Trial & Error Page 10

  But Sanders did try him, according to Grisby. Sanders went for his .45. Grisby fired the shotgun, catching the man in the hip with some pellets, but only knocking him to his knees.

  Q: When he was hit, Sanders dropped the gun, didn’t he, Mr. Grisby?

  A: I guess he did, but I can’t say for sure. It was dark. I was scared. I was acting on reflex.

  Q: So, with Sanders on his knees, bleeding and unarmed, this “reflex” of yours caused you to rack the slide on your shotgun?

  A: Yes, sir.

  Q: And still on “reflex,” you aimed at Sanders’ chest?

  A: I suppose I did.

  Q: And finally, on “reflex,” you pulled the trigger and fired the shot that killed him.

  A: It all happened a lot quicker than that. I was in fear for my life. You had to be there. You can’t sit here in a cushioned chair and judge me.

  Not a bad answer. Righteous indignation works real well if you don’t overdo it. Grisby would do fine in front of a jury.

  Nothing in the forensics contradicted Grisby. No way to disprove any of it. Steve shifted his thoughts to the late Chuck Sanders. Navy SEAL. Scuba diver. Hero in the Persian Gulf. Okay, you start with courage and savvy, all that Special Forces stuff. No rations; he’ll eat snakes and drink piss. So, sure, he might stand up to Grisby. Believing Grisby wouldn’t shoot him, Sanders might even have the cojones to walk away from an armed and scared man. But that’s different than going for his own gun.

  Once you point your .45 at the man holding a shotgun, you have to fire it. You have to kill him.

  Sanders had gone to Cetacean Park to steal the dolphins. But not to kill anyone. It seemed out of character for someone with his background and no prior criminal record.

  It was a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

  And how about the two guys who’d jumped Steve? They’d been on a boat just outside the channel, ready to haul away the dolphins. But why? Where were they taking the animals? And who the hell were the “important people” who needed to know what Sanders told Nash?

  All of which added up to one resounding, unanswered question: What was really going on that night? Steve didn’t know, and he was reasonably sure his client was just as clueless.

  Twenty-three

  THROWING A CURVE

  Bobby called out to Spunky and Misty. In his head. Trying to communicate telepathically. First in English, then in the clicks and whistles of dolphinese.

  Well, why not? We send radio signals into deepest space, hoping some extraterrestrials will phone home. Our home.

  Bobby had read all of Dr. John Lilly’s books about dolphins. Sure, lots of scientists considered the guy a nut job, a Dr. Doolittle on acid. But weren’t all pioneers vilified in one way or another?

  Dr. Lilly believed that dolphins not only spoke their own language but composed music. He claimed that ancient dolphins created a society with a working government and folklore passed down through the generations. Dr. Lilly wanted to create a Cetacean Nation of whales and dolphins, recognized as an independent state by the United Nations. It didn’t help the doc’s standing in the scientific community that he administered LSD both to himself and the dolphins.

  Bobby didn’t buy everything in Dr. Lilly’s bag, but some of it made sense. Bobby knew that dolphins had a moral code, that they would rescue injured or ill animals. He knew the dolphin’s brain was larger than the human brain. He knew, deep in his heart, that dolphins exhibit emotion in much the same way humans do. He believed that dolphins can love and be loved. What he didn’t know was whether Spunky and Misty could feel what he felt right now. Utter despair.

  Do you miss me as much as I miss you?

  Sitting at the desk in the corner of his bedroom, Bobby squeezed his eyes shut and transmitted his telepathic thoughts.

  “Spunky. Misty. Where are you?”

  No answer. But he sensed something. A buzz, an electrical connection. He wished he could interpret it.

  Bobby heard a car in the driveway. Uncle Steve’s Mustang pulling to a stop. It was easy to tell the growling Mustang from Victoria’s little Mini Cooper, with its lawn-mower sound.

