Solomon versus Lord svl-1

by Paul Levine

  “Loved the fight!” Mr. Ruffles said.

  “Then one day, it all stopped.”

  “Did the female kill the male?” Victoria asked, hopefully.

  The judge cleaned his trifocals on the sleeve of his black robe. “I came out to the barn and found the male humping the bitch, just pumping away on a bale of straw.”

  “Humping the bitch,” Mr. Ruffles said.

  “If that's the court's order,” Steve said, “we have no choice but to comply.”

  “You see what I have to put up with.” Victoria felt her face redden.

  “After that, those two dogs stayed as close as hog jowls and black-eyed peas,” the judge said. “Now, I'm not gonna referee you. Y'all want to rut around, find your own barn on your own time.”

  “Six o'clock works for me,” Steve said.

  He's a juvenile delinquent, Victoria thought. A spoiled brat. She turned her back on him.

  “As for the pending issue,” the judge continued, “no dad-gum animal's gonna testify in my courtroom. I'm warning you both. Any attempt to elicit information from the bird will be considered a contempt of court.”

  Victoria felt herself exhale. Ye-ssss! Solomon wanted to give her trial tips? Here's a tip for you. Don't mess with Victoria Lord.

  “Now, git on back to your places and let's hang the ham in the smokehouse,” the judge said, then gestured for the bailiff to bring in the jury.

  On the way to her table, Victoria smiled at Pincher, letting him know she'd won the motion. He nodded his appreciation. Then she felt Steve alongside her.

  “Another trial tip, Lord,” he whispered. “In law and in life, sometimes you have to wing it.”

  “Thanks a bunch,” she said.

  “I have to wing it right now. You know why?”

  “I don't care.”

  “My client's guilty.”

  She stopped short. “What?”

  “He imports illegal birds, snakes, big cats. Sells them to zoos and collectors.”

  Now she was confused. “You want to plead him out?”

  “No way. Pedrosa gives people work, and the animals are healthy and happy.”

  “What he does is a crime.”

  “A victimless crime,” Steve said. “Pedrosa came to this country with nothing. He's put two kids through college. He's good people.”

  “Why are you telling me this?”

  “So you can dismiss the case and spare yourself embarrassment.”

  “Forget it.”

  “Then I'm not responsible for what happens.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “You're going to be a fine lawyer someday, Lord. But not until you find your heart.”

  Victoria felt dizzy as she sat down, as if she had plunged through the rabbit hole and just kept falling. Hoping to stem the vertigo, she tried focusing on the sign above the judge's head. We Who Labor Here Seek Only Truth.

  Sure. Solomon seeks to beat her brains in, the judge to beat the point spread, and the jurors to beat the traffic home.

  Amancio Pedrosa swore to tell the truth and Steve started asking questions.

  “What's your occupation, sir?”

  “I run an animal shelter for poor, injured creatures,” Pedrosa said.

  And Fidel Castro runs Club Med, Victoria thought.

  “So you have birds on your property?” Steve asked.

  Pedrosa's eyes welled with tears. “Flamingos with broken legs. Pelicans with fishhooks in their beaks. Egrets that swallow beer-can tabs.”

  The jurors seemed stricken, Victoria thought. Could they be buying this shit?

  “Do you recognize the bird sitting on my shoulder?”

  “Looks like a Brazilian white cockatoo with a sulfur crest,” Pedrosa said.

  “Cockatoo!” Mr. Ruffles said, as Steve hand-fed him another prune Danish.

  “Did you smuggle this bird into the country?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then how do you explain how Wildlife Officers found the bird on your property?”

  “Hurricane Brenda,” Pedrosa said. “You remember? The storm came up the coast from South America.”

  “So the hurricane blew our feathered friend north and deposited him on your property,” Steve said.

  No one laughed, no one screamed, and Solomon's pants didn't catch fire.

  Just wait till cross-examination. I'll show you a hurricane.

  “That's about it,” Pedrosa said. “One day just after the storm, I saw that bird perched in a gumbo-limbo tree.”

  “Gumbo-limbo,” Mr. Ruffles said.

