Trial & Error Read online

  “Not till after court,” Steve said.

  “Y’all argue when you’re on the same side of the table. I don’t see much chance of collusion, so I’m inclined to let you have a go at each other. State’s motion to disqualify is hereby denied.”

  Oh, no. This judge clearly played football too long without a helmet.

  “But, Your Honor,” Victoria said, “lawyers have to go for the kill. Crush the opposition. When you’re in a relationship, how can you be expected to—”

  “That train’s left the station.” The judge hit a switch and the train’s whistle tooted. “You two are gonna try this case. Now git, both of you. Go home and figure it out.”

  “Figure what out?” Victoria said, bewildered.

  “How to litigate by day and copulate by night,” the judge replied, hitting the whistle for one long, last toot.

  Sixteen

  SQUID PRO QUO

  His ball cap pulled low over his eyes to shade the sun, Bobby stood in right field, legs crossed, gloved hand brushing a mosquito from his neck. He watched his own elongated shadow stretch toward the outfield fence and tried to figure the exact angle of the sun. If he knew that number, he could compute the length of his shadow within ten centimeters.

  His mind drifted. He wasn’t thinking about the pitcher or the batter or the consequences of a fly ball floating his way. He was thinking about the wad of bubble gum in his mouth that had lost its flavor, about the yellow jackets buzzing around the wildflowers, and about Rich Shactman.

  What’s the best way to kill The Shit?

  Poison?

  The Beth Am Bobcats were ahead 9 to 6, no thanks to Bobby. He’d struck out twice and dribbled a feeble ground ball to the first baseman his last time up. So far, no one on the Plymouth Church Pioneers had hit a fly ball to right field.

  One of the hexacyanides? Pour it in Shactman’s Coke.

  The prick had clobbered two home runs, strutting across home plate each time, posing, chest thrust forward, as his father shot video.

  Plastique? Blow him to kingdom come.

  Bottom of the seventh inning, the last inning in the Palmetto Sunday School League. Bobby vaguely knew there were two outs. The game would be over any moment, and he could get out of the sun.

  Speargun? Grandpop shoots Florida lobsters…when the Marine Patrol isn’t around.

  Bobby wondered what was taking so long. Now he noticed the bases were loaded with Pioneers. He heard the clunk of metal bat hitting leather ball. He looked up.

  Oh, shit.

  Short fly ball over the second baseman’s head, into right field. Bobby took off, a flurry of elbows and knees. He wished he could run like Uncle Steve, smooth and fast.

  “Catch it, dickwad!” Rich Shactman screamed from center field.

  The ball reached its apogee; it started its descent. Bobby’s brain crackled.

  Catch the ball and the game’s over.

  If it drops in front of me, it’s only a single. One run scores; maybe two. We’re still ahead by a run.

  Or I could dive and make the catch.

  On Sports Center, they always show those diving catches on the Top Ten plays. Major leaguers make it look easy. Slide on your rump; reach out; grab the ball underhanded just above the grass; hoist the glove to show the ump you caught it clean.

  Go for it!

  Bobby tried to slide, but his legs tangled and he tumbled forward, arms spread, as if he’d been shot in the back. A second later, he felt a thump as the ball bounced off his butt and landed in the grass.

  “Pick it up, dipshit!”

  Shactman again, louder. Running toward Bobby, maybe to pummel him, maybe to grab the ball himself.

  The runner from third walked home.

  Bobby scrambled to his feet, whirled, located the ball just behind him.

  The runner from second scored standing up.

  Bobby picked up the ball, but for reasons known only to the gods of the game, he dropped it. Picked it up again, dropped it again. Shactman was shrieking.

  The runner from first crossed the plate. The score was tied.

  Bobby picked up the ball cleanly this time. The batter neared third base at full speed. The third base coach waved him around, betting Bobby couldn’t make a decent throw to the plate.

  Plenty of time. I can do this.

  Miguel Juarez, the husky catcher, a ringer on the Beth Am team, stood at the plate, waiting for the throw.

  I can throw the ball to him on the fly. Yes, I can.

