Solomon vs. Lord

by Paul Levine

  “I can't say precisely, because Mr. Solomon won't agree to a complete examination.”

  Score one for the All-American point on defense, Steve thought.

  C'mon, Vic. Don't let her rattle you.

  “Then tell us what you can about Bobby's condition.”

  “Robert is a high-functioning savant with autistic characteristics of unknown origin. He is fearful of strangers, given to episodes of hysteria, and insufficiently socialized. As the cause of autism is unknown, it is impossible to determine the source of Robert's malady. However, we do know that he suffered sensory deprivation and malnutrition while in the custody of his mother.” She shot a look at Steve. “That would be Janice Solomon, the Petitioner's sister.”

  Guilt by blood, Steve thought.

  Kranchick dropped the lacrosse balls back into her pockets. “We need to test Robert to determine whether he suffered central nervous system injuries or merely psychological damage that's reversible in therapy. That's the key to understanding the source of the echolalia, the anagrams, the foreign-language skills.”

  Kranchick turned to Judge Rolle. Enthusiastic now. Witnesses always are when you let them prattle on about their passions. “That's what makes Robert so important, Judge. If his right brain was stimulated without CNS damage, maybe we can duplicate that in others with drugs or hormones. I believe we can unlock the Rain Man in all of us. Can you imagine what it would be like to recall verbatim everything you've ever heard?”

  “A lot of what I hear I'd just as soon forget,” the judge said, “but I get your point.”

  “Let's discuss the Child Protection report you filed with the court,” Victoria said.

  “Gladly,” Dr. Kranchick said. On a roll now.

  “You make some highly critical comments about Mr. Solomon.”

  “Not everyone finds him as cuddly as you do.”

  “What's that mean?” the judge interrupted.

  “They're engaged.” Kranchick raised her eyebrows, as if she disapproved.

  Judge Rolle smiled. “Congratulations. You make a beautiful couple.”

  Zinkavich put down a glazed cruller: “My condolences, Ms. Lord.”

  “Actually . . .” Victoria faltered.

  “Don't,” Steve whispered to her. But he knew too well that she could no more lie to a judge than strangle a kitten.

  “We are not engaged,” Victoria said.

  Damn. Just don't try to explain too much.

  “Oh?” The judge seemed confused.

  Victoria was blushing. “Anymore. We were. Then. But now we're not.”

  Ker-flumping. Sure sign of the rookie prevaricator.

  “And that big rock on your finger?” the judge asked.

  “Now I'm engaged to someone else.”

  “Proves my point,” Kranchick said to the judge. “Mr. Solomon is undomesticated and incapable of sustaining a relationship.” She turned to Victoria. “I hope it's Mr. Bigby. I preferred him from the get-go.”

  “All right, let's get back on track,” the judge said sternly. “Doctor, I'm interested in Mr. Solomon's abilities as a potential parent, not a potential spouse.”

  “Mr. Solomon's utterly ill equipped to care for Robert, Your Honor. The boy needs testing and therapy in a controlled setting. Rockland State Hospital would be ideal for him.”

  Her cheeks still red, Victoria asked: “Do you perform behavioral therapy at Rockland?”

  “A bit. But we really don't have adequate staffing for much of that.”

  “Even though one-on-one behavioral therapy has proven to be the best treatment for autism.”

  “Perhaps you could tell that to the governor and get us additional funding. Until then, we'll be content to be in the forefront of the most aggressive new therapies.”

  “Drug therapies?”

  Nice segue. Now go for it.

  “Drugs, vitamins, hormones.”

  “Tell us about them.”

  “Megadoses of magnesium and vitamin B6, plus some new synthetic polypeptides.”

  “And the results?”

  “Limited success so far. That's why we continue to work so hard.”

  “Just so we're clear, what you call ‘therapy' really means testing with experimental drugs, doesn't it?”

  “When drug therapy succeeds, it turns out to be quite therapeutic,” Kranchick said.

  Damn. The doc's no pushover.

  “And when it fails?” Victoria pounced. “What does that turn out to be?”

  “Objection. Argumentative.” Zinkavich wiped his cinnamon-coated mouth.

  “Overruled,” Judge Rolle said.

