by Paul Levine
“What we're planning could backfire,” she said.
“You distract Zinkavich, and I'll go after a couple of glazed crullers.”
He's reverted to Irritating Habit Number 396: Ignoring what I say when he doesn't want to deal with it.
She searched for a way to say it was too risky to call Bobby without the boy picking up on it. “Maybe we should reorder our witnesses.”
From the backseat, Bobby said: “I'm not scared to talk to the judge.”
So much for subterfuge.
“Of course you're not, kiddo,” Steve said. “You'll do great.” He turned to Victoria. “Bobby testifies. Subject closed.”
“You've been telling me to go with my gut, and my gut tells me—”
“Closed.”
“Petitioner calls Robert Solomon,” Victoria said.
“Objection,” Zinkavich said. “The testimony will be tainted by the boy's affinity with his uncle. Not to mention his history of hallucinations.”
“We think Your Honor should be the judge of Bobby's competence, not Mr. Zinkavich,” Victoria said.
“Does the kid even understand the oath?” Zinkavich asked.
“Do you, Fink?” Steve growled, under his breath.
“I heard that, Mr. Solomon,” said Judge Althea Rolle, wagging a finger. The judge wore fuchsia robes, a frilly lace rabat at the neck. Her dark eyes were blazing at Steve. “Do you know what we do in Juvie Court when someone acts up?”
“No, ma'am.”
“We give them a time-out and they go sit in the corner.”
“I apologize to the Court, ma'am.”
Meaning, Victoria understood, that he didn't apologize to Zinkavich.
“Now, as for the child's testimony, Ms. Lord, do you really want to do that?”
When a judge asks a leading question, you best head the direction you're being led, Victoria knew. And she agreed with the judge. You never knew when Bobby was going to slip into a screaming fit or burst out that “President Clinton of the USA” can be rearranged to spell, “TO COPULATE HE FINDS INTERNS.”
“We believe there can be no better witness than the one most directly affected by this proceeding,” Victoria answered. She didn't believe it, but sometimes you do what your client wants, especially when your client is a know-it-all lawyer.
“Here's how it's gonna be,” Judge Rolle said. “I'll talk to the boy alone in my chambers. Counsel will sit in the anteroom and listen on the speakers. No coaching from Mr. Solomon and no cross-exam from Mr. Zinkavich. Now, skedaddle, all of you.”
Steve paced in front of a set of bookshelves, claustrophobic in the small anteroom. Victoria sat rigidly at a worktable, fingers clutching a pen, poised to take notes. Zinkavich slumped in a cushioned chair, his love handles overflowing the armrests.
“Would you like something to drink?” Judge Rolle asked, her voice tinny over the speaker.
“Nope. Uncle Steve made me a papaya smoothie for the ride over.” Bobby's voice was high and nervous.
“Sounds healthy.”
“Makes me poop,” Bobby said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Sometimes we get the papayas from the fruit stand on Red Road.”
“They have wonderful produce,” the judge said.
“Sometimes Uncle Steve just steals them from a neighbor's trees.”
“I see.”
Yikes. Steve stopped pacing. If he were a smoker, he would light up about now.
“Do you do spend a lot of time with your uncle?” the judge asked.
“Like 24/7,” Bobby said. “Except when he, you know . . .”
“When he goes out on dates?”
“Uncle Steve doesn't go on dates. He just has chicks come over, hang out in his bedroom, then split.”
“Oh, shit,” Steve groaned.
“Do any women ever spend the night?”
“If they've had too many mojitos,” Bobby said.
“So I guess your uncle makes more than papaya smoothies,” the judge said, a note of sarcasm in her voice.
“I make the mojitos.” Bobby said it proudly. “The secret's squeezing fresh guarapo. Sugarcane juice. But not too much, because the rum is already sweet. And the mint leaves gotta be fresh.”
Zinkavich said: “We reap what we sow, Solomon.”
“Aw, shut up,” Steve said.
Over the speaker, the judge said: “Does it bother you when women sleep over?”
