Solomon versus Lord svl-1

by Paul Levine

  But that's not what Steve was thinking. He was thinking about the four-second pause between Manko's offer to kill Charlie and Katrina's semi-rejection of the idea. He put himself in the jury box. He'd expect an innocent woman to say: “No way, Chet.” And you'd hear the anger in her voice. But the pause made it appear she'd been calmly thinking it over, finally replying, essentially: “I don't trust you, Chet. If I'm going to kill my husband, I'll do it myself.”

  Steve the Juror thought that Katrina was a woman who may have considered killing her husband. But Steve the Lawyer still trusted his gut. He didn't think Katrina possessed the kind of evil required to do the job. Sure, she might be shallow and greedy and unfaithful, but a killer? It was a huge leap, and he wasn't making it. Not yet, anyway.

  “You've got too many dots to connect, Sugar Ray,” Steve said.

  “There's stuff you don't know. After he finds out his wife's screwing around, Barksdale goes to his lawyer, tells him to draft divorce papers.”

  Miranda Cooper handed over a legal document captioned: “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”

  Steve was caught off guard. He'd known about Manko, so the hump-a-rama photos didn't surprise him. But Katrina had never said anything about a divorce.

  “There was no divorce petition filed,” he said.

  “Didn't say there was,” Pincher said. “Del, fill him in. It's obvious his client hasn't.”

  Farnsworth sat up straighter. “Barksdale tells Katrina he knows about Manko and he wants out of the marriage. This is not good news for the lady. Under the prenup, she'll get squat. But if Charlie dies while they're married, she gets a third of his estate.”

  “That's what we call motive.” Pincher's tone was condescending.

  “She begs forgiveness,” Farnsworth said. “Swears she still loves him. Give her another chance, she'll dump Manko. She lures Barksdale into bed for his favorite kind of kink. Then she kills him.”

  “In case you're still thinking accident,” Pincher added, “take a look at the report from our human-factors expert.”

  Miranda Cooper pulled out another document.

  “It'd be virtually impossible for someone to accidentally strangle in that contraption,” Pincher said. “All Barksdale had to do was lean forward to relieve the pressure. But he couldn't do that if she's holding him down.”

  “So what's your deal?” Victoria said.

  “What makes you think I'm offering?” Pincher said.

  “Your orientation lecture to new prosecutors. ‘Never lay out your case for the defense, unless you're pushing a plea.'”

  “Quite right.” Pincher turned to Gloria and Miranda. “I hope you two paid attention the way Ms. Lord did.” He took his lavender handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, shook it out, refolded it, slid it back. “Plead to second degree. Twelve-year sentence, out in nine.”

  Steve put on his poker face. They'd have to talk to their client before responding.

  “I remember something else you said in that lecture,” Victoria said. “‘You're trial lawyers, not plea bargainers. So try your winners and plead out your losers. Never offer a plea unless your case has a hole in it.'”

  “Top of your class, Ms. Lord,” Pincher said.

  “You're afraid of losing. I don't know why yet, but we'll figure it out. Until we do, you can take your plea and shove it.”

  Whoa, Steve thought. When did she become a cowboy?

  Ray Pincher raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, as if trying to determine if his hearing had failed him. “Solomon, perhaps you should tell your neophyte partner that she might be outsmarting herself here.”

  “I don't tell her anything, Sugar Ray. She's got better instincts than I do.”

  Hang tough. Never contradict your partner in front of the enemy.

  “I'll hold the offer open until tomorrow at noon.” Then, as unruffled as his lavender shirt, Pincher stood and with a mortician's smile said: “I'll escort you out.”

  Steve and Victoria gathered the discovery documents and walked out of the conference room, with Pincher leading the way to the elevator. Halfway down the institutional corridor of metal walls and industrial carpeting, the State Attorney gestured toward a closed door. “Before you leave, Solomon, there's someone who wants to see you.”

  A nameplate on the door read:

  John B. Zinkavich, Esq.

  Division of Family Services

  “You got any other doors?” Steve said. “Maybe one with a new car behind it? Or a trip to Acapulco?”