  “The same day, the Wildlife people showed up and arrested me.”

  “For saving this bird's life, you were arrested,” Steve said sadly. He gave Mr. Ruffles a nudge, and the bird flapped his wings and hopped to Pedrosa's shoulder.

  Victoria leapt to her feet. “Your Honor, let the record reflect that the bird has just landed on the defendant, Amancio Pedrosa.”

  “Objection,” Steve said. “It's irrelevant where Mr. Ruffles sits.”

  The bird was nuzzling Pedrosa's neck. Victoria felt her excitement rise.

  You think I can't wing it? Just watch, Solomon.

  “It's highly relevant, Your Honor,” she said. “It proves that Mr. Ruffles knows Mr. Pedrosa. Just look at them. They're practically cuddling.”

  “It's a case of mistaken identity,” Steve said. “By zoological malfeasance and misleading suggestion, the state has planted false evidence.”

  Solomon's babbling, Victoria thought. He's scared. She had him right where she wanted him.

  Hoisted on his own gumbo-limbo.

  “Ms. Lord has employed trickery to dupe this innocent bird,” Steve railed. “To Mr. Ruffles, all people look alike.”

  “Then why,” Victoria retorted, “of all the people in the courtroom, did Mr. Ruffles choose Mr. Pedrosa? There's only one reason. Because it's Mr. Pedrosa's bird!”

  Mr. Ruffles said: “Mr. Pedrosa's bird.”

  “Objection!” Steve yelled. “Ms. Lord has tainted these proceedings with prejudice.”

  “Mr. Pedrosa's bird,” Mr. Ruffles repeated.

  “Stifle that bird,” the judge demanded, then turned to Victoria. “Ms. Lord, you think I was born tired and raised lazy?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Then why did you elicit testimony from that flea-bitten bird?”

  She felt the first sharp dagger of panic.

  The judge's order. Have I violated the judge's order?

  Next to her, Pincher cleared his throat with the sound of a truck dumping gravel. She could feel Solomon's presence, gliding into the well of the courtroom, circling like a hungry shark.

  “It's Mr. Solomon's fault,” she said. “He planned this. I don't know how exactly, but I know he did.”

  “That doesn't cut it, Judge,” Steve said. “Ms. Lord has shamefully induced Mr. Ruffles to incriminate the defendant. I reluctantly move for a mistrial.”

  The word “mistrial” sent a shiver of fear through her. She groped for the right response, not daring to risk a glance at Pincher.

  “But Pedrosa's guilty! Solomon told me so.” The words just poured out. “That's why he's winging it. Solomon's diabolical, unbalanced, dangerous. He should be locked up along with his guilty client.”

  The courtroom was hushed. Everyone was staring at her. Victoria looked down. She was pointing her scissors at Solomon, her hand shaking.

  “Bailiff, disarm counsel,” the judge said, gravely.

  Elwood Reed hitched up his belt, walked purposefully to the prosecution table, and took the scissors from Victoria.

  “Mistrial granted,” Judge Gridley said. He turned to the jurors and thanked them for their service, explaining that their duties were over, and isn't it wonderful to live in a country where the rule of law prevails?

  Victoria slumped into her chair, dazed. She was vaguely aware of Pedrosa hugging Steve Solomon at the defense table. There was a flapping of wings. The damned bird was celebrating, too.
Next to her, Pincher stirred uncomfortably.

  “I'm sorry, sir.” Her voice was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves.

  “Some lawyers aren't cut out for the courtroom,” Pincher told her. “Maybe you can be a back-office scrivener somewhere, but trial work's not for you.”

  She must have been shaking her head, because he said, “Do you understand?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Do I need Donald Trump to deliver the news? You're fired.”

  Pincher got up and left her there, alone. A loser. A leper in a colony of one.

  Her throat felt constricted, and her heart, which had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, seemed to stop. The courtroom became unbearably hot, the lights excruciatingly bright. Footsteps of departing spectators echoed like thunderclaps, whispers cackled like derisive laughter.

  She tried to compose herself, knowing her cheeks were crimson, her makeup melting. And then it came. The first salty tear.

