by Paul Levine
“Stretch them again, Solomon, and I'll tear your pants off.”
“Promises, promises.”
She laughed. Then so did he. Adrenaline draining, heart rate slowing, he relaxed. She released her grip, and Steve laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “Sugar Ray, you're the biggest, baddest lion in the jungle, so you don't have to piss all over the room to mark your territory. Now, I don't know what you're after today, but I figure you'll get around to telling us in your own slippery-ass way. Until then, I'm gonna take a little nap. Victoria, wake me when it's over.”
He tilted his chair back and closed his eyes.
He trusts me, Victoria thought. He trusts me not just to keep him from committing an assault, but to go mano a mano with the State Attorney.
“If you have exhibits for us, Mr. Pincher,” she said, “I'd appreciate them now. But if all you're going to do is insult my partner, I'll file a motion for sanctions.”
“Keep your training bra on,” Pincher replied.
Her head snapped back as if hit by a quick jab. “Is that a comment on the size of my breasts?”
“It's a comment on your lack of experience.”
“Funny, because it reminds me of a sexist remark I heard you make to Jack Zinkavich about Gloria. What was it? ‘I'd like to eat my lunch off that Cuban butt.'”
Victoria thought she heard Gloria Mendez suck in a breath. Next to her, Miranda Cooper shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Farnsworth clapped a hand over his face, stifling a grin. Pincher opened his mouth as if to say something. Apparently he couldn't think of anything.
“Sure you got that right, Victoria?” Steve asked, opening an eye. “You sure Pincher didn't tell Gloria he'd like to eat his lunch off Zinkavich's butt?”
“Steve, stay out of this,” she ordered.
“Yes, ma'am.”
“This isn't a joke. Mr. Pincher just committed a violation of federal law. If Gloria wanted to, she could file a complaint with the EEOC and the Ethics Commission, and so could I. So, Mr. Pincher, I advise you to continue your misogynist remarks at your own peril.”
“Woweee,” Steve yelled, pounding a drumbeat on the table. “Sugar Ray, you can beat the crap out of me all you want. But my partner's tougher than you are. She'll cut off your balls and wear them as earrings.”
My partner, Victoria thought. That's what Solomon just called her. My partner.
My partner, Steve thought. That's what she'd called him.
“If all you're going to do is insult my partner . . .”
After lashing him to his chair, she had leapt to his defense. Protecting him. Instead of him protecting her. But then, wasn't the lioness more ferocious than the lion?
“All right,” Pincher said, recovering his ability to speak. “You two have had your fun.” He nodded to Miranda Cooper, who opened a box, pulled out a dozen glossy photos, and slid them across the table.
Steve and Victoria looked at the first photo. A man and a woman on the flying bridge of a huge yacht. The woman was sprawled in the captain's chair, the man standing between her spread legs, both naked. A long-lens shot, the teak steering wheel gleaming in the sun, the woman's dark hair sailing in the wind. Frozen in mid-hump. The woman's face was clearly visible. Katrina Barksdale. The man's back was to the camera. The crack of his ass was in perfect focus.
“What's the jury gonna think when we show them this?” Pincher asked.
“Probably gonna wonder who's driving the boat,” Steve said.
The next shot showed the man's face. Chet Manko, no surprise there. His eyes were closed, his hands cupped under Katrina's ass. Then a tutorial of kama sutra positions—Katrina riding Manko cowgirl; him bending her over the rail doggie style; lying on the deck in the good old missionary position. The last photo showed Katrina with a mouth full of Manko.
“Enjoying the show, Solomon?” Pincher asked.
“What's the big deal? They're not breaking any laws, except maybe the ban on offshore drilling.”
“What's that you were saying at the bail hearing? ‘Katrina loves Charles'? You'll eat those words, Solomon.”
“So she was screwing around,” Steve said. “That doesn't mean she killed her husband. Hell, he's the one with the motive for murder, not her.”
Pincher turned to Farnsworth. “Del, you know what Solomon's thinking right now?”
Farnsworth gestured at a photo that showcased Katrina's shapely ass. “Probably wondering how he can get a piece of that.”