  Thirty-two

  THE LATE RUFUS THIGPEN

  “Did I just hear you turn down a plea without consulting our client?” Steve asked.

  “Katrina will do what I tell her,” Victoria replied. They were standing at the door to Zinkavich's office.

  “That's awfully arrogant.”

  “Right. Sounds like something you would say.”

  “Ancient history. I've decided to become more like you.”

  “Don't get too principled. We've got a murder case to try.”

  “So?”

  “Don't wimp out on me, Steve.”

  “Jeez, I've created a monster.”

  “I still have my ethics. I'm just becoming more pragmatic.” She rapped twice on the door and turned the knob before anyone said to come in.

  Jack Zinkavich, lumpy and disheveled, was slumped in a chair at his regulation gunmetal desk, a box of Krispy Kremes within reach of a pudgy arm. A man in an orange jumpsuit sat in a straight-backed chair, his ankles shackled together.

  Along a wall, cardboard boxes overflowed with Juvenile Court files, the detritus of Miami's endless familial dysfunctions. On the windowsill sat a dozen stuffed animals, playthings for the young witnesses who trooped in with social workers, guardians ad litem, and cops.

  “Look who's here,” Zinkavich called out, grabbing a glazed Krispy Kreme. “The weasel and the princess.”

  “What's up?” Steve asked. “We've got work to do.”

  “You know this guy, Solomon?” Zinkavich pointed the donut toward the man in the jumpsuit.

  Steve glanced at the prisoner. Late thirties. Shaved head. Jailhouse pallor and an ugly scowl. “Never saw him before. What'd he do?”

  “Cocaine trafficking. Picked up yesterday. History of auto theft, B-and-E, domestic violence.” Zinkavich chomped on the donut, spoke with his mouth full. “What about you, Thigpen? Recognize this asshole?”

  The man in the orange jumpsuit stirred. “That's the heathen,” he said.

  Zinkavich licked a sugar slick from his lips. “I got good news and bad news for you, Solomon. The good news is, Rufus Thigpen ain't dead. The bad news is, he can testify against you.”

  “For what? I don't know this guy.”

  Thigpen raised his unshackled arm and turned his head. A purplish scar ran like a polluted stream from the crown of his skull to the top of an ear. “You busted my head, fuckface. The night you took the kid.”

  Steve remembered him now: the psychotic shepherd with the curved stick. He'd had a beard and shoulder-length hair and smelled like a wet beagle.

  What was it his father always said? “Our past clings to us like mud on cleated boots.”

  “Mr. Thigpen is a victim of your violent behavior,” Zinkavich said. “And quite a compelling witness.”

  “Steve Solomon is not a violent man,” Victoria said.

  My trusty partner. Leaping to my defense.

  “You don't know him well, Ms. Lord,” Zinkavich said. “Not so long ago, he viciously assaulted me in the courthouse. And when he kidnapped the child-”

  “I rescued Bobby,” Steve said.

  “Quiet,” Victoria told him. “I'll handle this.”

  “Regardless of Solomon's motives,” Zinkavich continued, “he committed an aggravated assault, fracturing Mr. Thigpen's skull. It's only a matter of time before he unleashes his temper on the boy.”

  “That's bullshit!” Steve took half a step toward Zinkavich, but Victoria elbowed him in the ribs,
and he stopped.

  “Just look at that temper.” Zinkavich wagged a sugary finger at Steve. “You present an imminent threat to your nephew. You refuse medical treatment for him. You drag him to autopsies. Your idea of homeschooling is a subscription to Playboy.” A smirk creased his blubbery cheeks. “Frankly, Solomon, I think you'd have a hard time adopting a poodle, much less a child.”

  Steve seethed, but followed his partner's orders. He would keep his big mouth shut. But he couldn't help wondering why Zinkavich was laying out his case. Just like Pincher. The two cases were unrelated, but this seemed oddly orchestrated.

  “Before you leave, Solomon, there's someone who wants to see you.”

  “Steve Solomon is an excellent parent to Bobby,” Victoria said. “I can attest to that.”

  “And I have a rebuttal witness who will give damning testimony as to Mr. Solomon's fitness,” Zinkavich shot back.