  “Therapy that fails is the first step to finding what succeeds,” Kranchick said, not backing down.

  She's really good. But you're better, Vic. Go get her.

  “What about giving autistic children Replengren?”

  That stopped Kranchick. She seemed to give great thought to her answer.

  Steve prayed that she wouldn't lie. If she lied, they couldn't disprove it.

  “Replengren has not yet been approved by the FDA,” Kranchick said evenly.

  She didn't lie. She also didn't answer the question. Keep going, Vic.

  “It's unapproved because Replengren impaired motor skills in lab rats, correct, Dr. Kranchick?”

  “At extremely high doses, far higher than would ever be given to humans.”

  “Which brings us back to the question: Do you give Replengren to human patients?”

  “At Pedro Mallo, in Buenos Aires, we used Replengren in some strictly controlled human tests, with promising results.”

  She's still not answering. Did you notice that, Judge?

  Victoria said: “My question has nothing to do with Buenos Aires. Do you give Replengren to patients at Rockland State Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, where you are bound by FDA rules?”

  Kranchick's cheeks turned pale, which seemed to brighten her old lacrosse scar. “In a perfect world, you'd never have experimental drugs. You'd plug data into a computer, and out would come the cure for every disease. In a perfect world, every parent would have the resources for the best medical care. Every autistic child would have one-on-one therapy. But the world's not perfect.”

  The judge cleared her throat. “Dr. Kranchick, you're not being responsive to the question.”

  Zinkavich got to his feet so fast, he knocked a half-eaten cinnamon twist to the floor. “Your Honor, perhaps this is a propitious time for a recess.”

  Nice move, Fink. Throwing a life preserver to your witness.

  “It's a propitious time for you to sit down and clam up,” the judge told him.

  “Doctors must take risks,” Kranchick said, her high forehead beaded with sweat. “Parents should consider the greater good. Sabin gave polio vaccine to prisoners in the 1950s. Some contracted polio, but thousands of children were spared the disease. Same thing with malaria and yellow fever. If it were up to me, all prisoners would be subject to medical tests.”

  Victoria moved closer to the witness stand. “We're not talking about prisoners. We're talking about an eleven-year-old boy.”

  “We can learn so much from Robert. Children have duties to society, too.” She slipped a hand into a pocket, brought out a lacrosse ball, reached into the other pocket, brought out the second ball. If things heated up any more, Steve figured he should be ready to duck.

  “If Solomon weren't so damn selfish, we could have worked something out,” Kranchick said. “But he wouldn't hear of it. ‘Don't stick needles in little Bobby.' No, he's too precious for that. Stick the needles in someone else. No one wants to take the risk. Everyone just wants the benefits.”

  Zinkavich fished for an objection, couldn't find one, and said: “Your Honor, could I have a word?”

  “Zip it, Z,” the judge said.

  “I ask you this, Ms. Lord,” Kranchick rolled on. “What if a child had rare antibodies in his blood, antibodies that could save lives? Wouldn't there be a duty to give blood? Same thing with Robert. Do you
know how rare his condition is? I've never seen a subject like him.”

  “‘Subject'?” Victoria said. “Like a guinea pig. Like a lab rat.”

  “That's just semantics. That's what you lawyers do. You sound just like Solomon. Maybe you should marry him.”

  Now both balls were in one hand, banging against each other.

  And just who stole the Replengren, Captain Queeg?

  “Replengren,” Victoria said. “You still haven't answered the question. Do you administer an unapproved drug to the children at Rockland?”

  “The FDA could rule at any time. Tomorrow, the next day, the drug could be approved.”

  “And in the meantime?”

  The balls click-clacked against each other. “Where would I even get it?”

  One last delay. Fighting to the end, the last defender at the Alamo. And speaking of Mexico . . .

  “From Carlos,” Victoria said. “From San Blas Medico. Guadalajara, Mexico. Isn't that where you buy the drug?”

  Kranchick opened her mouth—a dark, empty cave—but nothing came out.

  Judge Rolle cleared her throat. “Doctor, do you understand the question?”

  Still nothing.

