprises in his direct testimony.
Paramedics had responded to Mrs. Barksdale's 911 call at 11:39 P.M. on November 16, and after attempts to resuscitate her husband failed, the police were called. When they arrived, Charles Barksdale was naked except for a leather collar and what Farnsworth called a “silver-studded leather testicles pouch with a penile opening.” A leather mask with a built-in latex dildo was on the floor nearby.
Mrs. Barksdale told detectives that she had engaged in her customary sex play involving cutting off her husband's air supply to enhance his orgasm, Detective Farnsworth testified. This time, during a break in the action, something happened, and her husband stopped breathing. That occurred when she was nearly twenty feet from the bed in a wet-bar alcove of the master suite, and she apparently did not immediately realize that her husband was in distress. The detective raised his bushy eyebrows when reciting that tidbit.
Crime-scene techs tagged and bagged various erotic paraphernalia, including leather straps and collars, chains, masks, fleece-lined handcuffs, cat-o'-nine-tails, and what an evidence form termed a “battery-operated anal stimulation device.”
Steve stood up on cross. “What was Mrs. Barksdale's demeanor when you questioned her?”
“She was crying,” Detective Farnsworth said.
“About what you would expect from a woman whose husband just died?”
“Objection, irrelevant,” Pincher said.
“Overruled,” the judge said.
“I've seen so many reactions, I don't know what to expect anymore,” Farnsworth said.
“Just what in your investigation made you conclude that the death of Charles Barksdale was not an accident?”
“The totality of the circumstances.”
“That doesn't tell us much.”
“Wasn't intended to.”
“What was Mrs. Barksdale's motive for killing her husband?”
“Objection,” Pincher said. “Improper foundation. Goes beyond scope of direct. And protected by work product.”
“I'll be the judge of that,” Judge Schwartz said. He seemed to think about it, then added, “In fact, I am the judge of that. How'd I rule on the last objection?”
“You overruled it,” Pincher said.
“Then this one's sustained.”
“Let me ask it this way,” Steve said. “Did Katrina Barksdale have any reason to kill her husband?”
“I wouldn't know,” the detective said.
“Did he deprive her of food, clothing, trips to the South of France?”
“I'd say he provided for her quite well.”
“Quite well,” Steve repeated. He opened a large portfolio and pulled out a photo blown up to poster size: the Barksdales in formal attire. “That diamond pendant Katrina's wearing at the Attention Deficit Disorder brunch. Who do you suppose bought her that?”
“Wild guess, her husband,” Farnsworth said.
Steve moved closer to the witness stand and held up another photo. “What about the aquamarine and diamond brooch she wore to the Stop Bulimia Now dinner?”
“Same guess.”
Steve returned to his table and Victoria handed him a file folder thick with receipts. Neiman Marcus. Getz Jewelers. Bavarian Custom Motorcars.
“The generosity went both ways,” Steve said. “Did you know that in the last two months before Charles' unfortunate demise, Mrs. Barksdale bought him a sapphire ring, three Zegna suits, and a Breitling Superocean watch, twenty-five jewels, with the extra-large face?”
“She spent a lot of his money. What of it?”
In the gallery, Bobby squirmed in his seat and gestured toward Steve, who caught the movement but shook his head. “What about in these photos? Katrina and Charles look happy?”
“Objection,” Pincher said. “It's irrelevant how they looked in photographs.”
“How'd I rule last time?” the judge asked.
“You sustained,” Pincher said wearily.
“Overruled.”
“Do the Barksdales look happy?” Steve repeated.
“I'm a homicide detective,” Farnsworth said. “We're not experts on happiness.”
Steve pulled out another poster-size photo. “And this shot from the Save the Manatees dinner?”
“He's kissing her. She's got lots of jewelry. What's your question?”
“Does Katrina look like she's about to kill her husband?”
“Probably not that evening.”
“How many pictures do you have?” the judge asked, growing bored.
“Hundreds, Your Honor. The joy of this couple was infinite. But let's wrap it up with this one.” Steve turned toward the witness but spoke to the reporters. “Three months before he died, Charles Barksdale turned sixty. For a surprise birthday party, Katrina Barksdale sent the whole world a message. She gathered her husband's friends on their boat. She arranged for a band and a gourmet meal. And finally . . .”
He lowered his voice, using the lawyer's trick of garnering more attention with softer words. “Katrina hired an airplane to tow a banner across the sky.”
Victoria glanced at Pincher. Why didn't he object? Steve was testifying, not asking a question. Strictly speaking, all of this was irrelevant to bail. Why was the State Attorney as still as a potted plant?
Steve hoisted the airplane photo into view and waltzed along the bar, making sure the reporters had a good look before turning back to the witness. “What does the banner say, Detective Farnsworth? What did Katrina Barksdale proclaim in letters ten feet tall?”
“Katrina loves Charles,” Farnsworth said.
“KATRINA LOVES CHARLES!” Steve blared.
“Would it be impolite,” Pincher asked, “to inquire what the point of all this is?”
