by Paul Levine
“Where's Intercourse?” asked a Pittsburgh girl, laughing.
“A few miles south of Blue Ball,” replied a Philadelphia girl, accurately but nastily.
The other girls giggled and clickety-clacked their lacrosse sticks. And from that day, they called her “Doris from Intercourse.”
The nickname followed her to college, and all the dean's lists and all the forced turnovers could never change it. Seething with anger, she led her team in yellow warning cards and in loneliness.
One lacrosse game stood out in her memory. A joyous game, even though she received seventeen stitches in her face for her efforts. In the Big Ten playoffs, Doris tripped a cute, speedy, ponytailed player from Ohio State. On her way down, the young woman whipped her stick across Doris' cheek, maybe accidentally, maybe not. With blood already spurting, Doris slammed to the ground, aiming her shoulder squarely at the dimple on Miss Ponytail's chin. A fractured mandible left the girl eating through a straw for months. Doris still smiled when she replayed the game in her mind.
Looking back, Doris realized she did little in her college years but hit the books, hit the sack, and hit her opponents. But then, in her senior year, she met Fritz Braeunig, a soccer player from Germany. After a sports banquet, he took her back to his apartment, plied her with red wine, and pried her knees apart with his own well-muscled thighs. Fritz's problem, she thought, was not taking nein for an answer. What choice did she have? As he maneuvered inside her thighs, she circled his chest with her lumberjack legs, locked her ankles behind his back, and snapped three of his ribs with the sound of a crab shell being shattered by a mallet.
Doris chose Johns Hopkins for medical school because she could help coach the university's famed lacrosse team. In the winters, she played indoors, where she was frequently penalized for “boarding from the rear.” Lately, she took out her aggressions by playing in a men's league near the Florida International University campus.
Although her life was bereft of companionship and friends, she did not consider herself unhappy. She was doing good work for a good cause and had traveled far from the Pennsylvania farm. Employed by various pharmaceutical companies, she'd worked in drug research programs in Argentina, Hungary, and Bulgaria before settling in the more prosaic Ft. Lauderdale. For the past two years, she'd directed the pilot autism project at Rockland State Hospital, where she aggressively pursued new treatments.
Hey, you can't score if you don't shoot.
She could not understand why Steve Solomon refused to share Robert with her. How could anyone be so selfish and shortsighted? She could help the boy, and by extension, many others. And if her research led to more government grants and a profile of her on 60 Minutes, well, so much the better.
Steve vowed to show his humble side. He'd flatter her while keeping his true feelings in check. “Let's not fight, Dr. Kranchick.”
“That's up to you, Mr. Solomon.”
“I really admire the work you do.”
You are a weird, freaking woman.
“Thank you.”
“But if you knew Bobby, you'd see the best place for him is with me.”
I wouldn't board a German shepherd with you.
“Raschk korno duchk,” Bobby mumbled, his head buried in a pillow.
“What did you say?” Kranchick said.
Bobby lifted his head. “RAKISH CORN DICK!”
Oh, shit, Steve thought. He couldn't let Kranchick know that Bobby was making anagrams of her name.
“When Bobby's nervous, he talks gibberish,” Steve said.
“RADISH COCK RINK.”
“It could be a form of dementia,” Kranchick said, frowning.
“It's more like a game,” Steve suggested.
“DRINK SICK ROACH.”
She reached inside her jacket, pulled out a pad, and scribbled a note. “There seems to be a pattern here, but I can't quite get it.”
“No pattern,” Steve said. “Just random words.” Damned if he'd tell her that Bobby associated her name with “dick,” “roach,” and “cock.”
“This just reinforces my beliefs. Bobby needs intensive treatment in a residential facility.”
“You're wrong, Doctor. You're so damned wrong.”
“You'd have regular visitation rights,” she offered.
“Homeschooling's working fine.”
“Is it?” She reached under the sofa cushions as if looking for spare change. “Is this what you call schooling? Robert tried to bury the evidence.”
