by Paul Levine
Victoria pursed her lips. Attuned to her expressions, Steve knew she was framing a diplomatic reply. Whereas he might blurt out: "What a load of crap!" she chose words like a florist picking roses, right down to pruning back the rotting leaves.
"That's a pretty tough sell, Uncle Grif," Victoria said, evenly.
"Pretty tough?" Steve broke his vow of silence. "Tell that story in court, better bring your toothbrush, because you're taking a long vacation."
"What are you saying?" Griffin asked. "You don't believe me, or a jury won't?"
"I believe you can't see the truth because you're blinded by love for your son."
"That again?"
"Ste-phen, don't." Victoria's warning tone.
Steve gave them his victory smile. "Don't you get it? You solved the case. Junior's the other bidder. He gave Stubbs forty thousand as a down payment but didn't trust him. The day you're coming to see us, Junior dives off the boat then comes back on board and hides below. When he hears Stubbs accept your offer and turn him down, he waits till you go back up to the bridge. Then he comes out and kills Stubbs."
"That's ridiculous." Griffin laughed but there was no joy behind the sound.
"There is one more possibility."
"There damn well better be."
"None of this is news to you. You come down the ladder and find Junior standing over the bloody Mr. Stubbs. Sure, you're angry. Your son just offed the one guy you need to build Oceania. But he's still your son and you love him more than a floating casino. So you put Junior ashore, fake the hit on the head, run the boat onto the beach, and hope your lawyers can get you off. And why shouldn't they? You're an innocent man."
Steve sat back, triumphant. He felt like lighting up a cigar, except he didn't smoke. But he savored this moment, distracted only by the discomfort caused by the cedar slats of the lawn chair sticking to his bare butt.
Griffin leaned forward, his neck seeming to lengthen, like a tortoise extending from its shell. "How you gonna represent me if you don't believe me?"
"I represent liars all the time. I just like knowing the truth."
"Uncle Grif, Steve's been under a lot of strain. He suffered a concussion."
"Don't make excuses for me, Vic," Steve commanded.
"This is just the way Steve's mind works," she continued, ignoring him. "He comes up with different scenarios. Maybe Junior killed Stubbs. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe you were there. They're just guesses and theories."
"Dammit, Vic." Steve didn't want her help. "I know what I'm doing."
"Then do it somewhere else," Griffin barked.
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning you're fired."
"You might want to think that over," Steve said. "Trial's set and you won't get a continuance."
"I don't give a shit. You're fucking fired."
Steve stood, aware his private parts were now at eye level. "Fine. C'mon, Vic. We're out of here."
Griffin stabbed a finger at him. "I said you're fired, Solomon. Victoria's still my lawyer."
"Doesn't work that way, Griffin. Vic and I are partners. One goes, we both go."
Steve was aware of the crashing silence at the table. From the pool, he heard splashing, Junior plowing through his laps.
"Vic? You coming?"
"Uncle Grif is my client. I let you come along for the ride."
"Aw, shit, don't do this."
"You promised to sit second chair, to let me take the lead. But instead, you steamrollered me. Like always."
"We're a team. Ruth and Gehrig, Gilbert and Sullivan, Ben and Jerry."
"I've given you every chance, but you—"
"Big mistake, Vic. You need me."
"What!"
"You're good, but you'll never be great on your own."
"That's it. I've had it with you." Her voice a serrated blade. "We're done. There is no more Solomon and
Lord. Good-bye, Steve."
"You can't mean it."
"What part of adiós don't you understand?"
Steve's mind went blank. He needed a retort. An exit line. Something that would set them both straight. Show them that Steve Solomon was The Man. That Victoria would fail and Griffin would be convicted. But he couldn't come up with a thing, so he stood there a long, ego-crushing moment, until . . .
"Hey, Solomon." Griffin grinned at him. "You're shrinking."
Thirty-three
DREDGING UP THE PAST
"What a horse's ass! What a damn fool!"
"Thanks, Dad."
