SS 18: Shark Skin Suite: A Novel

by Tim Dorsey

  “Damn.” “She did it again.” “Why do we let her play?”

  “What are you doing?” asked Shelby.

  “Friendly local tradition called ‘ship, captain, crew.’ ” She passed the coozie down the bar. “Now back to consulting with my new attorney. It all started shortly after I moved down here to take care of my dad . . .”

  Shelby remained uniformly silent for the next half hour as Brook spun her inconceivable yarn. She finally reached the end. “And I’ve never seen Serge since . . .”

  Shelby didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t.

  “Say something,” said Brook.

  “I had no idea.”

  He was looking at her, but she could tell his gaze was slightly off. She touched the side of her neck. “The scar?”

  “Didn’t mean to stare,” said Shelby.

  “The guy I paid went a little overboard,” said Brook. “I told him to be convincing, but . . . I later found out he’s in it for more than the money. He likes his work.”

  “So that’s why the jury consultant suggested you get a scarf.”

  Chapter TWENTY-THREE

  PAYNES PRAIRIE

  Please don’t shoot me! I swear I’ll never do it again.” The man’s hiking pace became motivated.

  Coleman sucked on a tube from a hiking hydration vest filled with vodka. “What are you trying to fix with that guy?”

  “The scumbags of Florida keep lowering my bar of expectations.” Serge sucked his own hydration vest of coffee. “First came the housing bubble and its burst, which pulled back the curtain on a whole viper pit of predators: subprime lenders, appraisers, speculators, politicians, brokers . . . Then, when all is done, and hardworking Americans are about to be forced into the street wearing pickle barrels, in comes the lowest of the low.”

  “Dope dealers who short you on weight?”

  “Dishonest mortgage-modification companies,” said Serge. “It’s an evil so beneath everything that it staggers the conscience. These new suckerfish target old people and families with kids who are desperately trying to keep a roof over their heads. Their house is already upside down and they’re six months behind on the loan. So these companies promise they can restructure the mortgage to make payments affordable. Then they take all kinds of up-front fees and advance closing costs—and don’t lift a finger. So not only do the families get foreclosed upon anyway, but their savings are now depleted.”

  “And they need a fixer?”

  “This guy ahead of us took a friend of Mahoney’s for almost eight grand. So I worked the numbers and intend to make him a restructuring offer he can’t refuse.” Serge poked the gun barrel in the man’s back again. “My new breed of fixer must be prepared to do complex math on hiking trails.”

  The man in front of them stopped and wiped his face with his shirt. “I need to rest. Just a minute.”

  “Why?” asked Serge. “You’ve reached the finish line.”

  The man turned with skepticism. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re free to go.”

  He stood quiet a second. “Is this a trick? You aren’t going to shoot me in the back?”

  “Absolutely not.” Serge tucked the gun away under his tropical shirt. “I think you’ve learned your lesson. My clients will be expecting a refund check this afternoon, unless you’ve taken a likin’ to hikin’. The Florida Trail runs the length of the entire state. I could always use a nature buddy like you for whole adventure because Coleman would never make it.”

  “No, I’ll cut that check the moment I get to the office.” He began walking around the pair to head back the way they’d come.

  Serge stepped sideways and blocked his path. “Not that direction. It’s the one we’ll be taking, and I’ve been known to change my mind.”

  “Then how do I get out of here?”

  Serge pointed into the distance. “Just keep following the path. It’s much longer and you’ll cover most of the prairie, but it will eventually circle back around. I think you’ll like it better . . . Oh, almost forgot: one more thing before you go . . .” He handed the gun to Coleman. “Keep him covered.”

  Serge removed his coffee-hydration backpack and unzipped a pair of utility pockets. He approached the man with an electric razor. “Hold still.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “Just a little trim on the sides of your head. A small price to pay for your freedom.” When Serge finished creating twin bald spots on the temples, he grabbed a pair of scissors and two strips of leather. “If you’re a dog lover, you’ll recognize these. But we don’t need the ends . . .” Snip, snip, snip . . .

  “W-w-what are you doing?”

  “Hold still again if you want to get away.” Serge liberally applied super glue to the shortened pieces of leather and pressed them against the sides of the man’s head. “There, that should stick. When you get back to civilization, they have solvents at the hardware store, but I’d wear a hat because you look kind of funny. Now skeeee-daddle!”

  Coleman sucked another swig of vodka. “Wow, he really took off running. I think he likes hiking now.”

  “What’s not to like?” Serge reached in his backpack again and removed two short plastic spikes with small cylinders on the end. “It’s all about taking the time to notice the little things.” He hammered the stakes into the ground on each side of the trail. “That about does it. Time to head back.”

  Coleman turned around, still sucking.

  Serge yanked him by the arm. “Watch where you’re stepping!”

  “Whoa, thanks.” Coleman took the hydration tube out of his mouth and aimed it at the ground. “You just stopped me from stepping in the hugest pile of dog crap I’ve ever seen.”

  “That’s because it’s not from a dog. Something much bigger.” Serge bent down to take a picture. “And it’s not baked dry, so it hasn’t been here long.”