“He only reads the articles,” Steve said, anticipating a Playboy or Maxim.
Instead, she held up a black-and-white autopsy photo of Charles Barksdale. An incision ran from ear to ear.
“Oh, that,” Steve said, relieved.
“And this?” She grabbed a photo with the skin flaps pulled back from Barksdale's neck, showing the salivary glands and exposed jugular vein.
“Bobby likes autopsies,” Steve said. “He can recite the Coroners' Rolls from fourteenth-century England.”
“‘Inquest was taken at Middlesex,'” Bobby said in a British accent, “‘on Monday after the Nativity of Blessed Mary the Virgin in the reign of King Edward the Third…'”
“Parlor games,” Kranchick said. “Meaningless until we learn how he does it.”
“Hey, lady,” Bobby said. “Who lit the fuse on your tampon?”
“What! Is this what you teach the boy?”
“No. No. No.” Steve felt an icy fear. “That's a T-shirt or something. Bobby, tell her.”
“Bumper sticker on a Toyota SUV.”
“A Toyota SUV!” Steve proclaimed, as if Bobby had just turned lead into gold.
“With a bald left rear tire,” Bobby said. “License plate 7NJ843, manatee logo.”
“See, it's just his memory.”
Kranchick grabbed her briefcase from the surfboard coffee table. “Whatever's going on in this house is utterly inappropriate. Obviously, Robert needs guidance that you're unable or unwilling to give.”
“Look, Dr. Kranchick, maybe I've given you the wrong impression. If you'd stick around a while, let Bobby relax, you'll see how happy he is, how welladjusted-”
“My decision's made.” Her tone was curt. “I'm going to urge the court to deny your petition, terminate your custody forthwith, and make Robert a ward of the state.”
Steve's hands felt clammy. He'd gone the full route. Reason. Anger. Insincere flattery. Now full-scale panic. He heard himself begging. “Give me another chance, Doctor. Please. Bobby needs me. And I love him.”
“Love” wasn't a word he tossed around easily.
“Bobby's my whole world,” he went on.
“Your world? So that's what this is about. Your needs. Shouldn't this be about Robert?”
“He loves me, too. Depends on me. He's made tremendous progress.”
She clicked on a cruel smile. “How? By sharing your bed?”
“For two weeks, when he first got here. He was too scared to sleep alone.”
“Still,” she said. “It looks like one of those Michael Jackson situations.”
Is she fucking serious?
“You have a dirty mind, Dr. Kranchick.”
“It's my job to turn over every rock, see what's crawling underneath. Frankly, even if Robert had no problems, I'd question your fitness as a custodian. Face it, Mr. Solomon, you're undomesticated.”
“Whatever that means, it's just temporary. Just a phase.”
“Fine. When you've grown up, petition the court under the change-of-circumstances statute.”
“But I'm changing right now.” An idea was forming, a way to sway her.
“How so?”
“Getting married's a change, isn't it?”
“It can be, depending…”
“Well, I'm engaged. Getting married in a month. To a wonderful woman. She's smart and loving and-”
“An optimist,” Dr. Kranchick suggested snidely.
“Stable. A real stabilizer. My fiancee is a stabilizing influence.
”
“Stable” seeming to be the only characteristic he could latch on to. Winging it now, just like in court. “When I'm with her, I feel more mature. More… domesticated.”
“Really?” The doctor did not sound convinced.
“Your report isn't complete if you haven't interviewed my fiancee.”
“Technically, that's true,” she conceded, with reluctance. “Who is she?”
Steve's mind raced. There was Sofia Hernandez, the court reporter. She was fine at reading back testimony, but ad-libbing wasn't her strong suit. There was Gina the model, who already had an engagement ring, but she was likely to steal the silverware. There were the twins, Lexy and Rexy, but neither one's IQ matched the temperature on a warm day. And there was Cece, but her tattoos and piercings might be off-putting, to say nothing of her rap sheet.