  At the defense table, Steve looked at Victoria sitting alone and forlorn. Only another trial lawyer could understand what she was going through, her blood pooling on the courtroom floor. Steve had lost cases-though perhaps none so spectacularly-and he knew the shame. He'd heard Pincher fire her. The prick hadn't even waited until they were back in the office.

  And now what?

  Oh, jeez, she's crying.

  Steve felt an emotion that seldom wormed itself into his consciousness: guilt. He hadn't meant to get her fired. He wanted to tell her that the only lawyers who never get humiliated in court are those too chickenshit to venture there. He wanted to tell her that she had more potential than any young lawyer he knew. She was a gladiator who'd gone down swinging her sword. Nothing to be ashamed of, not her fault her boss was a jerk.

  Steve watched Victoria unstrap her expensive Italian shoes and toss them into a plastic bag, slipping on white Nikes for the trek to the parking lot. The Warrior Princess stripped of her armor. He told himself that someday she'd look back and realize it was for the best. Why should she waste her time with Sugar Ray Pincher? He'd do nothing but stunt her growth. She should be in private practice. Like him.

  An idea was forming.

  He could groom her, teach her all his tricks.

  We could handle the Barksdale case together.

  He wondered just how furious she was. Would she even listen to his offer? Would she help him-help them-land Katrina Barksdale as a client? He gathered up Mr. Ruffles and walked to the prosecution table.

  “I'm sorry,” he said.

  “No you're not.”

  “I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity.”

  “I hate you, you know.”

  “I hate you,” Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.

  “What are you going to do now?” Steve asked.

  “I don't know.”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “You've done quite enough.”

  “I have a proposition for you.”

  “Shit!” she screamed.

  “Don't say that till you hear me out,” he said.

  “Dammit! Your bird.”

  Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.

  “They say it's good luck,” Steve said.

  GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH By Joan Fleischman

  Herald Staff Writer

  The Miami-Dade Grand Jury will hear evidence Monday in the strangulation death of construction magnate and philanthropist Charles Barksdale, 60. County Coroner Wu-Chi Yang reportedly will tell the Grand Jury that Barksdale died from “erotic asphyxia,” death from cutting off the air supply during sex. The issue before the Grand Jury is whether there is probable cause that the death resulted from a homicide, rather than an accident. Dr. Yang would not comment on these reports, and all proceedings before the Grand Jury are confidential. The sole suspect in the inquiry is Barksdale's widow, Katrina Barksdale, 33, who reportedly was with her husband in the bedroom of their luxurious bayfront home when the incident occurred last Wednesday night. The couple had been married four years. Barksdale was best known for his waterfront condominium projects and as a sponsor of book fairs and poetry seminars. Asked for a comment, State Attorney Raymond Pincher said, “We will present the Grand Jury with evidence that Mrs. Barksdale had ample motive, opportunity, and means to commit this heinous crime, and that she did so with premeditation and malice aforethought.” The State Attorney then added, “Not that I'm prejudging her.”

  Eight

  THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA BREEZE

  What the hell did his father want?

  What was so important that Steve had to fill the mammoth tank of his 1976 Cadillac Eldorado for the drive down Useless 1, the old highway that runs from Maine to Key West?

  And why did the old man say to leave his grandson behind? Strange, because Bobby's the one Herbert Solomon enjoyed seeing.

  These were the questions plaguing Steve as the old Caddy powered past the mango groves and vegetable farms of South Dade. Not that he had anything better to do. With the bird trial ended and his office empty of clients-customers, Cece called them-he had time for a quick trip to the Keys.

  Or a long trip.

  He felt a stab of pain when he saw the billboard with a drawing of pastel-colored low-rise buildings around a lake ringed by avocado trees.

  BIGBY RESORT amp; VILLAS

  Your Forever Getaway

  Sounded like Menorah Gardens Cemetery, he thought. He had tried calling Victoria last night, but she wasn't picking up the phone, even though he'd dangled irresistible bait.

  “Your Prince Charming here,” he said to her answering machine, “and if you ever want to see your size eight-and-a-half Guccis again, you'll return my call.”