“The point,” Steve said, “is that the prosecution has not shown that the proof of guilt is evident or the presumption great. There's no evidence that the death was even a homicide. Indeed, all that's been proven today is that Katrina Barksdale loved her husband very much. The court must therefore release her, pending trial.”
Steve ambled back to his chair, circled the prosecution table, and grinned at the gallery. His victory lap. Like he'd just scored from first on a single and wanted the moment to linger. Then he sat down, reaching over to squeeze Victoria's hand. As he did, a tiny spark of static electricity jolted them both.
WIDOW FREE ON MILLION-DOLLAR BOND
Sky-High Message: “Katrina loves Charles,”
By Joan Fleischman
Herald Staff Writer
Katrina Barksdale, accused of murder in the asphyxiation death of her husband, Charles Barksdale, walked out of the Women's Detention Center today, free on one million dollars bond.
Over the strenuous objections of State Attorney Raymond Pincher, Judge Alvin Schwartz granted bail following a two-hour hearing. “Murderers belong in jail, not free on bail,” Pincher said.
Defense lawyers Stephen Solomon and Victoria Lord argued that the state could not even prove Charles Barksdale was murdered, much less that his wife was the guilty party. The defense contends that the 60-year-old construction magnate accidentally suffocated during consensual sex with his 33-year-old wife.
Solomon also introduced a series of photographs of the couple in an attempt to show that they were deeply in love. In one photo, an airplane towed a banner reading, “Katrina Loves Charles.”
At a post-hearing press conference, Solomon set the tone for the forthcoming trial. “My client is a woman who loved her husband as much as I love the law,” he said.
After turning over a deed to the couple's Gables Estates mansion as security, Katrina Barksdale was released, pending trial.
Twenty-three
HOW BIG IS YOUR BIGBY?
Clothes strewn across his bed, Steve dressed for dinner, trying to choose between a boring brown plaid suit he'd bought on sale years ago and a charcoal gray pinstripe job that would be suitable for an execution. Ordinarily, dinner attire meant khaki shorts and a rugby shirt, but tonight Steve had to convince Dr. Doris Kranchick that he was a solid citizen, a marrying man.
“The brown's friendly and the gray's powerful,” Steve said, unable to decide.
“Both are dorky,” Bobby said. He was drinking a peanut butter and chocolate shake, one of Steve's concoctions to help the boy gain weight. “Didn't you see me waving at you in court?”
“Yeah, what was that all about?” Steve held the brown plaid jacket up to the mirror. “You know better than to interrupt me when I'm rocking.”
“I wanted to tell you something—”
“Dr. Kranchick, you look lovely tonight,” Steve practiced into the mirror.
“—about that Breitling watch.”
“Did I look like I was lying just then?”
“No more than usual. Are you listening, Uncle Steve?”
“Yeah, the watch Katrina bought for Charles. Maybe I should ask Victoria what she's wearing. We could be color-coordinated.”
“Then you'd be super dorky.” Bobby slurped the shake, a glob of peanut butter stuck in the straw. “What I wanted to tell you, I looked at all the pictures, and Mr. Barksdale had skinny arms and wrists.”
“So?”
“All his other watches were thin, but the Breitling Superocean is thick. It's heavy-duty, good to like three thousand feet.”
“So it's a dive watch. What of it?”
“In those pictures on the beach and on boats, why wasn't he ever wearing it?”
Steve was looking for a tie to match the brown plaid. “Like you said, it wasn't his style. Maybe he didn't like it.”
“So why'd Mrs. Barksdale buy it for him?”
“Because she's a ditz. What difference does it make?”
“Was Mr. Barksdale a scuba diver?”
“I doubt he ever got out of the Jacuzzi. Can you wear a striped tie with a plaid—” Steve stopped. A feeling of dread crept over him. “Are you saying what I think you're saying?”
“If you ask me, Uncle Steve, Mrs. Barksdale bought the watch for somebody who wasn't her husband.”
At about the same time as Steve was trying to match a plaid suit with a striped tie, Victoria was dressing in Jackie Tuttle's Grove Isle condo. They had played two hours of tennis, Victoria rushing the net whenever possible, and sometimes when it wasn't. Jackie had been content to stand at the baseline and hit a variety of dinks, drops, and dipsy doodles, expending as little energy as possible while talking nonstop. Flying to the net was not only draining, it could also break a girl's nose if she got walloped by one of Victoria's powerful volleys.
Now, after showering and downing a pair of gin and tonics each, they were slipping into their clothes while chattering about work and men and a shoe sale at Bloomingdale's. Jackie had changed into a Roberto Cavalli black spandex top with open shoulders, dripping with gold-tone chains. Examining herself in the mirror, she cupped both hands under her breasts and lifted them. “How do my bazooms look?”
“Big and bodacious,” Victoria said.
“That's the idea.”
Victoria chose a consignment-shop Ralph Lauren dress, white silk from the waist down, a sexy silver mesh racer's back on top. Like a wrestler's singlet, it was scooped low, leaving her shoulders and most of her back bare.