  The buzz stopped in Bobby’s head. There wasn’t room for telepathic communication and the sound of his uncle’s footsteps coming down the hall.

  Steve wondered if he’d been spending enough time with Bobby. The boy’s moods fluctuated wildly. First he was angry with Steve for not finding the dolphins. Maybe some guilt there, too, the kid blaming himself for not stopping the kidnapping. As if he could have done anything about it. Lately, and even more troubling, Bobby seemed to be in a state of mourning. Staying in his room, refusing to go to baseball practice. Damn few wisecracks or anagrams. Steve had been desperately trying to engage Bobby on how he felt, but the boy seemed to be repressing his emotions.

  The door to Bobby’s room was shut.

  A closed door and a twelve-year-old boy.

  Bobby could be doing his homework. Or he could be thumbing through the Sports Illustrated swimsuit issue, pausing over Veronica Varekova or Angela Lindvall. Pausing a long time.

  He felt for the kid. Bobby was a loner. Steve had been popular all through school. An athlete. A wise guy with a ton of friends. Good for the self-confidence. It was only as an adult that he started to piss people off.

  Valuing the boy’s privacy, remembering his own mother breezing into his room at the least opportune times, Steve knocked on the door. “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Okay if I come in?”

  “Yeah.”

  Steve entered cautiously. Bobby sat in front of his computer at the desk near the window.

  “You okay, kiddo?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Everything all right at school?”

  “Yeah.”

  Monosyllables were clearly the order of the day.

  Steve decided to confront the issue head-on. “Want to talk about Spunky and Misty?”

  Bobby seemed to be caught off guard. After a moment, he said, “I think they’re close by.”

  “Really? How do you know?”

  “At first, I was sure they crossed the Gulf Stream and were in the islands somewhere. But now, it’s like I can sense them. They’re not that far away.”

  Steve tried not to show his skepticism. “So, do you still want to take a boat out, go looking for them?”

  “Not till they tell me exactly where they are.”

  “Okay, then. When they give you the word, you give me the word.”

  Bobby turned back to his computer.

  “What’s up now, kiddo? Homework?”

  “I’m researching ways to kill Rich Shactman.”

  “Great idea.” Steve believed in encouraging his nephew’s creative urges.

  “At first I thought about plastique. A little wad of C-4 in his electric toothbrush.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “But the Shactman house has security cameras at every door.”

  “Of course. Good thinking.”

  “Then I considered poisons.”

  “A lot of deadly ones out there,” Steve agreed.

  “But the tox labs are so good these days, it’s pretty risky. Now I’m thinking drowning would be best. Make it look like a swimming accident.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

  “I’m researching how long I gotta keep Shactman underwater.”

  “Three or four minutes ought to do it,” Steve advised.

  “You have to take bradycardia into account. The body will slow down the heart to try to save itself. Drowning takes longer than you think.”

  Steve wanted to sneak a peak at the monitor. He didn’t believe Bobby, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. Steve hoped the boy was on GirlsGoneWild.com, not something like homicide.com.

  Bobby exited out of the program before Steve got close enough to see.

  “What do you say we go outside and toss the ball? I’ll teach you how to throw a curve.”

  “Coach Kre
indler won’t let us throw breaking pitches.”

  “If your elbow gets sore, we’ll stop.”

  “You think I can really throw a curveball?”

  Getting interested now, his eyes showing some spark. Steve smiled and tousled Bobby’s hair. Nothing gave him more pleasure than making the kid happy. “You bet you can.”

  “Will it drop, too?”

  “Like a dead pigeon. C’mon, let’s go before it gets dark.”

  “Coach Kreindler will never let me pitch.” The boy’s mood dipped, his voice as heavy as a sack of Louisville Sluggers.

  “I’ll talk to Kreindler.”

  “What are you gonna say?”

  “I’ll appeal to his logic.”

  After I jack him up against the batting cage and suggest it’s hard to eat matzo with a broken jaw.