  In Victoria's haste to flee the courtroom, bird crud on her sleeve, Nikes on her feet, she had left her shoes behind. The snakeskin pumps, greatly admired by Marvin the Maven, now sat on the cracked white leather of the passenger seat, like a pair of miniature schnauzers.

  When the phone rang just before midnight, he hoped it was Cinderella calling back. No luck.

  “You stepped in the deep shit this time,” Herbert Solomon had drawled, sounding semi-blitzed, “and ah'm gonna pull you out.”

  Steve heard the soft sound of water splashing. “You in the bathtub, Dad?”

  “Pirates Cove, flashlight in one hand, shrimp net in the other.”

  “Where's the bottle of bourbon?”

  “Shrimp are fat and juicy. Ah'll bring you some.”

  “You okay to drive home?”

  “Drive? Ah'm in the kayak.”

  “Great. I'll alert the Coast Guard.”

  “Just git on down here tomorrow. It's important.”

  “Just what shit did I step in?”

  “Not on the phone, son. Don't be such a dimwit.”

  They spent a few minutes negotiating a meeting place like two lawyers haggling over an insurance settlement. His father argued that Steve had the benefit of turnpike speeds all the way to Homestead, while he'd be stuck in traffic in the Lower Keys, so they should meet somewhere south of the halfway point. In rebuttal, Steve claimed that he actually worked for a living, while his father sipped hootch from Mason jars, so how about driving farther north? They settled on Tortugas Tavern, an open-air guzzlery just south of Islamorada on Lower Matecumbe Key.

  It was cloudless, the Eldo's top was down, the steering wheel was warmed by the sun. Once a fiery red, the Caddy was now a faded dingy orange, but its fuel-injected engine still managed a throaty roar. On the reggae station, Bob Marley was confessing that he'd shot the sheriff, though apparently not the deputy.

  The drive gave Steve an uncomfortable ninety minutes to think about his upcoming sparring match. He wasn't in the mood to hear about his own failings for the zillionth time. Long ago, he figured th
at his father's parenting was divided between the schools of benign neglect and don't-be-such. As in, Don't be such a wimp; Don't be such a whiner; and the classic ego-booster for an adolescent boy: Don't be such a loser.

  Traffic slowed near Key Largo as he passed a collection of trailer parks, bait shops, souvenir stands, and ticky-tack apartment buildings on stilts. South of Plantation Key, the land fell away in spectacular fashion, leaving nothing but the two-lane roadway, slender beaches, and a series of bridges. Zipping past utility poles topped by osprey nests, Steve inhaled the rich, earthy smells of low tide along with the exhaust from a Hummer hauling a power boat. To the left was the turquoise water of the Florida Straits, to the right, the placid Gulf of Mexico, patches of red coral visible just beneath the surface.

  Along the bridges, fathers and sons fished from catwalks and brown pelicans dive-bombed the shallows. Rec vehicles were parked in the white sand, kids piling out, splashing through the shallow water, their dogs yapping after them.

  Regular families.

  Unlike his, Steve thought. His mother deceased, his father in exile, his sister a habitual criminal. And what about him?

  Just who the hell was Steve Solomon, anyway?

  Pulling into the beachfront parking lot of crushed shells, the Eldo stirred up puffs of limestone dust. Steve spotted his father's old Chrysler Imperial, a kayak tied to a roof rack, rust spots on the hood and trunk where salt water had dripped. In his forced retirement, Herbert had taken to paddling across Florida Bay, exploring the Everglades, and camping on uninhabited islands.

  The Tortugas Tavern was not much more than an open tiki hut with a thatched roof and a four-sided bar with mounted stools. The temperature hovered around eighty, and the air smelled of salt mixed with tangy smoke from the open kitchen. As he approached, Steve caught sight of his father, perched on a bar stool, a martini glass in front of him. Tanned the color of a richly brewed tea, Herbert wore khaki shorts and a T-shirt from a Key West oyster stand with the logo “Eat 'Em Raw.” His long, shimmering white hair was combed straight back and curled up at the neck.