“No way,” Bobby said. “Sometimes I get to see bare boobs in the morning.”
Steve's throat felt constricted. He doubted he could swallow, wondered if he could even take a breath. He was pretty sure he heard the judge's pen scratching across a notepad.
“And Sofia makes huevos rancheros,” the boy continued. “But Lexy and Rexy don't really cook. They're models, and they eat like a slice of grapefruit and a thimble of yogurt.”
“Models,” the judge said, disapproval in her voice. “Does your uncle see either Lexy or Rexy now?”
“Not anymore,” Bobby said.
Steve felt relieved enough to exhale.
“Used to be, he'd do them both at once.”
“Oh, shi-i-i-i-i-t!” Steve wailed.
“They're twins,” Bobby explained, helpfully.
Steve whimpered and Zinkavich barked a laugh.
“Quiet, both of you!” Victoria flashed an angry look.
Steve said: “That stuff's ancient history, Vic. Six months ago, at least.”
“Please. I'm trying to listen,” she said.
Bobby was saying something, and they'd missed part of it.
“. . . been a while since Uncle Steve got any trim.”
“Trim?”
“You know. Some play. Booty in the bone shack.”
“So, no more booty?”
“Lexy, Rexy, Sofia, Gina. They haven't come over since Uncle Steve fell totally in love with Victoria.”
“Ms. Lord? His ex-fiancée?”
“Oh, that wasn't real.”
“Excuse me?” the judge said, puzzled.
“Being engaged. That was just pretending.”
“Whatever for?”
“Uncle Steve didn't want to lose me, and he thought Victoria made him seem more mature.”
“I see.”
“Not that he wouldn't like to marry her for real.”
In the anteroom, Zinkavich laughed so hard, spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth.
“So now only Ms. Lord comes to the house?” Judge Rolle asked.
“Just to work, not to do Uncle Steve. She's gonna marry this other guy, and Uncle Steve is totally bummed.”
God, this was humiliating, Steve thought. Why had no one ever invented a pill that could make you invisible?
“This isn't a court case, it's a soap opera,” Zinkavich said.
The judge said: “Tell me about your homeschooling.”
Yes, tell her, Steve thought. They'd rehearsed this.
“I'm reading the Aeneid in Latin. Virgil's pretty cool.”
Perfect. Way to go, kiddo.
“And The Iliad in Greek. The battle scenes are totally awesome. Better than that stupid movie Troy.”
“That's very impressive,” the judge said. “Did your uncle give you those books?”
“Yep, plus the fiftieth anniversary edition of Playboy.”
Aargh. One step forward, two steps back, Steve thought.
“I thought Stella Stevens was really hot. But she didn't show any cooch.”
In the anteroom, Steve banged his head against the bookshelves, knocking a dusty volume of Corpus Juris Secundum to the floor. Over the speaker, Judge Rolle seemed to sigh, then said: “Tell me what you do for fun, Bobby.”
“I play Little League, but I suck bad. Uncle Steve says it doesn't matter, but some kids are mean to me. Once I dropped a fly ball, and one of the dads yells, ‘Get that spaz out of there.'”
“That must have hurt your feelings.”
“Then I let a ball roll between my legs, and th
e same guy yells I should be in the Special Olympics.”
“Oh, my,” the judge said.
“Uncle Steve told the guy to quit talking smack, but he wouldn't. He was, like, humongous, with a fat head, and Uncle Steve yells at him: ‘Hey, big mouth, what position did you play, backstop?' And everybody starts laughing, so the guy comes after my uncle, who starts running backwards, and the guy can't catch him. Uncle Steve's saying, ‘You're so ugly your first name should be Damn,' and the guy keeps chasing and Uncle Steve keeps backpedaling and says, “If your ass had eyes, you still couldn't see shit.' And the game's stopped because they're on the field and the big guy's swinging at Uncle Steve but missing, and finally the guy stops, out of breath, all red-faced, and bends over and hurls chunks. Right on first base.”