  Steve heard a car pull up to the house. Victoria. “Give me a minute, kiddo. I’ve got to make nice with Vic.”

  “Why? Did you do something stupid again, Uncle Steve?”

  “I tried to get sanctions against her for unethical conduct.”

  “Was she? Unethical, I mean.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And you’re going to try to apologize?”

  “Exactly.”

  The boy’s shoulders sagged again. “I don’t think we’re gonna get out of the house before dark, Uncle Steve.”

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  7. A shark who can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.

  Twenty-four

  A TALE OF TWO LOVERS

  Victoria stood at the kitchen counter, uncorking a bottle of Chardonnay. Usually, she didn’t touch wine until dinner. Steve didn’t know if this was a good sign or a bad sign.

  “Hey, Vic.” He went for the welcome home hug, but she turned away.

  Bad sign.

  She poured herself a glass of wine. Didn’t return his hello. Didn’t offer him a glass. It was okay. He preferred beer.

  “Vic, I want to talk to you about the case. I think we should be looking for those guys who jumped me today.”

  “We?”

  “You. The state. You have all the resources. Those two guys hold the key to the case.”

  She took a sip, a big enough sip to be called a gulp. “Not to my case.”

  “Don’t you want to find the truth?”

  “Here’s the truth: Your client committed a felony. Someone got killed in the course of the crime. Felony murder. Case closed.”

  “Why are you putting blinders on? You’re a law enforcement official, at least temporarily.”

  “You want it to become permanent, Steve?”

  “Ouch.”

  “Just what is it you want from me, other than making me look bad in front of Judge Gridley?”

  “Two guys snatched me off the street. I want to file a complaint.”

  “Right. Your alleged kidnapping.”

  “Alleged?”

  “Those stunts you pull, Steve, who knows? You want to file a complaint, go downtown tomorrow and see someone in Intake.”

  “The least you could do is run the plates for me. I got a partial.”

  “The car’s probably stolen.”

  “There could still be a lead. Where’d they steal it? Were there any witnesses? You just never know until you look into things.”

  “Not my job, Steve.”

  “S-3-J-1. Black Lincoln. That’s all I got. Hillsborough County.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “But there’s a puzzle that—”

  “We’re on opposite sides.”

  “Only technically.”

  “Right. And you don’t care about technicalities. Like the ethical canons. The codes of conduct. The statutes and procedures everyone else follows. You have no respect for the majesty of the law. The beauty of the law. The law itself.”

  “Okay, I can see you’re a little upset….”

  “You’re as bad as your clients. Worse, maybe. You’re too undisciplined to be a lawyer. Maybe too undisciplined to be a criminal. You should have taken up another profession. Anarchist might suit you.”

  “Did you say, ‘Antichrist’?”

  Her cheeks colored to a high fever. “Dammit, Steve. You knew I wasn’t withholding evidence. Why did you say those things in court?”

  “I was making a record for appeal.”

  “A false record.”

  “That’s called ‘lawyering.’”

  “It’s called ‘lying’!”

  “A fine distinction, to be sure.”

  “You love it, don’t you?”

  “Love what?”

  “Being Steve-the-Shark.”

  “It’s my job, Vic. When I’m in court, there’s gonna be blood in the water.”

  “Not if you play by the rules.”

  “A shark that can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.”

  “Are you calling me weak? C’mon, hit me with your best shot, tough guy. I’ll play it straight and still beat you.”

  Steve opened the refrigerator door and hid behind it, like ducking into a doorway in a thunderstorm.

  “You know what your problem is, Steve? You’re immature. You’re irresponsible.”

  “That’s two problems.”

  “You’re a child.”

  “And your problem is, you think the law is written in stone.”

  “It is, dammit! That’s what makes it the law!”

  Steve decided to wait it out. He grabbed a Morimoto Ale in the 22-ounce bottle. It could be a long wait.

  “You can’t go around making up your own code of conduct,” she informed him.

  “Sure you can. That’s what America is all about.”