"You putz." Herbert Solomon's diatribe shifted to Yiddish with a Savannah accent. "How could ah have raised such a schmendrick?"
Steve knew a tongue-lashing was the price of hitching a ride back to Miami. Herbert piloted his old Chrysler north on U.S. 1, taking Steve and Bobby home. The car—underbelly rusted and carpets mildewed—was redolent of bait fish. The night air smelled of moist seaweed and crushed shells. A three-quarter moon cast a milky glow across the smooth inky water of the Gulf.
"You ever think that maybe you're jealous of this guy?" Herbert prodded. "What's his name?"
"Junior Griffin." Even saying his name left a rancid taste.
"IF RUN JOIN FRIG!" Bobby contributed from the backseat. Making an instant anagram out of the bastard's name.
"I'm not jealous. I just can't stand him."
Herbert had a three-day growth of white stubble. He wore tattered khaki shorts, a gray T-shirt with permanent sweat stains in the armpits, and his white hair was crusted with salt from an early-morning snorkel run. To Steve, his old man looked like a cross between a pirate and a serial killer.
"You're afraid he's gonna take away your gal," Herbert said, "so you got no credibility when you accuse him of murder."
"I've got logic and evidence on my side."
"You got jack shit."
"Junior's as likely the killer as his old man. In a reasonable-doubt case, I have an ethical obligation to tell the jury that."
"Since when did you start caring about the ethical rules?" Herbert hacked up a wad of phlegm and spat out the window. "Ah see right through you. You're running scared with Victoria so you lash out at this Junior Griffin."
"JUROR IN FIG FIN," Bobby proclaimed, still working on Junior's name.
"Doesn't make any sense, kiddo," Steve said.
"I JOIN RUFF RING. 'Ruff' is with two 'f's."
"Doesn't count. There's no such word."
"Yes there is. It's a big ruffled collar. Everybody knows that."
"Are you listening to me?" Herbert said. "You haven't learned self-control. You open your big mouth and boom! You lose your paramour and your client."
"But I still have my principles."
"Gonna sleep with your principles?"
"Hey, maybe Vic doesn't want to practice with me. But she didn't break up with me."
"Schmegege." Herbert doled out another insult.
"Uncle Steve, you don't understand women."
Double-teaming him now, the grouchy old judge and the smart-ass savant. "And you do, squirt?"
"You and Victoria are really different," Bobby said. "She likes that, up to a point."
"How would you know?"
"Because she told me."
"What! When?"
"When we talk about relationships and sex and stuff."
"You're too young for that kind of talk."
"I'm twelve!"
"I'm gonna report her to Family Services."
"Shvayg!" Herbert commanded. "Shut and listen to the boy. Maybe you'll learn something."
Bobby leaned over the front seat. "Women can't compartmentalize the way men can."
"What the hell does that mean?"
"A guy argues with his girlfriend, then ten minutes later wants to do her," Bobby explained, patiently. "Women aren't like that."
"You get that from Victoria?" Steve turned to face his nephew.
"Dr. Phil."
Herbert slapped a hand on the steering wheel. "You got nothing, son. No car. No cli
ent. No partner. And no gal!"
The Queen was going through Victoria's closet at the Pier House, making faces as she shuffled hangers and critiqued her daughter's wardrobe.
"A denim mini?" Irene arched her eyebrows. "I suppose you've taken up country music, too."
"Do you think, Mother, that you could be a tad more supportive?"
"You asked me to skip the luau and I did. Now, how much more support do you need?" Irene held up the mini, made a cluck-clucking sound. "A ragged hem and rhinestones? Haven't seen that since Urban Cowboy."
"Mother, we need to talk."
"So talk. Do you suppose room service will deliver martinis?"
"Dammit, listen to me!" Victoria balled up a beige tank top and threw it at her.
"Wrong color for you, darling," The Queen said. "Go with something brighter, or you'll be all washed out."
Victoria sighed and sat on the edge of the bed. "I'm so humiliated."
"About going nude? I find it liberating."
"That's not it. I watched you and Uncle Grif today. You're lovers, I can tell."