“He wants to know how we got the pictures and what else we got.”
Steve said: “I figure Charles Barksdale hired a peep, and the peep hired a boat.”
“Bingo.”
“I also figure he bugged the phones and the bedrooms.”
“And what do you think we've got on the tapes?”
Victoria said: “It doesn't matter. All tapes are inadmissible if Katrina didn't know she was being recorded.”
“Admissible in the Miami Herald,” Pincher said. “Your motion to suppress will be heard the day before jury selection. Maybe the judge will keep out the tapes, maybe he won't. Either way, they'll damn sure be on page one of the paper.”
“I assume you have transcripts for us,” Victoria said.
“Better than that.” Pincher nodded to Gloria Mendez, who opened a briefcase and pulled out a portable tape recorder.
“Tape A-twelve,” Gloria said. “Barksdale master bedroom suite, eleven-oh-three P.M., two weeks before the murder.”
“Alleged murder,” Victoria corrected her.
Gloria punched the PLAY button. For several seconds, the only sound was Sade singing “Smooth Operator.” Then a sleepy woman's voice: “Wish Charlie would stay away longer.”
A man grunted. “Uh.”
“You don't know what it's like. He makes my skin crawl.”
Katrina Barksdale's voice. No doubt about it.
“Uh-huh.” The man graduating to two syllables.
“He thinks he's so smart. All his books. All his poems.”
“Poetry's for fags.” The man again. Blue-collar Boston in voice. Chet Manko.
“Sometimes I wish he'd just disappear,” Katrina said.
“You want Mr. B gone, he's gone.”
There was a four-second pause.
“Smo-oo-th operator.”
“Bad idea, Chet. If we break up, cops snoop around, you might get nervous and cut a deal.”
“You dumping me?”
“I saw it on TV. Dateline, 60 Minutes, one of those. The wife's boyfriend nailed her for the murder they did together.”
“Why you dumping me?”
“I'm not, Chet. I'm just saying two people is one too many for a murder.”
“Smo-oo-th operator.”
Silence again, and Gloria Mendez hit the STOP button.
Victoria said: “That's your case? Chet Manko offers to kill Charlie and Katrina says ‘no.'”
“Don't be too hasty, Victoria,” Steve said. “I think they got her.”
“You do?” Incredulous.
“Yeah, it's a crime to play ‘Smooth Operator' while having sex.”
“You two aren't that dense,” Pincher said. “Manko says he'll kill her husband. She says never mind, she'll do it herself.”
“She does not,” Victoria said.
“It's implied when she says, ‘Two people is one too many for a murder.'”
“Typical Pincher case.” Steve shook his head. “Conjecture piled on inference topped by innuendo.”
But that's not what Steve was thinking. He was thinking about the four-second pause between Manko's offer to kill Charlie and Katrina's semi-rejection of the idea. He put himself in the jury box. He'd expect an innocent woman to say: “No way, Chet.” And you'd hear the anger in her voice. But the pause made it appear she'd been calmly thinking it over, finally replying, essentially: “I don't trust you, Chet. If I'm going to kill my husband, I'll do it myself.”
Steve the Juror thought that Katrina was a woman who may ha
ve considered killing her husband. But Steve the Lawyer still trusted his gut. He didn't think Katrina possessed the kind of evil required to do the job. Sure, she might be shallow and greedy and unfaithful, but a killer? It was a huge leap, and he wasn't making it. Not yet, anyway.
“You've got too many dots to connect, Sugar Ray,” Steve said.
“There's stuff you don't know. After he finds out his wife's screwing around, Barksdale goes to his lawyer, tells him to draft divorce papers.”
Miranda Cooper handed over a legal document captioned: “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”
Steve was caught off guard. He'd known about Manko, so the hump-a-rama photos didn't surprise him. But Katrina had never said anything about a divorce.
“There was no divorce petition filed,” he said.
“Didn't say there was,” Pincher said. “Del, fill him in. It's obvious his client hasn't.”
Farnsworth sat up straighter. “Barksdale tells Katrina he knows about Manko and he wants out of the marriage. This is not good news for the lady. Under the prenup, she'll get squat. But if Charlie dies while they're married, she gets a third of his estate.”