  “Doctor—”

  “Yes, goddammit! I use Replengren, and someday they'll thank me for it. Someday they'll call me up to the stage and give me a shiny piece of metal because I had the courage to say the earth was round when all the fools said it was square. I sit with these families. I see the heartbreak, the shattered lives. Does Stephen Solomon give a damn about that?”

  “He gives a damn about Bobby,” Victoria said.

  “You don't get it! He doesn't get it. Those prisoners who took the polio vaccine, the ones who got malaria and yellow fever—they're heroes. Robert could be, too. Most likely with no harm to him at all. He could change thousands of lives. He could be the link we're looking for. That's what I'm after. What's so goddamned wrong with that?”

  “What's wrong,” Victoria said, “is that you don't get to choose the heroes, Dr. Kranchick. The heroes choose themselves.”

  Forty-six

  LEGAL FICTION

  Dr. Wu-Chi Yang's monotone could put the jurors to sleep, Steve thought.

  No problem. He'd awaken them later on cross-examination.

  Steve was sitting at the defense table, half listening to the ME describe in bloody detail his autopsy of Charles Barksdale. At the same time, Steve was thinking about Bobby's case. Last night, Victoria had been brilliant, melting down Kranchick. But already this morning Zinkavich had launched a counterattack.

  On his way into court, Steve had been served with new papers. No longer was the state attempting to place Bobby at Rockland. Now Zinkavich argued that Bobby should be placed in a foster home. The state's written motion listed three foster families with “proven track records in caring for autistic children.” Alternatively—lawyers just love alternatives—there was a residential program at Jackson Memorial Hospital that specialized in behavioral therapy. Zinkavich's motion stopped just short of arguing that Bobby would be better off with a roving band of gypsies than living in the bachelor bungalow on Kumquat Avenue.

  The son-of-a-bitch wasn't going to roll over and play dead.

  When they resumed the guardianship trial tonight, Steve figured he absolutely, positively needed three things to happen.

  He had to impress Judge Rolle with his parenting abilities.

  Bobby had to stay calm. No freaking out.

  Janice had to help him, not Zinkavich.

  Steve trusted himself and trusted Bobby. But his sister? He'd paid her the money but still didn't know what she'd do. Not only that, the guilt was getting to him. He tried to rationalize it.

  Hey, I'm just paying her to tell the truth.

  But that's not the way a Grand Jury would look at it. Or Victoria. He could never tell her.

  On the witness stand, Dr. Yang was turning a horrific postmortem procedure into a vanilla milk shake of a lecture. “I made the usual incisions, removed the usual organs,” he said, matter-of-factly.

  Ray Pincher was taking the ME through the basics, establishing cause of death. In the gallery, a dozen reporters jotted notes. Front row center, Marvin the Maven worked a crossword puzzle, Teresa Toraño surreptitiously fondling his leg beneath the newspaper. Next to them, Cadillac Johnson dozed, sucking at his dentures. At her stenograph machine, Sofia Hernandez clicked away with her aquamarine-lacquered nails.

  “I eviscerated and removed the brain, then performed neck dissection.” Dr. Yang wore a snazzy blue blazer, a white shirt, and a lemon-yellow paisley bow tie. An old hand on the hot seat, he maintained eye contact with the jury, but there wasn't much he could do about his flat, droning voice.

  Victoria, wearing her poker face, took notes. Next to her, Katrina looked pained as the medical examiner described slicing through various organs of her late husband's body. She was following instructions. Steve had told her to sniffle when testimony turned to viscous fluids and gooey tissues. Today she wore basic black. Well, maybe not that basic, a matching flannel jacket and skirt with leather trim and oversize black metal zippers.

  On the bench was Judge Hiram Thornberry, a pale, quiet, studious man nearing sixty, with graying hair and a trim mustache. He leaned forward his chair, and appeared to be reading a court file. Steve knew better.