"So?"
"You lied to me. You said you didn't cheat on Dad."
"I didn't. Grif and I made love for the first time last night."
Victoria shook her head. "You must think I'm a child."
"I think you act like one. It was wonderful, by the way. Grif is extremely giving."
"You expect me to believe the two of you weren't having an affair when Dad was alive?"
"Don't use that Nancy Grace tone with me."
"Why not just admit it? Dad found out and killed himself."
"Still singing that song?" The Queen held up a saffron cotton twill jacket. It must have met her approval because she didn't make a face. "Your father had problems. Emotional problems. Business problems. And, of course, his drug use."
"Dad a druggie? You're making that up!"
"Your father abused barbiturates. He was probably manic-depressive."
"I don't remember him that way."
"You were too young." Irene smiled ruefully. "And he was happier around you than he was around me."
Outside the windows, the band on the patio was kicking up. More Jimmy Buffett, damn them. "Simply Complicated," the singer bemoaning the challenges of family life.
Victoria thought of Steve. Maybe she had treated him cruelly, but it was for the best. She should never have brought him into Uncle Grif's case. Look at the trouble he'd caused. She had planned to split up the firm at the end of the trial, anyway. So it was no big deal, right? As for the rest—their relationship—well, let's be honest. That wasn't going so hot, either.
Earlier today, after Steve left the all-nude all-thetime beach club, Junior had asked her to stay overnight in one of the cottages. A hammock strung between palm trees, the gentle caress of the sea breeze, Bahamian lobster steamed inside palm fronds.
No, thank you. Not yet. I don't jump from one man's hammock into another's.
Seeing her mother—all of her—lounging with Uncle Grif had convinced her she'd been right about them. Tonight, Victoria hoped her mother would come clean. Show herself naked in more ways than one. But no, she still claimed to have been the faithful wife, the innocent widow.
"Steve told me to stop asking you about your relationship with Uncle Grif," Victoria said.
"For once I agree with him."
"He said, when you dredge up the past, you never know what you're going to unearth."
"He's not stupid, your Steve. Arrogant and uncouth, but not stupid."
"He's not my Steve." Victoria picked up the phone and punched the button for room service. Maybe they did make martinis.
Three generations of Solomons traveled in silence until they hit the plug-ugly stretch of Cutler Ridge lined with muffler shops, discount furniture stores, and fast-food joints. Herbert kept the radio tuned to NPR, which was airing an endless interview with the oboe player of the Seattle Philharmonic. A thrilling account of how to make your own reeds.
Steve felt himself growing crabbier by the moment. He was angry at the Griffins, father and son. He was angry at Victoria for choosing them over him. Angry, too, at Irene Lord. He could only imagine what direction she was pushing her only child.
"Princess, why go halfway? For heaven's sake, get out of his bed, too."
But most of all, Steve was angry with Herbert. Why couldn't his father ever take his side? Naturally, the old buzzard had stuck up for Victoria. Then there was the Bar license case. He could have shown some appreciation. Instead, he tried to sabotage the case. Not knowing why only pissed off Steve even more.
Maybe I should just drop the lawsuit. But if I do, I'll never know the truth.
What dark secrets were buried in Judge Herbert Solomon's courtroom? A courtroom staffed by Pinky Luber and Reginald Jones. What could his father have done that would make him quit the bench and Bar without a fight?
And now, two decades later, what's my old man so afraid of?
Which gave rise to another thought. Why am I banging my head against the wall? The answer came quickly, though not without embarrassment. Deep inside, Steve knew he wanted to be a hero to his father. That unquenched thirst for approval.
Hell, no, I won't drop the Bar case. I'll show him. I'll get his license back and protect him from harm along the way.
With no murder case to try, he could just double his efforts in the case of In re: Herbert T. Solomon. "So Dad, how's Reginald Jones doing?"
"Who?"
"The guy who used to sit in front of your bench stapling, spindling, and marking."
"You mean Reggie. Nice kid."
"The kid's Chief Clerk of the Circuit now."