  “Who?” Victoria asked.

  Zinkavich snickered. “Under the rules, I'm not required to tell you.”

  “If you know your rebuttal witness in advance, the courteous practice is to disclose,” Victoria said.

  “Courteous practice? Aren't you the newbie?” Zinkavich giggled and his belly shifted, straining the buttons on his white shirt. “We don't wear velvet gloves here, Ms. Lord. We go for the jugular.”

  “If that's all, we'll be going,” Victoria said.

  “Not quite all,” Zinkavich said, hitting a button on his intercom. A moment later, a uniformed cop came into the room and helped Thigpen out of his chair.

  “I owe you, fucker,” Thigpen muttered, glaring at Steve, as he shuffled out, shackles clanking.

  Zinkavich grabbed another Krispy Kreme, chocolate glazed with candy sprinkles. To Steve, a donut purist, that was overdoing it, like painting lipstick on Mona Lisa. “Due to the exigent circumstances of young Robert living in such a dangerous environment,” Zinkavich said, “I've secured an emergency trial date. Next Monday.”

  “Not possible,” Steve said, breaking his vow of silence. “We filed a motion to fast-track Barksdale. That's the day we start trial.”

  “That's why we'll go from six P.M. to ten P.M. each night.”

  “Doesn't work. I need the evenings to prepare for the next day in court.”

  “Not if you plead out the murder case. I have it on good authority that Mr. Pincher has made a generous offer.”

  “So that's the game. What do I get in return for selling out Katrina?”

  Zinkavich shook his head in feigned disbelief. “If you're suggesting there's a quid pro quo-”

  “C'mon, what is it? Bobby? Are we swapping Katrina for Bobby?”

  Zinkavich chose his words as carefully as a jeweler chooses his diamonds. “I might be inclined to propose temporary shared custody with you as guardian.”

  “What the hell's that mean?”

  “Weekdays in a state facility, weekends with you. After a few months of testing and treatment, Robert could live with you full-time.”

  “I thought I was too dangerous,” Steve said.

  “There'd be anger management counseling and home visits by Family Services, but nothing too intrusive.”

  “What a crock.”

  “There's something for everybody here,” Zinkavich said. “Mr. Pincher gets his victory in Barksdale and you get your nephew.”

  “I was right about you, Zinkavich.”

  “Steve, don't,” Victoria warned.

  “I had you pegged as a phony from day one,” Steve said, plowing ahead. “A political hack. Somebody who shines Pincher's shoes and reminds him to zip his fly. You don't give a shit about Bobby.”

  “Steve, let's go,” Victoria said.

  “No, you don't get it, Vic. My old man thought this prick was the real deal. But my instincts were better. My gut was right. Old Herbert was wrong. Do you know how happy that makes me?”

  “I'm so pleased you're resolving your father-son issues,” Zinkavich said dryly. “Now, may I assume you're turning down my proposal?”

  “You bet your fat ass I am.”

  “Fine. Frankly, I would prefer to see you go down hard, which you will. You'll be indicted for aggravated assault, criminal trespass, and kidnapping in Calhoun County. You'll lose your license, your nephew, and what's left of your reputation.”

  “Some people are ashamed of their hypocrisy, Fink, but you wear yours like a medal.”

  “If there's nothing else, Mr. Zinkavich,” Victoria said, “we'll see you in Juvenile Court next Monday.”

  “We?” Zinkavich said.

  “I'll be representing Mr. Solomon.”

  Steve gave her a look. What happened to “I've never handled a guardianship case”?

  “Have you ever tried a juvie case?” Zinkavich asked.

  “I'm a trial lawyer, an all-purpose utility player,” she said, echoing Steve's words. “I can play any position, and I'm not afraid of any case or any lawyer.”

  Steve felt a strange brew of emotions. Gratitude to Victoria and despair about Bobby. She was coming aboard, but was it a sinking ship? If she had any idea how to win the case, he'd love to hear it, because he had nothing. The two of them would be trying the murder case every day, the guardianship every night, and as far as he could tell, they'd be getting their asses kicked in both.

  There was something else strange going on, he thought. Victoria was starting to sound like him, and he was starting to think like her.