  The batter rounded third, head down, hauling ass for home. Bobby remembered everything Uncle Steve had taught him. He planted his back foot and stepped forward, reaching down with his right arm and extending his left arm for balance. He kept his eyes on Miguel and came over the top, releasing the ball just after his arm passed over his head. The motion was smooth, and Bobby was amazed at how hard he’d thrown the ball.

  “A cannon for an arm.” That’s what they say on Sports Center about Vladimir Guerrero.

  The throw was right on line. Straight at Miguel Juarez, guarding home plate. This was gonna be AMAZING.

  “What a throw by Bobby Solomon! Our top play tonight on ESPN. Does that kid have a gun or what?”

  Hands on hips, Miguel looked up. Watched the ball sail over his head. Over the backstop. Over eight rows of bleachers. And land in the parking lot with the sound of glass shattering.

  The batter scored and leapt into the arms of his ecstatic teammates. High-fiving, yelling, laughing, smacking one another on the shoulder, blowing bubbles with their gum. Final score: Plymouth Church Pioneers 10, Beth Am Bobcats 9.

  “Gonna mess you up, dipshit.”

  Rich Shactman jacked an elbow into Bobby’s gut, then trotted past him toward the dugout. Bobby dropped to one knee, thinking he might vomit, but he caught his breath and got back up.

  Coach Kreindler gathered the team’s bats in front of the dugout.

  “It’s him or me, Coach!” Shactman tossed his glove against the concrete block wall of the dugout.

  Kreindler turned toward the boy, confused, the aluminum bats pinging against each other.

  “The scouts from Gulliver and Ransom only come to the playoffs,” Shactman whined, “and we’ll never make them with Solomon messing up.”

  “Nu? What would you have me do, Rich?”

  “Throw Solomon off the team. I’m your star.”

  “Gevalt.”

  “So what’s it gonna be, Kreindler? Solomon or me?”

  Bobby heard every word. Watched as Kreindler shot a worried look in his direction. But the coach never answered. Just kept gathering up bats and balls.

  No. Not poison or explosives or a spear. There’s one thing I’m better at than Shactman. Swimming. I’m going to drown him.

  SOLOMON’S LAWS

  5. Listen to bus drivers, bailiffs, and twelve-year-old boys. Some days, they all know more than you do.

  Seventeen

  THE HABITS OF DOLPHINS

  “That was a great throw,” Steve said.

  “It broke a rearview mirror in the parking lot,” Bobby said.

  “Hard and true, right on line to the catcher. A bit high, maybe…”

  “You’re just trying to make me feel better.”

  “The mint chocolate chip is supposed to make you feel better, kiddo. I’m here to tell you the truth. You have what they call a long arm.”

  Uncle and nephew were sitting at a table outside Whip ’N Dip on Sunset Drive. Bobby had barely touched his ice cream. Steve had already polished off a cone of peanut butter swirl. And sure, he was trying to cheer up the boy. But Steve meant what he’d said. The velocity of the throw had been astonishing. The skinny kid had a rubber arm.

  “You should be pitching.”

  “Coach Kreindler will never let me.”

  “I’m gonna work with you on your control, teach you a few pitches. Then we’ll show Kreindler what you’ve got.”

  “When will you have time? You’ve got that stupid trial.”
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  Another sore point. Bobby desperately missed Spunky and Misty. And he was still pissed about Steve defending Gerald Nash.

  “Everyone’s entitled to a defense, kiddo, even wackos like Nash.”

  “He’s not charged for his beliefs. He’s not even charged with releasing the dolphins. He’s charged with getting a guy killed.”

  Spoken like a true prosecutor, Steve thought.

  “You care more about that bird turd than you do about Misty and Spunky,” Bobby fumed.

  “Not true. But there’s nothing I can do about your pals.”

  “You could have rented a boat and looked for them.”

  “We’ve been through that, Bobby. Where would we look? The ocean’s too damn big.”

  Bobby knew his uncle was right, but he was too upset to let up. “Your client’s full of shit, you know.”

  “Meaning what?”

  “I don’t wanna talk about it.”

  “C’mon, kiddo. Why’s Gerald Nash full of shit?”

  “I’m taking the Fifth.”