  Coleman scooted to hide behind his friend and peeked over his shoulder. “What the hell’s out here?”

  “Relax, it’s just free-range horses. They live all over the prairie.” Serge walked a few more yards and pulled out his camera again.

  “That’s even a bigger pile,” said Coleman. “How large do these horses grow?”

  “This one didn’t come from a horse.” Click, click, click. “Which is another bonus about Paynes Prairie. It’s the perfect place for the neophyte to learn animal tracking. In other areas, you need at least a rudimentary background to differentiate the scat of cougars, bobcats, foxes, panthers. But out here, the beginner need only gauge the scale. Smaller piles are horses.”

  “And this bigger one?”

  “Buffalo.”

  “Get out of here,” said Coleman. “There aren’t any buffalo in Florida.”

  “Au contraire,” said Serge. “Buffalo in great numbers roamed the grasslands of central Florida until they were wiped out in the nineteenth century. But conservationists reintroduced them forty years ago to establish the original natural balance.”

  Coleman slid behind Serge again. “Are they dangerous?”

  “Sure, if you’re an idiot.” Serge took several long sucks on his coffee tube. “But play it smart and don’t approach them or make wacky faces—and remain perfectly still—they’re willing to live and let live.”

  “What about running away?”

  Serge continued sucking and put up his arms. “Definitely not that! Especially out here in such an open expanse. If you’re ever going to run, do it where you can get into some trees, like way over there. I’ll let you in on a secret about buffalo, which reminds me of what I really hate about action movies. How many times have you seen some film where the killer is in a car chasing some woman on foot through a multi-deck parking garage? And you’re leaping out of your seat yelling at the screen: ‘Veer off and dive between the parked cars! Dive between the parked cars!’ But no
, they keep running straight down the middle of the concrete ramp, turning the corner and scampering down the middle of the next level—”

  “Serge, what does that have to do with buffalo?”

  “Wait! Wait! So then the car is gaining and about to run over the woman, and she turns down the next level, and that’s when she always falls and loses a high heel, but now the car is suddenly farther away in order to give her time to get up and start running down the middle again. What is that bullshit? That’s what I say! But sometimes I say it too loud and have to leave the theater—”

  “Buffalo . . .”

  “What?” Serge looked up. “Hey, our friend is coming back. I didn’t get the sense he could run that fast.”

  “There’s a whole herd behind him.”

  “And yet he’s staying in the middle of the path.”

  “There are no parked cars,” said Coleman. “Only that pond with the alligators and the sinkhole.”

  “He just fell and lost a shoe.”

  “Now he’s back up again, but still running down the middle,” said Coleman. “By the way, what were those things you glued to his head?”

  “You’ve heard of invisible fences?”

  “No.”

  “If you don’t want to build a real fence but need to keep your dog in the yard, you buy a special collar for Fido. Then you hammer stakes in the ground at the edge of the property. The stakes have tiny transmitters on the ends, and if the dog goes too far, it makes the collar give him an electric shock. It’s not a huge shock, but the dog gets the idea pretty fast. It should be an even faster learning curve for our friend up there, because I glued the leather straps with the shock units to his temples, and the voltage will seriously screw up the tiny electric signals that all our brains operate on.”

  “I think he just hit your invisible fence,” said Coleman. “He’s making wacky faces.”

  “Now he’s looking back up the trail, and in the marsh and at my transmitters,” said Serge. “Interesting call: buffalo, gators or electric shock? Only in Florida are you faced with such daily decisions.”

  “He’s trying to get through your fence again but it’s not even close,” said Coleman. “Oooo, he’s really spazzing out this time. Now he’s flopping on the ground tearing at those things on his head.”

  Serge held an arm out across Coleman’s chest. “Step back slowly to the side of the trail. Here they come . . .”

  “Man, that first one got him right in the face,” said Coleman. “And all the rest are hitting him, too, like it’s on purpose.”

  “They just stampede in tight formations from safety instinct.”

  “He’s starting to come apart.”

  The herd thundered by as Serge snapped photos.

  “What now?” asked Coleman.

  “Those vultures circling above will clean up the human vulture.” Serge stowed his camera and began walking. “There’s always a balance in nature.”

  Part THREE

  THE TRIAL

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  KEY WEST

  The briefcases were sore thumbs on tourist-jammed Duval Street. Shelby and Brook made the short stroll from the Southern Cross to the Monroe County judicial center in under five minutes.

  Shelby stared up at a big clock. “Wow, what a cool courthouse.”

  “It’s the old courthouse,” said Brook. “The new one’s in back.”

  He turned another way. “Look at the rust on those bars. That jail is absolutely medieval.”

  “It’s the old jail. The new one’s on Stock Island.”

  Shelby reached the courtroom door and grabbed the handle. “Ready for the big day?”

  “As they say, most trials are won and lost during jury selection.”

  They went inside and set up at the plaintiff’s table. Team Riley was already there with the boxes and easel.

  Brook unloaded her briefcase. “Why do they need all that stuff for voir dire?”