“I'll want to meet her as soon as possible.” Kranchick was pulling out her daily calendar. “How's the day after tomorrow?”
“Perfect! Let's make it dinner.”
“So what's the woman's name? This stabilizing influence?”
There was only one choice. “Victoria Lord,” he said. “You'll just love her.”
Nineteen
PROVING LOVE
Heading into Les Mannequins the next morning, Steve vowed to be on his best behavior with Victoria. After all, he had a huge favor to ask.
“Will you marry me? Or at least pretend to?”
Steve knew he desperately needed her help. A lousy report from Kranchick combined with Zinkavich's vicious attacks, and he'd have no chance in court. He'd promised Kranchick that she'd meet his fiancee tomorrow night. So he had to pop the question-on bent knee, if necessary-and teach Victoria the one lawyer skill she so clearly lacked: lying with a straight face.
He left Bobby in the waiting room, where he could spot for Cece on the bench press, the only way to keep her from disappearing for an afternoon at the gym. Opening the door to his office, he instantly sensed that something was wrong.
It was too bright, for one thing, sunlight blasting through the windows. Then there was the smell of ammonia. And all the papers on his desk were stacked in neat piles next to a vase of fresh violets.
Violets?
He shot a look at Victoria, who was sitting at her desk, reading a stack of appellate cases. “What the hell happened in here?”
“I tidied up,” Victoria said.
“Like Sherman tidied up Georgia. Why's it so bright?”
“I cleaned the windows.”
“Big mistake. Dirty windows are nature's way of keeping us cool.”
She continued reading, using a yellow marker to highlight the key points of an appellate opinion. As if the law ever won a case.
He went to his lobster tank, crumbled a stale bagel, and began tossing pieces into the water. He was stalling, trying to figure just how to ask Victoria to be his fiancee-for-a-day. He could predict her first reaction.
“I won't do that. It's unethical.”
Despite his best efforts at corrupting her, Victoria stubbornly clung to her rigid standards. Just yesterday, he'd been interviewing a potential client, a guy who wanted to sue Budweiser for false advertising. The guy drank the beer but still couldn't pick up women in bars. Steve thought the case had potential, but Victoria vetoed it.
“You ready to prep for the bail hearing?” she asked, without looking up from her photocopies.
“Sure, sure, we'll prep all you want.”
He knew that Katrina Barksdale was sitting unhappily in the Women's Detention Center, which lacked the basics of her Gables Estates home. No Jacuzzi, no pool deck, no monthly pest control. They needed to convince Judge Alvin Schwartz, an eighty-one-year-old misanthrope, to allow her to return home, pending trial. Not an easy task in a capital case, but possible.
“Under State v. Arthur, we have a chance,” Victoria said.
“Yeah.”
“It's the state's burden to deny bail.”
“I know.”
She glanced up at him. “How do you get along with Judge Schwartz?”
“He hates me.”
“Oh.”
“But he's senile and sometimes forgets.”
“Great.”
“He's fond of young women lawyers in miniskirts.”
“Forget it.”
Steve walked to the window and stared across the alley, squinting against the glare.
“Are you okay?” she asked. “You seem a little distant.”
“There's something I need to ask you.”
C'mon, say it. Tell her you need her help. Tell her that losing Bobby would be worse than losing one of your limbs.
“Did you Shepardize Arthur?” he asked, meekly.
“Of course. It's still the law.”
He looked at her as she continued thumbing through her appellate cases. With no court appearances today, she was dressed down. Black capri pants, a man's white shirt-Bigby's, Steve figured-tied at the waist, scuffed flats. No makeup, and it looked as if she hadn't bothered to run a brush through her hair. To Steve, she was sexy in a natural and wholly unintentional way. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he didn't have these feelings for her, it would be easier to ask for her help. He could wheedle, plead, beg, grovel. But now he just couldn't. Groveling would have to wait.
“How do you want to handle the hearing?” she asked.
“You take the law, I'll take the facts.”