  Steve had learned a long time ago that a trial lawyer, especially a solo practitioner, needed help. Take the Courthouse Gang, for example. Most lawyers ignored the retirees who hung around the Justice Building, wandering from courtroom to courtroom, seeking free entertainment. Hell, most lawyers never even noticed the oldsters.

  In his first year practicing law, Steve made friends with Marvin (The Maven) Mendelsohn, Teresa Toraño, and Cadillac Johnson. All over seventy, and all had seen hundreds of trials. Together, the three were great at sizing up people, figuring out when they’re lying. Maybe it takes a long life to develop those instincts. Whatever the reason, Steve relied on the Gang for picking juries. He couldn’t afford a high-priced jury consultant, or even a low-priced one, for that matter. He could, however, buy The Maven a Reuben with extra Russian dressing, the standard fee for courtroom advice.

  Bobby added something else to Steve’s team. The kid knew everything. Okay, that was an overstatement. But thanks to his echolalia and eidetic imaging, he remembered virtually everything he’d ever seen or heard. It was a gift, one of the quirks of his central nervous system abnormalities. While Steve couldn’t tell you what he ate for breakfast, Bobby could remember every license plate he’d seen on a drive from Miami to Disney World.

  “Why are you holding out on me?” Steve asked.

  “No hablo Inglés.”

  “Bobby, this is your uncle Steve. We’re tight, right?”

  “Most definitely.”

  “So…?”

  The boy’s abilities were not limited to memorization. If he grew interested in a subject—baseball, supermodels, dolphins—he was able to engage in abstract thinking, too. He could demonstrate mathematically that runs-batted-in are the least meaningful statistic in baseball. He invented a body-fat analysis that could reveal—using only photographs—which supermodels had surgically enhanced breasts. And he was translating dolphins’ clicks and whistles into dozens of words and phrases—that effort interrupted by the felonious Gerald Nash.

  “Why’s Nash full of shit?” Steve persisted.

  Bobby slurped at the ice cream puddling in his cup. “Nash told you the dead guy had a boat with a lift to pick up Spunky and Misty, put them in a tank.”

  “Right. They were going to take them to the Straits and let ’em go.”

  Bobby screwed up his face in a look that said bullshit. “Why go to all that trouble?”

  “Because if they left the dolphins in the Bay, they’d swim right back up the channel to the park.”

  “So why didn’t they? The gate was wide open.”

  “I don’t know. You tell me, kiddo.”

  “The only way they’d come back was if somebody trained them to.”

  “Okay, maybe your two pals would have just hung out in the shallows near the gate until Grisby came for them.”

  “No way. The water’s all skanky there with oil and crud from the Crandon Marina. Spunky would have led Misty to deeper water. Then they’d get hungry and go out to open sea. They’d be free, just like your client says he wanted.”

  “Maybe Nash didn’t know that.”

  “Then he didn’t do his homework.”

  “Okay, kiddo. Spit it out. What are you saying?”

  “Victoria will be pissed if I tell you.”

  “What? You’re conspiring with the enemy?”

  Bobby swirled the ice cream, now a green river with logs of floating chocolate. “I’m hoping Victoria whips your butt,” he muttered.

  “Thanks. You and Dad are my biggest supporters.”

  The boy spooned up some melted ice cream and kept quiet.

  “Let’s make a deal, kiddo. Only share with me what you tell Victoria. Nothing more. No special treatment.”

  “It isn’t that much,” Bobby said.

  “Fine. Whatever you’ve got.”

  Bobby shrugged. “Your client didn’t want to set Spunky and Misty free. If there was a boat to pick them up, it’s because he was going to keep them.”

  Eighteen

  EVERYTHING BUT THE TRUTH

  Steve drove along the Miami River toward the county jail. He needed to confront Gerald Nash and get the truth. Bobby was right: the guy’s story wasn’t holding up. Just why did Nash need a boat to pick up Spunky and Misty? Why risk injuring them? Why slow down your own getaway? Why not just let the dolphins go free?

  Clients lie. They lie under oath, which is bad enough. But they also lie to their own lawyers, which to Steve was both a capital offense and terminally stupid. Steve gave a speech to every lying, thieving, violent client he’d ever had:

  “Lie to your priest, your spouse, and the IRS, but always tell your lawyer the truth.”