  “They don’t,” said Shelby. “It’s BS.”

  Brook laid out her own paperwork in a neat array. “So how many cases have you tried anyway?”

  Shelby set a pen on a fresh legal pad. “This is my first.”

  Brook froze. “Your first? But it’s my first, too. They said I’d be paired with someone who had a lot of experience.”

  “I do. Record amount of billable hours, just not in a courtroom.”

  “But why would such a big firm put two rookies on such an important case?”

  “Because I’ve been bugging them like crazy to get jury face time,” said Shelby. “Don’t worry—I’ve got this.”

  A door behind the bench opened. Out came a large black robe filled with Judge Kennesaw Montgomery Boone. “Bring in the prospective jurors.”

  A bailiff opened another door, and the first round of candidates took seats in the box. It wasn’t a group seen in most other courtrooms. Because it was Key West. Heavy tans, shorts, sandals, hangovers.

  “Where’s our jury consultant?” whispered Brook. “He was supposed to be here a half hour ago.”

  Shelby read a text on his cell. “On his way.”

  “What’s taking him so long?” She pointed. “Theirs is already here.”

  A professorial man in a navy blazer sat in the first row, leaning over the railing to confer with his team.

  The judge looked impatiently at the plaintiff’s table. “Is there a problem? You have done voir dire before, haven’t you?”

  “No,” said Shelby, “but I’m ready.”

  He approached the box and asked questions of integrity. Could they set aside personal bias and follow the law?

  The defense went next. How much did they make? Had they ever missed a house payment? What did they think of people who did?

  The defense huddled again with their consultant and offered its peremptory challenges.

  Brook leaned sideways. “They’re striking all the poorest people from the pool. It’s class warfare.”

  “I know,” said Shelby.

  “But that’ll force us to strike all the rich people, and that’s not right either.”

  “I know.”

  “Where’s our jury consultant? Cases are already won and lost—”

  Shelby looked at his phone. “Stuck behind a crash on the Overseas. Road’s closed.”

  “Just great.”

  The judge cleared his throat. “Your turn. Anytime you’re ready.”

  “Sorry.” Shelby approached the box. “Are you related to or do you know anyone currently serving in the military? . . .”

  A defense attorney whispered over his shoulder at their consultant. “Why is he asking that?”

  That night in one of Key West’s most exclusive resorts: The screaming could be heard through the walls of the most spacious suite.

  “You had no fucking idea why he was asking about relatives in the military?”

  Four lawyers sat demurely in a row of comfy chairs.

  One of the Riley partners continued pacing in rage. “What about you!”

  The jury consultant fidgeted on the end of a bed and shrugged.

  “Does anyone in this room besides me know the makeup of the plaintiff class?”

  Blank stares.

  “They’ve got dozens of National Guard reservists who were called up for active duty, and when their tours were extended, the pay cut from their regular jobs forced them into mortgage default—while they were fighting for our country! And then all those other questions: surgeries, 401(k)s, CD rates. You didn’t have a clue where any of this was going? For God’s sake, he handed you a treasure map for your own peremptory challenges. Instead you blindly used them to strike poor people.”

  The consultant raised his hand. “But our research shows—”

  “Your research should have shown that half the po
or people in this country hate the other half! Just listen to talk radio for five seconds.”

  A timid hand went up. “Why do they hate each other?”

  “Because it’s how rich politicians get elected these days! Don’t you understand the whole divide-and-blame game? ‘Pay no attention to my campaign donors, lobbyists and gerrymandered voting districts that have rigged the system. All your problems are really caused by that other poor asshole standing next to you, getting a free ride and hating Christmas.’ . . . But did you take advantage of that windfall? No, you just gift-wrapped half your challenges for this Shelby guy, then he parsed through your prized keepers! And don’t even get me started on the challenges for cause. This wet-behind-the-ears kid kicked all your asses. I should be paying him!”

  “There’s still a lot of time,” said the boldest lawyer. “The trial hasn’t even started.”

  “Is it more or less than a thousand times that you’ve heard the saying ‘Trials are already won and lost—’ ” The attorneys ducked as a lamp flew over their heads and shattered on the wall. “Out! All of you! Get out of my sight!”

  They never moved so fast. The partner slammed the door behind them and grabbed a tiny bottle of Chivas from the minibar. He opened his cell. “It’s Moss . . . I know it’s late. We have a problem . . . Who would have guessed the kid was this good? He’s smarter than our whole team combined . . . I know. We’ll just have to nail our opening arguments with everything we’ve got . . .”

  Chapter TWENTY-FIVE

  DOWNTOWN ORLANDO

  Traffic grew thick on northbound I-4 as the skyline came into view.

  “I don’t remember that big building,” said Coleman.

  “Fairly new,” said Serge. “The Amway Center.”

  “They need all that room to do their thing?”

  “Coleman, that’s the basketball arena where the Magic play. Amway just bought the naming rights.”

  “Oh.” Coleman reclined with a crack-style beer-can pipe for his pot. “I’ve never figured out Amway people. I thought they were just trying to sell you vitamins and cleaning products.”