“That's what we call motive.” Pincher's tone was condescending.
“She begs forgiveness,” Farnsworth said. “Swears she still loves him. Give her another chance, she'll dump Manko. She lures Barksdale into bed for his favorite kind of kink. Then she kills him.”
“In case you're still thinking accident,” Pincher added, “take a look at the report from our human-factors expert.”
Miranda Cooper pulled out another document.
“It'd be virtually impossible for someone to accidentally strangle in that contraption,” Pincher said. “All Barksdale had to do was lean forward to relieve the pressure. But he couldn't do that if she's holding him down.”
“So what's your deal?” Victoria said.
“What makes you think I'm offering?” Pincher said.
“Your orientation lecture to new prosecutors. ‘Never lay out your case for the defense, unless you're pushing a plea.'”
“Quite right.” Pincher turned to Gloria and Miranda. “I hope you two paid attention the way Ms. Lord did.” He took his lavender handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, shook it out, refolded it, slid it back. “Plead to second degree. Twelve-year sentence, out in nine.”
Steve put on his poker face. They'd have to talk to their client before responding.
“I remember something else you said in that lecture,” Victoria said. “‘You're trial lawyers, not plea bargainers. So try your winners and plead out your losers. Never offer a plea unless your case has a hole in it.'”
“Top of your class, Ms. Lord,” Pincher said.
“You're afraid of losing. I don't know why yet, but we'll figure it out. Until we do, you can take your plea and shove it.”
Whoa, Steve thought. When did she become a cowboy?
Ray Pincher raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, as if trying to determine if his hearing had failed him. “Solomon, perhaps you should tell your neophyte partner that she might be outsmarting herself here.”
“I don't tell her anything, Sugar Ray. She's got better instincts than I do.”
Hang tough. Never contradict your partner in front of the enemy.
“I'll hold the offer open until tomorrow at noon.” Then, as unruffled as his lavender shirt, Pincher stood and with a mortician's smile said: “I'll escort you out.”
Steve and Victoria gathered the discovery documents and walked out of the conference room, with Pincher leading the way to the elevator. Halfway down the institutional corridor of metal walls and industrial carpeting, the State Attorney gestured toward a closed door. “Before you leave, Solomon, there's someone who wants to see you.”
A nameplate on the door read:
John B. Zinkavich, Esq.
Division of Family Services
“You got any other doors?” Steve said. “Maybe one with a new car behind it? Or a trip to Acapulco?”
Thirty-two
THE LATE RUFUS THIGPEN
“Did I just hear you turn down a plea without consulting our client?” Steve asked.
“Katrina will do what I tell her,” Victoria replied. They were standing at the door to Zinkavich's office.
“That's awfully arrogant.”
“Right. Sounds like something you would say.”
“Ancient history. I've decided to become more like you.”
“Don't get too principled. We've got a murder case to try.”
“So?”
“Don't wimp out on me, Steve.”
“Jeez, I've created a monster.”
“I still have my ethics. I'm just becoming more pragmatic.” She rapped twice on the door and turned the knob before anyone said to come in.
Jack Zinkavich, lumpy and disheveled, was slumped in a chair at his regulation gunmetal desk, a box of Krispy Kremes within reach of a pudgy arm. A man in an orange jumpsuit sat in a straight-backed chair, his ankles shackled together.
Along a wall, cardboard boxes overflowed with Juvenile Court files, the detritus of Miami's endless familial dysfunctions. On the windowsill sat a dozen stuffed animals, playthings for the young witnesses who trooped in with social workers, guardians ad litem, and cops.
“Look who's here,” Zinkavich called out, grabbing a glazed Krispy Kreme. “The weasel and the princess.”
“What's up?” Steve asked. “We've got work to do.”
“You know this guy, Solomon?” Zinkavich pointed the donut toward the man in the jumpsuit.
Steve glanced at the prisoner. Late thirties. Shaved head. Jailhouse pallor and an ugly scowl. “Never saw him before. What'd he do?”