  “Right. Solomon’s Laws.” Her voice churned with derision. “What’s the first one, the one you told me when your damn bird crapped on my sleeve?”

  “‘When the law doesn’t work, work the law.’”

  “Right. You boasted about it. Well, that’s not me. I don’t lie. I don’t break the rules. And I don’t accuse opposing counsel of acts I know to be untrue.”

  Steve took a long pull on the ale. It tasted of roasted buckwheat. He wondered if she was finished.

  “And another thing,” she said.

  Nope.

  “Do you remember that stupid pickup line you used on me that day?” she demanded. “The day we met?”

  Steve shook his head. How the hell could he remember that? And how could she remember everything he’d ever said or done that was asinine or embarrassing, or both? On that day of infamy, they were ensconced in facing holding cells. He’d flirted with her, but how could she expect him to remember what he’d said?

  “You said you’d like to mentor me,” Victoria reminded him.

  Ah, that.

  “It was the best of lines,” Steve said.

  “It was the worst of lines. I hate that sexist banter. And that day, I hated you. I haven’t been so furious since, not until today.”

  Steve had said something else in the holding cells, something he remembered well.

  “Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow.”

  He’d passed it off as a wisecrack. But it wasn’t. From the moment he’d seen her enter the courtroom that day he’d felt something for her.

  You had me, Vic. You had me from “Get lost.”

  “You are so damned infuriating,” she said now.

  “I thought that’s what you liked about me.”

  “No, I love you in spite of it. But I know that when I go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, you’ll still be infuriating. And frankly, Steve, I’m tired of it.”

  She sighed and leaned against the counter. The kitchen was silent except for the whir of the refrigerator.

  Steve drank a hefty portion of the ale and waited. She seemed to be finished. He waited another few seconds. Then he spoke softly:

  “Do you know what you just said? That you love me. And I love you, too. I have since the day that bird crapped on your sleeve and you started crying. So I’m
sorry. I got carried away today. I was way over the top. It won’t happen again. With you, I mean. Other lawyers are fair game.”

  He moved toward her, pausing long enough to let her close the distance and meet him halfway for a makeup hug. She didn’t move.

  “Just give me a little room right now, Steve.”

  “Okay, if that’s what you want, I’ll…”

  But she was already out the door.

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  8. When the woman you love is angry, it’s best to give her space, time, and copious quantities of wine.

  Twenty-five

  FLIPPER GOES TO WAR

  Steve kept out of Victoria’s sight for the next two hours. He gathered up ball and glove and took Bobby into the backyard, where he taught him the basics of the curveball. Then, back in the kitchen, he basted some yellowtail snapper filets in a lemon pepper sauce. Next, he tossed a salad with all of Victoria’s favorite ingredients, including toasted pine nuts, which he thought tasted like tree bark.

  Back outside, he undertook the manly duties of firing up the hibachi without burning down the bottlebrush tree, then grilled the fish and covered it with fresh salsa he’d made in the blender. Finally, he tossed a tablecloth over the redwood picnic table and poured ample quantities of Chardonnay for his lover, partner, and opposing counsel.

  Victoria was unusually silent as they ate dinner. Steve didn’t push it, didn’t force the conversation. He was giving her a little time, a little space, and a lot of wine.

  After they polished off the flan Steve had picked up at a bakery on Coral Way, Bobby headed inside to soak his elbow in a tub of ice because that’s what Sandy Koufax, the best Jewish pitcher of all time, did after every game.

  Steve figured that the wine might have softened up Victoria, and he was ready to make nice, but she slipped into the house without so much as a “See you later.” Moments later, he found her down the hall, stringing yellow crime-scene tape across the door to the study.

  “What’s going on?” he asked. “You doing War of the Roses?”

  “I’m moving into the study for the duration of the trial.”

  “Moving? Meaning you’re working in here?”

  “Working. Thinking. Sleeping. The room is strictly off-limits to you.”