Dammit, Steve thought, beginning to feel regretful. He hadn't wanted to hurt her. He was just trying to have some fun while defending his client.
Another worry, too. His nephew, Bobby, barely eleven, was home alone. If Steve was late, who knows what might happen? One day last week, when he rushed through the door just after seven, the kid announced he'd already made dinner. Sure enough, Bobby had found a dead sparrow on the street, covered it with tomato sauce, zonked it in the microwave for an hour, and called it “roasted quail marinara.” It had been easier to throw out the microwave than to clean it.
If he ever dated Victoria, he'd introduce her to Bobby, his relationship litmus test. If she responded to the boy's sweetness and warmth-if she saw past his disability-she might be a contender. But if she was repulsed by Bobby's semi-autistic behavior, Steve would toss her out with his empty bottles of tequila.
Now what the hell was going on? Did he just hear a sniffle?
I will not cry, Victoria told herself.
She didn't know what had come over her. A feeling of being totally inadequate. A loser and a failure and a fraud. Dammit, what baggage had spilled out of the closet without her even knowing it?
“You okay?” Steve Solomon called out.
Shit, what did he want now? A lone tear tracked down her face, and then another. Great. Her mascara would turn to mud.
“Hey, everything all right?” he asked.
“Just great.”
“Look, I'm sorry if I-”
“Shut up, okay?”
The clatter of footsteps and the jangle of keys interrupted them. Moments later, a man's voice echoed down the dim passageway. “Ready to go back to work?”
“Go away, Woody,” Steve said. “You're disturbing my nap.”
Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, skinny as an axe blade in his baggy brown uniform, appeared in front of their cells. He hitched up his pants. “Mr. Pincher wants to see both of you, pronto.”
A chill went through Victoria. Pincher could fire her in an instant.
“Tell Pincher I don't work for him,” Steve said.
“Tell him yourself,” Reed retorted, fishing for the right key. “He's waiting in Judge Gridley's chambers and he ain't happy.”
Reed unlocked their cells, and they headed down the passageway, Steve whistling a tune, jarringly off-key, and Victoria praying she still had a job.
1. When the law doesn't work… work the law.
Two
HUMILIATIONS GREAT AND SMALL
No more tears, Victoria vowed as they approached the entrance to Judge Gridley's chambers. She would rather break a nail, tear her panty hose, and shear off a heel of her Prada pumps than cry in front of Steve Solomon.
Biting her lower lip, she tried to transport herself to more pleasant venues. A clay tennis court on Grove Isle, stretching high for an overhead smash, the solid thwack of racket on ball. Handling the wheel of her father's gaff schooner-the Hail, Victoria-when she was ten, the wind snapping against the mainsail. Anyplace but here, where her boss lay in wait, armed with the power to destroy her career.
“Something wrong?” Steve said, walking alongside.
Instincts like a coyote, she thought. The door was six steps away. She felt her insides tighten; her heart pitched like a boat in a squall.
“I've known Pincher for years,” Steve persisted. “Why not let me handle him?”
“Does he like you?” she asked.
“Actually, he hates my guts.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
“Then a word of advice. Don't take any shit.”
She stopped short. “What are you saying? That Pincher will respect me if I stand up to him?”
“Hell, no. He'll fire you. Then you can come over to my side.”
Steve thought the chambers cannily reflected both of Judge Gridley's pursuits, misconstruing the law and bungling pass-interference calls. There were the required legal volumes, laminated gavels, and photos of the judge shaking hands with lawmakers and lobbyists. Then there were old leather football helmets and photos of the striped-shirted Gridley at work on Saturdays in various college football stadiums.
One wall was devoted to trophies and posters, evidencing the judge's fanatical devotion to his alma mater, the University of Florida. A plaque celebrated Gridley as a “Bull Gator Emeritus,” and on his desk was a stuffed alligator head with its mouth open, teeth exposed, like a hungry lawyer. Only two things were missing, Steve thought: a bronzed jockstrap and Judge Gridley himself.
Standing on the orange-and-blue carpet was a scowling, trim, African-American man in his forties, wearing a three-piece burgundy suit. When he moved his arms, there was a soft clanging of metal. Raymond Pincher's dangling silver cuff links were miniature handcuffs.
Steve thought that Pincher, the duly elected State Attorney of Miami-Dade County, would have to loosen up considerably just to be called tight-assed. Pincher billed himself as a crime fighter, and his campaign billboards pictured him bare-chested, wearing boxing gloves, a reminder of his days as a teenage middleweight in the Liberty City Police Athletic League. He'd won the championship two years running, once with a head butt, and once with a bolo punch to the groin, both overlooked by the referee, who by serendipitous coincidence was his uncle. Boxing had been excellent preparation for Florida politics, where both nepotism and hitting below the belt were prized assets. These days, when someone suggested he'd make a fine governor, Ray Pincher didn't disagree.
Pincher glared at Victoria, who was biting her lip so hard Steve thought she might draw blood. Suddenly, Steve was worried about her and wanted to save her job. But how to do it? How could he take the heat off her?
Victoria said a quick prayer. First that her voice wouldn't break when she was required to speak. Second, that Solomon would keep his big mouth shut.
“Hey, Sugar Ray,” Steve called out. “Execute anyone today?”
Oh, Jesus.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pincher.” Victoria nodded stiffly, struggling to remain calm.
“Ms. Lord, I am disturbed by what I hear and concerned by what I see,” Pincher chanted in a melodious singsong. Before attending law school, he had studied at a Baptist seminary. There, office gossips claimed, he'd been expelled for selling Bibles intended as gifts to Central American orphanages. “A prosecutor is the swift sword of justice, the mighty soldier in the war of good against evil.”
“Amen,” Steve said.
Victoria felt her cheeks heating up.
Dammit! Don't be such a girl.
“A prosecutor must never be held in contempt,” Pincher said. “Contempt is for defense lawyers of the flamboyant persuasion.” “Flam-boy-ant” sounding like a flaming French dessert. “Contempt is for the hired guns who sell their souls for filthy lucre.”
“Or for peanuts,” Steve said.
“Stay out of this, Solomon,” Pincher said. “Ms. Lord, what is the most important attribute of any trial lawyer?”