"Good for him. How's he doing?"
"That's what I'm asking you, Dad."
"How the hell should ah know? You think ah'm filing papers these days?"
The NPR station went to a fund-raising spot, the announcer insisting that civilization would crash and burn if each listener failed to fork over fifty bucks for a coffee mug. Steve reached for the dial, but his father swatted his hand away.
"What's Reginald Jones have to do with you and Pinky Luber?" Steve asked.
Herbert Solomon kept his eyes straight ahead, Steve studying his profile. A craggy-faced jawline, some speckling from the sun, fuzzy tufts of white hair sprouting from his ears.
"Don't know what you're talking about, son."
"Then why are you still talking to Jones? Five calls the day I deposed Luber."
"You little pissant! You been snooping."
"Twenty years ago, when Luber won all those murder trials, Jones was your clerk. What the hell were the three of you up to?"
"Not a damn thing. And if ah were, it'd be none of your business."
Alternative pleading. The old lawyer trick. I never borrowed your lawn mower. And if I did, it was broken when you lent it to me.
"I'll subpoena Jones, take his depo."
"Why don't you spread manure in your garden and stay out of mine?"
"Because you owe me answers."
"Ah owe you shit. It's mah life, not yours."
"It's the legacy you left me. I'm Steve Solomon, son of the disgraced judge."
"Live with it. Ah do."
"Just tell me why you won't let me get your license back. If you're as dirty as Pinky, I want to know it."
Herbert hit the brakes and swerved into a gas station, squealing to a stop just inches from the pumps. "Git out!"
"What?"
"You heard me. You can walk home."
"You nuts? We're ten miles from the Grove."
"Tough titties. You show me no respect, get the hell out."
Steve looked around. Six lanes of traffic. A nudie bar and a hubcap store on one side of the street, a strip mall with a palm reader, a video rental store, and a U-Wash-Doggie on the other. Trendy South Beach, it wasn't.
He opened the door, then turned back toward his father. "I'm gonna find out what you did."
"What for? What the hell for?"
>
Steve didn't say it. Couldn't say it aloud. But he thought it just the same.
To prove to you that I can.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
9. The people we've known the longest are often the people we know the least.
Thirty-four
PUBLIC SERVANT
At the wheel of his new car, Steve raced Lexy and Rexy along Ocean Drive. He drove the egg-shaped Smart— larger than an iPod, smaller than an offensive lineman's butt—as the twins Rollerbladed. An unfair race. Lexy and Rexy were ahead by two limo lengths.
It was the morning after Steve had thumbed a ride home, helped by an amiable but odoriferous septic tank truck driver. Now, headed to the office, Steve put the pedal to the metal—or was it plastic?—and the little German car pulled even with the long-legged Rollerbladers.
He got to the Les Mannequins building first, thanks to a Miami Beach bicycle cop, a lifeguard type in cargo shorts and epaulet shirt, who pulled over the twins. The official charge was reckless skating, but the cop obviously wanted to meet the leggy speeders, who wore cutoffs with bikini tops.
Steve wheeled the Smart to a stop, perpendicular to the curb, where it fit into a parking space without sticking out into traffic. The two-seater was on loan from Pepe Fernandez, a client whose primary occupation was stealing cargo containers of frozen shrimp from the Port of Miami. The enterprise lost money because Fernandez seldom could sell the booty before it melted into a disgusting crustacean slime. Lately, Fernandez and two buddies had begun boosting imported cars by physically picking them up from the dock and tossing them into waiting trailer trucks. This naturally limited the size of vehicle they could steal and resulted in their inventory of Smarts, cars that made Mini Coopers look like Mack trucks. Ordinarily, Steve would have felt guilty driving a stolen car, but the Smart got approximately five times the mileage of his old Eldo, so he rationalized his actions as good for the environment.
Moments later, he was at his second-floor office overlooking the Dumpster. He'd been planning on putting a plaque on the door:
SOLOMON & LORD
ATTORNEYS AT LAW
But he'd never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.