“Cocaine trafficking. Picked up yesterday. History of auto theft, B-and-E, domestic violence.” Zinkavich chomped on the donut, spoke with his mouth full. “What about you, Thigpen? Recognize this asshole?”
The man in the orange jumpsuit stirred. “That's the heathen,” he said.
Zinkavich licked a sugar slick from his lips. “I got good news and bad news for you, Solomon. The good news is, Rufus Thigpen ain't dead. The bad news is, he can testify against you.”
“For what? I don't know this guy.”
Thigpen raised his unshackled arm and turned his head. A purplish scar ran like a polluted stream from the crown of his skull to the top of an ear. “You busted my head, fuckface. The night you took the kid.”
Steve remembered him now: the psychotic shepherd with the curved stick. He'd had a beard and shoulder-length hair and smelled like a wet beagle.
What was it his father always said? “Our past clings to us like mud on cleated boots.”
“Mr. Thigpen is a victim of your violent behavior,” Zinkavich said. “And quite a compelling witness.”
“Steve Solomon is not a violent man,” Victoria said.
My trusty partner. Leaping to my defense.
“You don't know him well, Ms. Lord,” Zinkavich said. “Not so long ago, he viciously assaulted me in the courthouse. And when he kidnapped the child—”
“I rescued Bobby,” Steve said.
“Quiet,” Victoria told him. “I'll handle this.”
“Regardless of Solomon's motives,” Zinkavich continued, “he committed an aggravated assault, fracturing Mr. Thigpen's skull. It's only a matter of time before he unleashes his temper on the boy.”
“That's bullshit!” Steve took half a step toward Zinkavich, but Victoria elbowed him in the ribs, and he stopped.
“Just look at that temper.” Zinkavich wagged a sugary finger at Steve. “You present an imminent threat to your nephew. You refuse medical treatment for him. You drag him to autopsies. Your idea of homeschooling is a subscription to Playboy.” A smirk creased his blubbery cheeks. “Frankly, Solomon, I think you'd have a hard time adopting a poodle, much less a child.”
Steve seethed, but followed his partner's orders. He would keep his big mouth shut. But he couldn't help wondering why Zinkavich was l
aying out his case. Just like Pincher. The two cases were unrelated, but this seemed oddly orchestrated.
“Before you leave, Solomon, there's someone who wants to see you.”
“Steve Solomon is an excellent parent to Bobby,” Victoria said. “I can attest to that.”
“And I have a rebuttal witness who will give damning testimony as to Mr. Solomon's fitness,” Zinkavich shot back.
“Who?” Victoria asked.
Zinkavich snickered. “Under the rules, I'm not required to tell you.”
“If you know your rebuttal witness in advance, the courteous practice is to disclose,” Victoria said.
“Courteous practice? Aren't you the newbie?” Zinkavich giggled and his belly shifted, straining the buttons on his white shirt. “We don't wear velvet gloves here, Ms. Lord. We go for the jugular.”
“If that's all, we'll be going,” Victoria said.
“Not quite all,” Zinkavich said, hitting a button on his intercom. A moment later, a uniformed cop came into the room and helped Thigpen out of his chair.
“I owe you, fucker,” Thigpen muttered, glaring at Steve, as he shuffled out, shackles clanking.
Zinkavich grabbed another Krispy Kreme, chocolate glazed with candy sprinkles. To Steve, a donut purist, that was overdoing it, like painting lipstick on Mona Lisa. “Due to the exigent circumstances of young Robert living in such a dangerous environment,” Zinkavich said, “I've secured an emergency trial date. Next Monday.”
“Not possible,” Steve said, breaking his vow of silence. “We filed a motion to fast-track Barksdale. That's the day we start trial.”
“That's why we'll go from six P.M. to ten P.M. each night.”
“Doesn't work. I need the evenings to prepare for the next day in court.”
“Not if you plead out the murder case. I have it on good authority that Mr. Pincher has made a generous offer.”
“So that's the game. What do I get in return for selling out Katrina?”
Zinkavich shook his head in feigned disbelief. “If you're suggesting there's a quid pro quo—”
“C'mon, what is it? Bobby? Are we swapping Katrina for Bobby?”