Shark Skin Suite

by Tim Dorsey

  “Nobody’s answering,” said Ziggy.

  The judge pulled the shoulders of his robe out for comfort. “Call your first witness.”

  “Plaintiffs call Ruth Wozniak.”

  Ruth put her hand on the Bible and swore up and down to tell the truth.

  Brook led her through the same line of testimony that they had rehearsed, except she had to move around the side of the stand to block the jury box when Ruthy began unconsciously petting an invisible dalmatian.

  “ . . . No more questions.”

  A defense attorney stood. “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” said Ruthy.

  “You’ve sworn under oath to tell the truth. Is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you know the penalty if you don’t?”

  “I . . . could go to jail?”

  “Correct again.” He turned his back to the witness and faced the jury. “Could you tell the court where you work?”

  “I retired two years ago.”

  “And you got your mortgage three years ago, is that correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now, when you applied for your mortgage, you had to supply recent pay stubs, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  The attorney walked back to the defense table and grabbed a notebook. “Mrs. Wozniak, isn’t it a fact that you didn’t retire two years ago, but were laid off shortly before getting your loan?”

  “That was a long time ago,” said Ruthy. “And I got a temp job a little later.”

  The attorney handed her a sheet of paper. “Here’s a copy of the most recent stub you submitted for your loan. Can you read the date?”

  “Not without my glasses.”

  “November fifth.” He took the page back and waved it at the jury. “Isn’t it a fact that you had already been laid off when you lied about your income to get your loan?”

  Brook jumped up. “Objection, leading.”

  “Overruled. He’s allowed to lead the witness. It’s his cross.”

  “But—”

  “Sit down.”

  The Yale attorney leaned against the railing across the front of the jury box. “I’ll repeat the question. And remember, you’re under oath. Didn’t you lie about being employed to get your loan?”

  Ruthy looked down. “Yes.”

  “No more questions.”

  Brook wrote on her legal pad: fuck.

  Ziggy elbowed her. “What do we do now?”

  She slumped. “It means we have to rehabilitate our case with the only other witness we have today . . .”

  Cooder Ratch took the oath and reclined inappropriately in the witness chair.

  Brook kept her questioning uneventful, but the witness’s presentation wasn’t wearing well with the jury. She decided to cut her losses and bail out early.

  “That’s all you’re going to ask me?” snapped Cooder. “After I drove all the way—”

  “I said no more questions.” She took her seat and mumbled, “Can this get any worse?”

  Ziggy felt something vibrate in his pocket. He checked his cell and recognized the number. “I need to go out in the hall . . .”

  The Harvard attorney stood. “Your name’s Cooder, right?”

  “Weren’t you listening earlier?”

  “Have you ever been arrested?”

  “That was a long time ago.”

  “Three years is a long time?” said the lawyer. “Meth possession, wasn’t it?”

  “Charges were dropped.”

  “Let me get this straight: You don’t have enough money to pay your mortgage and yet you can afford methamphetamine?”

  “That was way before . . . And it didn’t happen.”

  “Which is it?”

  “Both.”

  “Why were the charges dropped?”

  “I was innocent.”

  The attorney read from his legal pad. “Didn’t you offer jailhouse testimony against your cell mate? So you’re a rat?”

  “I’m not a rat!” said Cooder. “I was just doing the right thing.”

  “Was your cell mate convicted?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “I have court records here to refresh your memory. He was found not guilty. Why was that?”

  “Don’t remember.”

  “I have court records for that, too. You were charged with perjury for what you said in that trial. Do you always lie when you get on a witness stand?”

  “I can explain—”

  The attorney was already walking away. “No further questions.”

  Brook underlined the word “fuck.”

  Ziggy ran back in from the hall with his cell phone. “Brook—”

  “Not now.”

  Cooder climbed down from the witness stand.

  “Brook, call him back on redirect!”

  “Are you insane?” said Brook. “There’s no way I’m putting that disaster on the stand again for more questions.”

  “Hurry, he’s about to leave the courtroom.”

  “No way!”

  Ziggy jumped up. “Your Honor, we’d like to call our witness back for redirect.”

  The judge pointed, and the bailiff blocked Cooder at the back doors. “What now?”

  “Ziggy!” snapped Brook. “Have you lost your mind?”

  “I got this one. Trust me.”

  “Ziggy!”

  He ignored her and approached the witness box. “Your Honor, permission to treat this witness as hostile.”

  “You called this witness, so you better lay a darn good foundation.”

  “I plan to, Your Honor.” Ziggy looked at Cooder. “What do you think of me?”

  Cooder looked the lawyer up and down and snickered. “You’re a fuckstick.”

  Ziggy gestured toward the bench with a pair of upturned palms.

  Judge Boone rolled his eyes again. “Permission to treat as hostile.”

  “You don’t have a job, do you?”

  “So what?”

  “Where’d you get the money to buy a Jet Ski last week?”

  “Investments.”