“You can't wear a bra with that,” Jackie said, pouring herself into tight, stretchy black and gold jeans that picked up the gold chain motif.
“Wasn't planning to. Do I look too flat-chested?”
“Not a bit. It's great on you. Really hot. You just don't usually . . .”
“What?”
“Dress like that. But it's terrific.”
Victoria borrowed a pair of Jackie's shoes—ankle-wrap champagne sandals with three-inch heels—then spent longer than usual on her makeup, trying the chestnut lip liner before starting over with red chocolate, a perfect match with the naked pink lipstick. Jackie watched, a small smile playing at the corners of her mouth.
“What now?” Victoria demanded.
“Nothing. You just seem different tonight. Less inhibited.”
“I'm playing a role, that's all.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I need to make an impression.”
“On the doctor or the Bad Boy?”
“Don't start with that. I'm playing the kind of woman Solomon would marry.”
“When you're with Bruce, do you play the kind of woman he'd marry?”
“What's that mean?”
“Don't take this wrong,” Jackie said, “because I'm your absolutely best friend and I'm not being catty. But I'm just wondering. Which is the real you?”
An hour later, the two women were sitting at a table for five at the Coconut Grove Yacht Club, a pleasantly aging relic of a more genteel era, just yards from the marina. The sun was just setting over the Everglades, but Victoria and Jacqueline already had downed two martinis each. Knowing how much Steve was depending on her, Victoria was starting to feel the pressure. She also had doubts about her mission: How on earth could she reverse whatever lousy impression Steve already had made? She signaled the waiter. Maybe another drink would settle her nerves.
“This time,” Jackie said, “I've really sworn off men. That's why I'm reading Life Without Dick.”
“That's a book?” Victoria said.
“In the self-help section, right next to Slouching Toward Celibacy.”
“This doesn't sound like you.”
“All these years I've been looking for a genius with a penis. Then I figured I'd settle for either one. Now I'm torn between flying solo and muff diving.”
“No way.”
“You don't think I'd make a good lesbo?”
“Definitely not.”
“It's that or nothing. Unless the Bad Boy turns me on.”
Two more martinis arrived. Victoria was feeling a pleasant buzz, and the tension started to ease. Sure, she could wow this doctor. Just bring her on. Outside the yacht club windows, the moored sailboats were bathed in a pink glow.
“Tell me more about him,” Jackie said.
“Solomon? He's incredibly competitive and hates to lose.”
“Gee, who does that sound like?”
“No way.”
“In the second set, why'd you smash an overhead right at my big butt?”
“An accident.” She sipped at her drink. “Solomon's a loner. Stubborn and independent.”
“No wonder you can't stand him. You're just alike.”
“I am not a loner.”
“Then why won't you play with me in the Christmas tournament?”
“You know why. I don't like doubles.”
“Because you hate depending on anyone else.”
Victoria thought about it. True, she wanted to win or lose on her own. Preferably win. What's wrong with that?
“Solomon's stubborn, bossy, and never admits he's wrong. And he loves the spotlight. You should have seen him at the press conference after the bail hearing. He's surrounded by these bimbos he says are his law clerks, but they're really South Beach models he's dated.”
“Another guy who's a modelizer? Jeez, I gotta lose weight.”
“The bimbos are fighting for face time, and Solomon's spo
uting off about how we're going to kick the prosecution's butt. It was unseemly and borderline unethical.”
“C'mon, he sounds like a hoot.”
Solomon did something else, too, something Victoria didn't mention because she was still processing it. With cameras rolling and questions firing, he'd veered into a soliloquy about the natural law and the sanctity of the marital bedroom and other riffs that none of the reporters cared about or understood. Then he noticed Victoria standing off to the side, out of camera range. He pulled her over and wrapped an arm around her shoulder.
“Don't forget to mention my partner,” he told the reporters. “Victoria Lord. Not ‘Vickie.' Victoria. She's gonna be the best trial lawyer Miami's ever seen.”
Solomon had surprised her again. Sure, he could be arrogant and a total jerk. But sometimes it seemed that his jerkiness was an act, that the nice guy underneath slipped out when he wasn't looking. The opposite of most men, who worked hard to conceal their truly disagreeable traits.
“In a word, Solomon is maddening,” she said.
Jackie nibbled at an olive. “Maddening is first cousin to enchanting.”
“Not to me.” She vowed to reject any cuddly thoughts of Solomon that might have been brought on by his press conference flattery.
“Does he ride a Harley?” Jackie asked. “I love Harleys.” She opened her black satin evening bag and took out her compact. Examining her face in the mirror, she smoothed out the lines in her forehead. “He better show up before we lose that magic hour glow.”
“Trust me, Jackie, he's not your type.”
“Why not? I won't like him or he won't like me?”
Victoria thought about it and came to a startling conclusion. In all likelihood, they would like each other. They had the same ribald sense of humor, the same breeziness. How could she not have seen it? And now that she had, why was she still reluctant to play matchmaker?