“The facts being that Charles was kinky, Katrina went along for the sake of the marriage, and the death was an unfortunate accident?”
“Yeah.” Through the open window, he watched a garbage truck hoisting the Dumpster. “We also stress the theme of our case.”
“Which is…?”
“I have no idea. But whatever it is, we need to pound the theme into the public consciousness starting at the bail hearing. We need to write the headline in the Herald with it.”
She wrinkled her forehead. “The headline's ‘Widow Freed on Bail.' Or not.”
“Only if some assistant city editor writes it,” Steve said. “Our job's to write it for them. With our theme. So what's the thematic content of the Barksdale marriage? What's the glue that held those two together?”
“The state will say it's money.”
“Exactly. But what do we say?”
“Love.”
“Love,” Steve avowed, “is a many-splendored defense. What is love? And how do we prove it?”
“Love is a rational, synergistic coupling of two people with mutual interests and similar values.”
“A little clinical for my tastes.” Was that how it was with Bigby and her? A rational, synergistic coupling? That sounded like fun.
“So what's your definition?”
“Two people who just have to be together,” he replied without hesitation. “Two people who are not complete when they're apart. They're lovers and best friends, too. There's lust and laughter, and they can't imagine being with anyone else.”
“So Steve Solomon believes in romantic love?”
“In theory. I've never really had anything like that.”
“And you think Katrina and Charles did?”
“I doubt it, but I'm a lawyer. Give me a thread and I'll tie you a rope.”
“Then let me show you something.” She bounded from her chair, crouched down, and opened one of the cardboard boxes under her desk. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking like a college coed studying for finals, she pulled out a handful of eight-by-ten glossies. “The Barksdales at play.”
Steve settled into a catcher's position next to her and started going through the photos. Hand in hand at charity events, Charles in a tux, Katrina in a designer dress, dripping with jewels. Society page shots from various galas. Smiling faces, Charles with his arm around Katrina, what appeared to be genuine warmth in their eyes.
Victoria grabbed more photos from the box. They must have been in love with their own images. St. Tropez, Monaco, waterfront restaurants, boat decks. Charles was st
ill a handsome man with a head of gray hair, and Katrina a born model, doing the toe-point to flatter her legs, a Paris Hilton tilt of the head to accentuate her jawline.
“These are fine, but they're all posed,” Steve said. “I could show you some smiling photos of O. J. and Nicole Simpson. Or Scott and Laci Peterson. Or Hillary and Bill Clinton.”
“Hillary hasn't killed Bill.”
“Yet,” Steve said.
“Look at this.” She pulled a greeting card out of the box and handed it to him. On the cover was a Winslow Homer print of a Caribbean beach. “It's dated the day before Charlie died.”
He opened the card and read the handwritten note:
Dearest Katrina, No one could have been so good as you have been, from the very first day till now. Your Charlie
“I like the ‘Dearest,'” Victoria said. “Kind of quaint and Victorian.”
“Okay, he still loved her. How do we prove she loved him?”
“When I saw them, Kat always seemed very affectionate toward Charlie. Very caring.”
“What else? Give me examples.”
“She was always buying him gifts. Watches, cuff links, clothing.”
“Keep going. I like it.”
Victoria thought it over a moment. “Maybe three months ago, we went to a surprise birthday party Kat threw for Charlie.”
“We,” he thought. Meaning Bigby and her. Another reminder she was about to marry the stiff, about to make third-person plural a permanent part of her life.
“The cake was shaped like one of his office towers,” she continued.
“Cute. Unless the candles were sticks of dynamite.”
“At sunset, we all went out on their boat. Music's playing, we're having drinks, eating stone crabs.”
“Even Bigby the Vegan?”
“Bruce only ate the salad. That guy we met, Manko, anchored the boat in Hurricane Harbor off Key Biscayne. And just before the sun went down, the clouds were streaked with crimson, the bay's smooth as silk. I mean, how romantic can you get?”