  “Have you had any recent contact with those defense lawyers seated over there or any other representatives of Consolidated Financial without me or my partner’s knowledge?”

  “What of it?”

  The gavel banged and snapped. “All attorneys! In my chambers, now! . . . Bailiff, get the jury out!”

  Good thing the jury left. The shouting could clearly be heard through the walls. The court stenographer typed furiously.

  “A Jet Ski!” yelled the judge. “My court!”

  “It’s not what you think,” said the Dartmouth attorney.

  “It’s exactly what I think,” said the judge. “Give me a reason fast why I shouldn’t have the bailiff come in here and handcuff you all for witness tampering!”

  “Because it was a loan.”

  “Your client made a Jet Ski loan to someone they’d already foreclosed on?”

  “It was a different department. They didn’t know.”

  “Don’t insult me!” yelled the judge. “It’s still a bribe. I’m getting the bailiff.”

  “Wait, no, it’s not,” said the attorney. “He was a late addition to their witness list, and the loan was made before. See the dates?” He held out two pages.

  “You just happened to have the loan documents on you today?”

  “We always research opposing counsels’ witnesses, and when we found this . . . well, we decided to be prepared because it might look bad.”

  “Might look bad? It’s a flaming abortion! And what about the other witness? Don’t tell me the same thing!”

  The lawyer opened his mouth but was cut off.

  “Your
Honor,” said Brook. “I request special jury instructions, and for the transcript of everything said in here to be read in open court, and a public censure—”

  “Hold your horses,” said the judge. “I am going to read special instructions, but everything in chambers is sealed for now. That’s an official gag order.”

  “But, Your Honor—” said Brook.

  “Take half your loaf and be happy.” Then he aimed an iron glint at the defense. “And you’ll be hearing from the ethics committee . . . Back in court! . . .”

  Judge Boone resumed the bench and waited until the jury finished seating. “Legal matters have arisen that you need not be concerned about. But I am instructing you to disregard in their entirety the testimony of the last two witnesses and to hold nothing that either of them said against the plaintiffs . . . Court is in recess.” He reached for his gavel but forgot it was broken—“Shit”—and stormed back into chambers.

  Ziggy began packing his briefcase. “At least we got the judge on our side now.”

  “More like neutral,” said Brook. “How on earth did you know about that testimony?”

  “I always vet witnesses with a private investigator I know,” said Ziggy. “Except I forgot to make the call then got busy with other things and one thing led to another.”

  Brook filled her own briefcase. “You mean one joint led to another.”

  “It happens. Anyway, I just got the callback while he was being cross-examined.”

  “Better late than never,” said Brook. “What I don’t understand is how they gave them those additional loans before we even knew they were going to be our witnesses.”

  “This is your first trial.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “We were set up from the beginning,” said Ziggy. “They somehow managed to plant those new plaintiffs with your firm, knowing they had baggage and would self-destruct under cross. All of our other legitimate witnesses probably got phone calls this morning saying the trial was postponed and they were offered a free sailboat trip out to the reef . . . If I’m late tomorrow, start without me.”

  “Why, what are you—?”

  “Have to drive back to Miami and check into this further.”

  “Can’t it be handled over the phone?”

  “Not something like this.”

  Brook gathered up papers from the table. “Hope the rest goes a little better than today.”

  “I know. I could kick myself for not listening to my gut about Cooder. He just wasn’t right.” Ziggy clasped his briefcase shut. “Old lady Ruthy, on the other hand, I never would have suspected in a million years.”

  “What did she buy?”

  “A Jet Ski.”

  That night, a finger pressed buttons on a cell phone.

  “It’s me, Moss . . . I know we’re still getting our asses handed to us . . . Will you stop yelling? . . . Yes, I realize it was supposed to be fixed by those two bogus witnesses. Who could have thought that stupid girl and Ziggy would find out about the bribes? . . . What? Miami? Last I heard, our man photographed them passing the files between two cars near Biscayne Bay . . . How should I know who they are? Our guy just followed them for two days after the first one left the office of some private eye. And let me tell you, he had one hell of a time following them: They drove all over the place like they knew they were being tailed . . . No, I can’t deal with that! I’ve got my hands full right here in Key West. You handle whatever’s going on in Miami . . . As a matter of fact, I do have an idea. Remember our ace in the hole in case something like this happened? . . .”

  Chapter THIRTY-THREE

  MIAMI

  The moon rose over another run-down motel along U.S. 1. This one had a row of hand-glued seashells along the trim of the roof, but most were just empty glue spots now. Headlights, blaring horns, pedestrians screaming about the coming of the cashless society, bus benches with humps in the middle to fight an epidemic of napping.

  Another person started screaming, this one with reason. He ran in and out of an open motel room door, then in circles across the parking lot. “Coleman! . . . Coleman! . . . Coleman, where are you? . . .”

  Serge began shaking in panic like a parent with a missing child in the lingerie department. “Coleman! . . .” Serge felt a certain custodial responsibility when Coleman was in his care. He once tried using a harness with a leash on the back, but Coleman always managed to wiggle out.