  “Aligning yourself with Solomon can do you great damage, Ms. Lord,” Zinkavich said.

  “Thanks for the career advice,” she said.

  “You'll never be a success in this town if people think of you as Solomon's lawyer, or even worse, his partner.”

  “I don't care what people think,” she said. “I won't compromise my ideals to achieve someone else's definition of success.” Then she turned to Steve and smiled. “Right, partner?”

  Steve's To-Do List

  1. Thank Victoria. (Don't overdo it.)

  2. Discredit Kranchick. HOW????

  3. Neutralize Thigpen. HOW????

  4. Zinkavich's rebuttal witness. WHO????

  5. Interview Barksdale's divorce lawyer.

  6. Buy prosciutto (from Parma).

  7. Confront Katrina with her own words: “Two people is one too many for a murder.”

  8. Pay Cece. (Postdate check.)

  9. Tell Bobby you love him (every day).

  10. Tell Victoria how you feel about her.

  Thirty-three

  A REAL ROMANTIC

  “Did you get the report back from the photogrammetry expert?” Victoria said into her cell phone.

  “Called yesterday,” Steve said into his. “Told me the shadow was blurry and crossed two planes.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Without triangular points, he couldn't do the trig equation.”

  “So no height and weight?”

  “He can't even say for sure it's a person.”

  “So Katrina wasn't signaling someone to come into the bedroom.”

  “More like Pincher can't prove she was,” Steve said.

  It was the day after their meetings with Pincher and Zinkavich, and they were in separate cars, driving toward the mainland in adjacent lanes on the MacArthur Causeway.

  Victoria had spent the morning combing through evidence files and Steve had been on the phone, inquiring about downtown office space. A real office in a high-rise, not the mildewed second floor of a second-rate modeling agency.

  Office space for Solomon amp; Lord, Attorneys-at-Law.

  As if they had already won the Barksdale trial and had collected a big fee.

  As if she were going to practice law with him when the case was over.

  Never seeming to consider the consequences if they lost. Or worse, if they lost and were humiliated in the process. Steve the Slasher and Victoria the Rookie. Already, a smart-ass Miami Herald columnist had dissed them: “Those South Beach defense lawyers might just have too much sand in their sho
es and too few bullets in their briefs to handle a high-profile murder trial.”

  If disaster struck, Steve could always go back to his penny-ante cases. But what could she do?

  Real estate closings for Bruce, that's what.

  With so much work to do and too little time to do it, they were splitting up for the day. Steve would interview Charles Barksdale's divorce lawyer, and Victoria would confront Katrina with the dirty laundry Pincher had been sniffing.

  “Thanks for stepping up to the plate on Bobby's case,” Steve said.

  “You've thanked me ten times.”

  “Without you, I don't know what I'd do.”

  “Eleven.”

  The morning was cool and crisp, the bay flat and still. One of the Norwegian cruise ships was headed out Government Cut on their left, a family of gulls circling above the stern. As their cars passed Parrot Jungle, Steve blurted out: “I'm sorry I was such a jerk when we met.”

  “You're thinking about Mr. Ruffles, aren't you? But let me remind you that you never paid my dry-cleaning bill,” she added.

  The Miami Herald building loomed ahead. Steve would exit the causeway there and head down Biscayne Boulevard to Flagler Street, a murderers' row of lawyers' offices. Victoria would swing south on the expressway to Dixie Highway, then take LeJeune to Old Cutler Road and Katrina's bayfront home.

  “Thanks to you,” Steve said, “maybe we've got a chance in Bobby's case.”

  “Twelve.”

  “I'm really depending on you for strategy. I'm clueless how we're gonna discredit Kranchick, much less what to do with Thigpen.”

  “We'll work on it together.”

  Just what he wanted to hear.

  “How much do you know about Kranchick's autism project?” Her voice faded in and out over the cell.

  “Not much,” Steve said. “She told me about some behavioral and drug therapy. Megavitamins and magnesium, that sort of thing.”

  “In her report to the court, she called it a pilot project.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Last night, I looked it up on every medical database I could find. Not much there except some preliminary papers that are pretty vague.”