  He had appeared before Thornberry a few times but could never quite figure him out. The judge was bright enough but never seemed to be paying complete attention. About a year earlier, Steve solved the puzzle by turning to Sofia, who ratted out her boss. Judge Thornberry was appointed to the Circuit bench while still in his thirties, and now, twenty-five years later, was in the deep doldrums. Ennui to the nth degree. He'd find any excuse to adjourn early and go play golf. Or he'd just retire to chambers with a book and a bottle of brandy. Thoroughly bored with real trials, the judge began to care more about fictional ones. Each day, his judicial assistant would tuck into the court file His Honor's preferred reading. Not the slip opinions of the Third District Court of Appeal. More like Erle Stanley Gardner, John Grisham, or Scott Turow. Or Mystery Scene Magazine. Anything to alleviate the tedium of State of Florida versus X, Y, or Z. Once he learned this, Steve always brushed up on courtroom fiction before trying a case in front of Thornberry.

  “I removed and weighed the lungs, then dissected the esophagus off the tracheal bifurcation,” Dr. Yang said.

  Easy for him to say, Steve thought.

  Dr. Yang recounted removing the thyroid gland and the parathyroids, which he said had an attractive café au lait color, reminding Steve that he had missed his second cup of coffee this morning. The ME went on a while about the bruises on the skin of the neck and the rupture of blood vessels on the face, just as he had at the bail hearing. Then there were the bruises on the dissected muscles over the thyroid cartilage and hyoid bone, and small hemorrhages near the cricoid cartilage. He described the leather strap wrapped around Barksdale's neck and other “sexual paraphernalia” in the bedroom. Then he concluded that the cause of death was strangulation by ligature.

  Ray Pincher gushed his thank-yous, as if testifying were equivalent to donating a kidney, instead of part of the ME's job. Then Pincher sat down, and Dr. Yang turned his placid face toward Steve Solomon, who got to his feet, buttoned his suit coat, and said, “Let's head a little south of the neck, Doctor.”

  “South?”

  “The stomach.”

  Dr. Yang didn't flinch, and his hands didn't flutter. Well, what could you expect? The guy had spent fifteen years fending off cagey practitioners of the art of obfuscation.

  “Did you examine the stomach?” Steve asked, moving closer to the witness.

  “Yes, of course, it's all in here.” Dr. Yang gestured with a copy of his report. “Fluids extracted and tested.”

  “So you must have opened the stomach?”

  Dr. Yang fiddled with his bow tie. It wasn't a large gesture. He wasn't sweating or fidgeting or rolling lacrosse balls in
his hand. Still, it meant something to Steve, who had questioned the man a dozen times over the years. This was the first nervous tic he'd ever seen from him.

  I'm going to nail you.

  “Opened the stomach, sure,” Dr. Yang said.

  “Tell us about it.”

  Pincher got to his feet. “Objection. Irrelevant.”

  “How's that?” Appearing irritated, Judge Thornberry tossed down his file. A book flew out, slid across his desk, and was headed for the floor when Steve speared it with one hand like a first baseman grabbing a sinking line drive. He handed the book back to the judge before the jurors could see the title, The Case of the Sulky Girl.

  “One of my favorite Perry Masons,” Steve whispered to the judge.

  The judge nodded in agreement but seemed a bit flustered. “State your grounds, Mr. Burger.”

  “Mr. Burger?” Pincher said.

  “Excuse me. Mr. Pincher.”

  “Charles Barksdale wasn't shot in the stomach,” Pincher said. “Charles Barksdale wasn't knifed in the stomach. Charles Barksdale didn't ingest poison. Mr. Solomon is off on a fishing expedition.”

  “Overruled. I'll allow it.”

  “I followed the usual routine,” Dr. Yang said. “After removing the greater omentum, I cut along the greater curvature of the stomach.”

  “Take a peek inside?”

  “Of course.”

  “What'd you find?”

  “Sushi.”

  Fishing expedition, indeed, Steve thought. “Sushi?”

  “Baby tuna. Crab roll. Ponzu sauce. Last meal about three hours before death, based on decomposition.”

  “See anything unusual? And I'm not talking about sea urchin.”

  Dr. Yang's eyes flicked toward Pincher. Help! Pincher stayed in his chair, his jaw muscles clenching.

  “Everything's in my report,” Dr. Yang said.

  “Oh, come now, Doctor. Everything's not in your report.” Taking a stab at it, just like the ME with his scalpel.

  “Objection!” Pincher yelped.

  “Again?” The judge sighed and put down his book.