  It seldom worked. He didn’t really expect it to. Clients lie for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they’re embarrassed at what they’ve done. Sometimes, if they admit guilt, they’re afraid you won’t fight as hard for them. That, of course, was ass-backwards. You have to fight harder for someone who actually did the deed. How else could you win?

  Long ago, Steve decided there were several ways to pry the truth from perjurious clients.

  You can plead with the weaselly bastards: “Gerald, please. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what really happened.”

  You can treat your client like an adverse witness. Bob and weave and cross-examine: “But Gerald, yesterday you said the moon was made of green cheese. Were you lying then or are you lying now?”

  Or you can pound them into submission with a frontal assault: “Nash, you self-righteous prick. I know you’re lying, and unless you come clean, I’m going to withdraw and let the public defender mishandle your case.”

  As he walked into the county jail, Steve still hadn’t decided on his approach. He figured he’d just look at Nash and instinctively know what to do.

  The visitors’ room was crowded with wives, girlfriends, and children of the men who were awaiting trial or had been sentenced to less than a year’s incarceration. The place smelled of dried sweat, dirty feet, diapers, and machine oil. From inside, inmates shouted and wailed. Steve had come to believe that modern jails and medieval mental asylums had a lot in common.

  He had been here hundreds of times, but the overweight sergeant at the desk still insisted on making him show his Florida Bar card when logging in.

  “Crenshaw, why do you do this? You know me.”

  “I figure one day, after they disbar you, you’ll show up without that card.”

  Sticking out his tongue at the security camera, Steve signed the sheet. He waited for Crenshaw to hit the buzzer and open the steel-barred door.

  “Can you hurry up, Sergeant? I’ve got a wrongfully accused man waiting for me.”

  “Nope. Regs say I can keep out any visitor who’s inappropriately dressed.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Your T-shirt, asshole.” He pointed at Steve’s chest and the slogan: “What Would Scooby Do?”

  “Wh
at’s wrong with it?”

  “It’s blasphemous.”

  “It’s satirical. Like that old bumper sticker ‘Jesus Saves. Moses Invests.’ It’s all in good fun.”

  “Solomon? That’s a Jewish name, right?”

  “Aw, jeez, Crenshaw. Don’t pull a Mel Gibson on me.”

  “You wanna come into my house, you gotta take that shirt off. Except then you’d still be inappropriately dressed, so I guess you’re shit out of luck today.”

  Steve could have told him to go fuck himself. Or he could have called the ACLU. Instead, he tugged the T-shirt over his head, turned it inside out, and put it back on again.

  Crenshaw glared at him. “All defense lawyers are cockroaches, ain’t that right, Solomon?”

  “Will it speed this up if I say yes?”

  “And this is the roach motel.” The buzzer sounded, and the electric lock clinked open. “One day you’re gonna check in, Solomon, but you ain’t checking out.”

  Three minutes after being insulted by the bored and burned-out sergeant, Steve wagged a finger at his client. “Nash, you stupid shit! Why are you lying to me?”

  The frontal assault.

  “I’m not lying,” Nash whined. A kid accused of swiping cookies.

  “You didn’t need a boat to pick up the dolphins. If you were really worried about them swimming back to the park, you could have bolted the gate on your way out.”

  Nash shook his head stubbornly. Jailhouse stink clung to his faded orange jumpsuit, and he looked as if he’d lost weight on jail gruel. “We were afraid they’d stay there and be recaptured. Or just swim back up the channel when the gate was opened. That’s what Sanders said, anyway.”

  “My nephew says he’s wrong.”

  “I dunno. Sanders knew all about dolphins. Even their Latin name. Tursiops something-or-other.”

  Then it’s even worse, Steve thought. If Sanders was so damn knowledgeable, he’d lied to Nash. But why?

  “Let’s start at the beginning,” Steve said. “Sanders offered to provide the boat, right?”

  Nash nodded. “He said he could get one with a lift and a saltwater tank.”

  “And the two guys on the boat. Where’d they come from?”