“Must have been quite an experience,” the judge breathed.
“Later, Uncle Steve told me some people say nasty things because they're stupid and some because they're mean, and not to let it bother me, because I'm special in a good way.”
“I think your uncle's right,” the judge said.
“And he said if you're really mad at somebody, beat them with your brains, not your fists.”
“You really like your uncle Steve, don't you, Bobby?”
“He's awesome,” the boy said.
“How about Victoria?”
“I wish she was my mom.”
There was a long pause. Steve wished he could see the judge's face, wanted to know what she was thinking. He glanced at Victoria. She blinked several times, her eyelashes flicking away tears like silver drops of dew.
Forty-nine
MY BIG, FAT STUPID MISTAKE
“I think we recovered nicely at the end,” Steve said. Trying to show confidence, knowing Victoria was furious with him.
She shook her head. “Bobby loves you. You love him. But that's not enough to win.”
“You're leaving something out. He loves you, too.”
“Stop it, Steve. Just stop it. You promised. No more personal stuff.”
“You're the one who started crying in there.”
“Tears aren't enough to win, either.”
They were outside the judge's chambers, taking a thirty-minute dinner recess. A nearby restaurant had delivered sweet fried plantains, chewy palomilla steak, black beans and rice, and enough espresso to keep everybody awake for a week. Bobby was in the judge's chambers, eating with Judge Rolle. Zinkavich was stuffing his face in the anteroom, and Steve and Victoria, famished but too embroiled to eat, were jawing in the corridor.
“I should have gone with my gut, not yours,” she said.
“Okay.”
“No matter how much he loves you, Bobby made you seem reckless.”
“Okay.”
“Undisciplined.”
“Got it.”
“Immature.”
“I admit it. I screwed up.”
“Like you're the one who needs a caregiver.”
Why wouldn't she let up? He felt like a marlin attacked by a shark. First a ferocious strike, then the rip of flesh from bone, and finally a quick swallow. Followed by another strike, rip, swallow.
“Enough, already,” he said. “From now on, you run the case. I won't interfere.”
That stopped her for a moment. “All right. Deal.”
Thank God, he thought, he'd finally found a way to quiet her down. “Great. Now let's go over my testimony.”
She frowned. “I'm not putting you on the stand.”
“What!”
“I'm can't let you be crossed about the night you snatched Bobby.”
“I can handle it.”
“Only if you admit to a bunch of felonies.”
“I'll take the Fifth.”
“That'll impress the judge.”
“If I don't testify, who will?”
“At your service,” announced the suntanned, older man walking toward them. He wore a beige linen suit, and his white hair flowed down the back of his neck. He carried a Panama hat in one hand, an unlit cigar in the other. “How the hell are you, son?” Herbert Solomon said.
“Dad?” Steve was so shocked that for a moment he was disoriented. His father striding down a courthouse corridor? Like he was still a judge, on his way to take the bench. “What are you doing here?”
“Didn't Victoria tell you?” Herbert Solomon said. “Ah'm your star witness.”
Steve's shock was turning to anger. What chutzpah. Calling his old man without even asking him. “She must have wanted to surprise me,” Steve said, biting off the words.
“Well, ah'm here to help.”
“Too late for that.”
“C'mon, son. Until all the corn's out of the crib, there's still time.”
“Thanks, anyway, but I don't need your help.”
“Yes you do,” Victoria interposed. “Unlike you, there's nothing your father can be crossed on.”
“Really? How about resigning from the bench in disgrace?”
“Judge Rolle already knows about that. Were you listening yesterday? She idolizes your father.”
“Ah remember Althea when she was just a pup,” Herbert reminisced. “These insurance lawyers were picking on her, and ah—”
“Yeah, yeah, we heard,” Steve said. “You're the great white father.”
“After every trial, Althea would come back to chambers, ask me why ah did this and that, why ah ruled one way or the other. Always wanting to learn, that little girl. Like to think of her as one of mah protégés.”