  “What’s the matter?” asked Reevis.

  “Can’t find Coleman!” Serge spun in alarm like an ice skater. “Whenever I return to collect him from a bender, he’s either on the bed or under it, occasionally in an overflowing bathtub but always in the room. A bender is better than a leash . . . Ahhhhh! Where is that idiot?”

  “Wow, you really care about him.”

  Serge nodded hard. “Okay, freaking out never helps you find anything. Calm down and go through the Coleman checklist . . .”

  Serge spent the next two hours leading Reevis around local bars, Dumpsters, lifting up mattresses in alleys, calling emergency rooms. He stopped and scratched his head. “Dang, that usually turns him up. Where did that idiot go?”

  “What about the underpasses?”

  “Good thinking! . . .”

  Five minutes later: “You looking for Coleman?” “Our buddy!” “Stand-up dude!” The homeless platoon hunkered up under the highway and passed around malt-liquor forties. “Give him our best . . .”

  Serge stomped with impatience. “But where is he?”

  “Don’t know.” A whiskered stickman flattened out a bedroll. “Staggered off that way around noon.”

  “Damn!” Serge and Reevis began making ever-widening concentric sweeps around the motel until Serge looked at his watch. “And now I have to take you to that meeting in Hialeah . . .”

  “Serge, I haven’t figured out anything yet.”

  “But you’re making some progress with that file I gave you, right?”

  “Yeah, dots are starting to connect with some LexisNexis searches.” Reevis pulled the packet from the brown envelope. “And I have some promising requests in with the courts.”

  Serge threw the shift in gear. “Then what’s the problem? Just give a status update.”

  “But investigative reporting is like watching a house being built—looks like crap until the last week when they paint and sod.”

  “Trust me.” Serge floored the gas. “It won’t matter where we’re going.”

  The ’76 Cobra sped west on the Palmetto Expressway. Serge took an anonymous exit down into the deserted industrial wasteland south of the Opa-Locka Airport. A crumpled scrap of paper was flattened on the steering wheel. Serge checked street signs and made a left, slowing as he searched for a building number. Not a soul around except distant silhouettes of the undead trudging across the street under harsh yellow crime lights.

  The Cobra rolled past a blinking neon sign for a scrap yard and pulled up to a squat concrete pillbox of an office. Serge pressed the doorbell and heard it ring inside. No answer. He rang again without result. He cupped his hands around his face to peer through burglar bars over the windows. “All the lights are out. That’s weird.”

  “I thought I heard music when we first arrived,” said Reevis.

  “Me, too, but now it’s quiet.” Serge looked up at the number over the door and checked the paper scrap again. “Did he give me the wrong address? . . . No, it’s the right one.” This time he repeatedly pressed the doorbell like Morse code. “Don’t tell me I drove all the way out here for—”

  Noise. A slight shuffling of feet inside. Serge pressed his eye to the peephole.

  The person on the other side gasped at the sight of a giant distorted eyeball.

  A fist pounded the door. “I know you’re in there! Come on, open up!”

  Nothing.

  “Look, gas isn’t f
ree! Open the door!”

  A long pause. Then: “We’re closed.”

  “You’re not closed!” Serge pounded louder. “Mahoney called and said you’d be waiting for me.”

  Another pause. “Mahoney?”

  “Will you open up? The zombies are out here.”

  “Zombies?”

  “Not the real kind.” Serge turned and gave one of them a dollar to go away. “Just night crawlers who wander barren parts of the city after dark for anti-reasons. I’m sure you’ve seen them.”

  Silence.

  “Look, why would I mention the name ‘Mahoney’ if I wasn’t supposed to be here?”

  Seconds ticked. “How do I know it’s the same Mahoney?”

  “You fucking idiot! Open up right now or I’m kicking the door in!”

  “I have a gun.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Will you open up, for Christ’s sake?”

  There was a prolonged fumbling with several locks before the door finally opened three inches on the chain. The narrow slice of a face appeared. “Who are you?”

  “Serge! Are you on drugs?”

  “How’d you know?”

  “Step back.” Serge easily popped the door open with his shoulder.

  “My chain!”

  “Buy yourself another.” Serge threw a fiver on the floor. “Are you Ziggy Blade?”

  He nodded.

  “Are you going to continue wasting my time?”

  “Time? How much time has passed? How long have you been standing there?”

  “What in the hell did you take?”

  “Nuthin’.” Ziggy turned and headed toward his back office.

  Serge looked around and was actually impressed by the framed movie posters.

  Ziggy grabbed a bottle of Patrón tequila next to the boom box on a corner table. He chugged from the fifth and cranked the volume knob back up. “I don’t usually drink like this, except when I’ve dosed and the setting becomes unnerving. Your big eyeball sent me in a bad direction.”

  “ . . . One pill makes you larger . . .”

  Serge grabbed a chair. “I still don’t understand the drug culture.”

  From another direction. “Can I come out now?”