Trial and Error

middleweight before heading off to a seminary in Jacksonville. The idea was to return home as pastor of the Primitive Baptist Church. But somewhere along the line, Ray Pincher lost his faith and found the law. A tough prosecutor who’d paid his dues from Traffic Court to the Homicide Division, he now was the county’s elected State Attorney.

“Ain’t no suspense when it’s self-defense.” Pincher sounded part rap artist, part preacher. He signaled Steve to walk with him. “If you’re hustling a case, Solomon, forget about it. Grisby was within his rights. He’ll never be charged.”

“That’s it? You’re here all of one minute and you know what happened?”

“We been keeping an eye on this place.”

“You had men here tonight?”

“A mile away. Sewage plant on Virginia Key.”

Right. Virginia Key. A place of natural dunes and beautiful beaches. Turtles and manatees. Hardwood hammocks and mangroves. Naturally, it’s where the city padres built a sewage treatment plant. Even though it was hidden from sight, when the wind was right, you could smell it from the causeway.

“Animal Liberation Movement,” Pincher said. “Bunch of losers and lefties. Once they knocked over that primate lab in the Keys, we figured Grisby’s place might be next.” Pincher cracked his knuckles with a crunch.

“Who’s the dead guy?”

“Don’t have an ID yet.”

“Why’d he come ashore?”

“Looks like he planned to tie up the security guard. Instead, he ran into Grisby and his twelve-guage.”

“Was the guy armed?”

“A.45. Gun flew into the ficus hedge when he was hit.”

“The timing’s off. The dolphins were already gone when the shots were fired.”

“Grisby was holding the guy, waiting for us to get here. The guy went for his piece.”

“Who does that? If someone’s holding a twelve-gauge on you, would you pull a gun?”

“Didn’t say the guy was smart. Only said he was dead.”

“And why two shots? Guy would have bled out with either one.”

“What’s with you, Solomon? You want Grisby indicted so you can get some work?”

“I’m just wondering why you’re closing the book on this. You’ve got no independent witnesses. But you’ve wrapped up your investigation while the body’s still warm.”

“And what’s it to you?”

Good question. Steve wasn’t sure why the story troubled him. He was a defense lawyer to his very core, so his natural instincts were to believe Grisby acted in self-defense. But Pincher was a prosecutor to the depth of his soul, and he never believed anyone. Why so quick to clear the man in a brutal shooting?

But what the hell. None of this concerned him.

All I care is that Bobby’s safe.

“Means nothing to me, Ray. Nothing at all.”

Pincher led Steve toward the patrol car where the two muscle-bound cops still had the first perp in the backseat. “The asshole say anything I might want to know?” Pincher asked Steve.

“Like I told Tubbs and Crockett here, all he did was call me names.”

The Hispanic cop nodded to Pincher, then opened the back door of the cruiser. The man leaned out, his chiseled features illuminated by the ceiling lamp.

Pincher stood, paralyzed. “What the fuck?”

Looking delighted with himself, the man grinned at Pincher. “Hello, Uncle Ray. Mom says hi, too.”

Pincher clenched his jaws so tightly, Steve heard his teeth grind. “Solomon, say hello to Gerald Nash, my sister’s punk-ass boy.”

“We’ve already met,” Steve said.

Pincher wagged a finger in Nash’s face. “Your momma shoulda whupped your ass, ’stead of taking all that sass.”

“You’re just a tool of the establishment, Uncle Ray. A tiny cog in the wheel of corrupt corporations and warmongering politicians.”

“I hear your daddy talking. All that left-wing bullshit.”

“Dad’s always been right about you, Uncle Ray. You’re just a puppet.”

“You were mine, Gerald, I woulda taught you some discipline.”

“I learned a lot from you, Uncle Ray.” Hands cuffed behind him, Gerald Nash scooted around in his seat, laced his fingers together, and cracked his knuckles. Then he cackled with laughter.

“How funny’s it gonna be when you’re doing life in Raiford?” his uncle demanded.

“Life, Uncle Ray? For trespassing? Breaking and entering? I don’t think so.”

Pincher turned his back on Nash. “Solomon, tell this punk the news.”

Steve didn’t relish being ordered around by his old antagonist. Still, it had been a long night and he didn’t mind rubbing Nash’s face in the mud. “It’s called ‘felony murder.’ Wade Grisby might have shot your pal, but you’re the one who’ll go down for it.”

Seven

All Steve, All The time

“Let me get this straight,” Judge Frederick Barash said. “You’re suing this website where men comment on women they’ve dated.”

“Don’t Date the Bitch-dot-com,” Victoria Lord said, trying not to reveal her embarrassment. She hated cleaning up Steve’s messes, handling cases for his low-rent clients. “The website posted insulting and derogatory remarks about our client, Your Honor.”

The judge licked his thumb and riffled through the complaint. “To wit, that Ms. Lexy Larson is ‘a shallow, superficial gold digger who gives perfunctory blow jobs.’”

Judge Barash harrumphed and peered over the tops of his reading glasses toward the plaintiff’s table. He had served twenty-seven years on the bench and was a few months shy of retirement. A small man with a fine crop of judicial white hair, His Honor would have dismissed every case on his docket if he could, just to play golf every day. You could almost smell the burnout.

“That’s what our complaint alleges,” Victoria said, referring to Steve’s sloppily worded written pleading. Sitting alongside was her client-actually, Steve’s client-Lexy Larson, a six-foot-tall model with spiky blond hair.

“‘Perfunctory,’” the judge mused. “Not a word usually associated with blow jobs, is it?”

“Is that a grammatical question or a personal one, Your Honor?” Victoria shot back.

Dammit, Steve. From now on, handle your own crap.

“Don’t get your undies in an uproar, Ms. Lord. Just tell me, what’s libelous here? ‘Superficial gold digger’ or ‘perfunctory blow job’?”

This is not happening to me.

“Perfunctory?” Lexy whispered, her face scrunched up. “Is that like sloppy? Because I can give head wet or dry.” She made a slurping sound.

This is so not happening to me.

Back at Yale, Victoria had envisioned herself a top trial lawyer, winning major cases, dispensing her opinions on Court TV. In her organized, methodical way, she had charted a path. Five years as a prosecutor, trying hundreds of cases, building a name. Another ten years in a private firm, making some serious money. Finally, the bench. Public service.

“Judge Lord.” It had a ring to it.

Never did she imagine she’d be debating the quality of fellatio performed by a model with a two-digit IQ.