“You were always so good with strangers.” Steve's words were as hard as marbles.
“Don't talk to your father that way,” Victoria said.
“Who gave you the right to run my case?”
“You did.”
“It was a mistake.”
“Then we've both made mistakes lately, haven't we?”
“If you think that,” he said, “you're lying to yourself.”
“No. I'm finally thinking clearly.”
“Our making love was not a mistake.”
“What the hell did ah wander into?” Herbert said.
“It was for me,” Victoria told Steve. “A big, fat, stupid mistake.”
“Bigby, the wedding, real estate closings. Those are your mistakes,” Steve told her.
“Y'all are showing way too much of yourselves,” Herbert said. “When you go skinny-dipping, you oughta keep close to the willows when you come out.”
“I love Bruce! I can't wait to marry him. And I'm dying to get out of the courtroom.”
“Ah think ah'll head into the courtroom,” Herbert said, walking away.
“Maybe you want to love him,” Steve told Victoria. “Maybe you wish you loved him. But you don't love him!”
“I do!”
“Then what were you doing the other night with me?”
“I don't know!”
“Maybe you better figure that out. Preferably before your honeymoon.”
Steve followed his father through the courtroom door.
Victoria paced alone in the corridor, hopelessly confused. She thought she'd put all of this to rest.
I used logic and reason, and I chose Bruce.
It made sense. Dealing with Bruce was easy. Comfortable. The way it should be. A mate isn't a sparring partner, right? Dealing with Solomon was impossible. A constant tug-of-war. So why did he still have the power to rattle her?
“There you are!”
Victoria turned to find Bruce striding toward her, carrying a briefcase in one hand and a picnic basket in the other. He was wearing a camel sport coat and dark brown wool slacks and looked like an adorable teddy bear. “Thought you might be hungry, sweetie.”
“Hon!” Victoria said. “So thoughtful of you.”
He brush-kissed her and opened the basket.
“God, I'm happy to see you.” She ran a hand over the luxurious fabric of his coat. It was a sign, she decided, Bruce showing up like this. Confirmation that her choice had been right all along.
> “Were you and Solomon arguing again?” he asked.
“The man's exasperating.”
“I know, sweetie. I know.” He was pulling plastic containers from the basket. “Cucumber avocado soup, bean sprout sandwich with tomato and avocado, and avocado sorbet. You'll feel better after some supper.”
Victoria felt her stomach growling but knew she'd break out in splotches after one bite. “Thanks, hon, but I really have to get back into court. It was just so sweet of you to come all the way over here.”
“The least I could do.”
Her mind drifted to Solomon, the sandwich man. Maybe he'd bring her a mouthwatering prosciutto and ricotta panino, but it would grow cold while they squabbled about something or other. Wasn't that the warp and woof of their relationship?
“You look so tired, sweetie,” Bruce said.
Startled, Victoria put a hand to her face. “Are my eyes puffy?”
“You just need some sleep.”
“Oh.” She told herself she appreciated his honesty.
“I hope you can get some rest before the wedding. You don't want to look all haggard in the photo album.”
Haggard? On the other hand, honesty is sometimes an overrated quality.
“It's no wonder you're so bushed, having to deal with Solomon day and night.”
“That must be it.”
“Well, he won't be around aggravating you for long, sweetie.” Bigby slipped a file out of his briefcase and handed it to her.
“What's this, Bruce?”
“You've been so busy, I've had to do all the heavy lifting. Menus, seating charts, music selections, honeymoon itinerary. Plus some papers the lawyers want signed.”
The words “papers” and “lawyers” struck a somewhat different chord than “menus” and “honeymoon,” she thought.
“What papers?”
“Why, the prenuptial agreement, of course,” Bruce Bigby said.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or is that the Honorable Herbert T. Solomon?” Judge Althea Rolle said. “Even more distinguished and handsome than I recalled.”
“Kind of you to say so,” Herbert drawled, bowing slightly. “Pleasure to be here, Your Honor.” Yo Ah-nuh.