“I wonder if there's a way we might rephrase that for the jury.. ..”
The hazel eyes, which had been sparkling with flirty invitations, had gone cold. “Are you on my side or not?”
“I'm your best friend in the world. I'm here to carry your spear into battle. I just need your help.”
“Then hear this, spear carrier: I wasn't fucking around and I didn't kill Charlie. Got it?”
“The way you're looking at me right now…”
“What about it?”
“If you're on the witness stand, don't ever look at the jury that way.”
“Why not?”
“Because you look angry enough to kill somebody.”
Watching Victoria sift through the autopsy and toxicology reports, Steve knew she was wasting her time. Having cross-examined hundreds of witnesses over the years, he'd put his money on his built-in polygraph. It wasn't a matter of respiration, perspiration, or blood pressure. Just a gut feeling.
His gut told him two things. He was fairly certain Katrina Barksdale had been screwing around. As for the other question, he figured it was 75-25 that she'd aced good old contented Charlie. He couldn't articulate exactly why; his gut just told him so.
But that's okay, he thought. If your client is truly innocent, the pressure to win is overwhelming. But a guilty client? Hey, if you lose, justice is done.
He was more troubled about having just lied to his junior partner.
“Okay, so you believe her,” Victoria said. “Shouldn't you be working on the case instead of just reading magazines and daydreaming?”
“Relax, Victoria. I'm working even when it doesn't look like it.”
“What's your plan? Where's your to-do list?”
“It's all right here.” He pointed to his head. “Prep for the bail hearing, interview our client, talk to the boat captain, get discovery from Pincher, and come up with the theme of our case.”
“Where do we start?”
Steve looked at his watch. “Lunch.”
Sixteen
HOOCHIE-COOCHIE MAN
“Anybody hungry?” a deep voice rumbled, as the door to Steve's office opened. An elderly black man in rimless glasses and a rainbow-colored dashiki walked in, carrying three grocery bags. At his side, Bobby lugged a thermos bottle. Cece Santiago brought up the rear, carrying a Styrofoam cooler.
At her desk, Victoria smelled the sweet, spicy aroma of barbecue sauce.
“Cadillac,” Steve said. “Right on time.”
“Baby back ribs, Uncle Steve,” Bobby said. “Your favorite.”
“Plus conch fritters,” the old man said. “Bimini bread, ham croquettes, oxtail soup, and my sweet potato pie.”
“That's it?” Steve said. “What is this, the South Beach diet?” He grabbed the grocery bags. “Victoria, say hello to Cadillac Johnson. Cook, musician, and friend.”
“Hello, Mr. Johnson. I've seen you at the courthouse lunch wagon.”
“The Sweet Potato Pie,” Cadillac said, smiling. “My kids run it now, but the recipes are still mine.” Thick through the chest, he had a round face with chubby cheeks and a full head of salt-and-pepper hair.
The smells were tantalizing, and Victoria was famished, but if she ate her share, she'd have to take a siesta. Not only that, almost everything violated her vegan principles. Actually, Bruce's vegan principles, she rationalized, thinking… Maybe just one little rib.
“The Pie wouldn't be there at all, 'cept for Steve,” Cadillac told her. “You know about that new zoning ordinance?”
She ran a finger along a baby back rib and sucked off the sauce, tart with vinegar, sweet with brown sugar. “No vendors on public property. How'd you get a variance?”
“Legal quiz, Vic.” Steve passed around open cartons, unleashing a mixture of aromas. “Cadillac's been cooking on the courthouse steps for twenty years and the county tries to evict him. How would you argue the case?”
Here we go again, she thought. Solomon the teacher. Treating me like a schoolgirl. She nibbled at a rib, the meat falling off the bone, melting in her mouth. “I'd go for a declaratory judgment and an injunction under Section 1983. I'd argue estoppel, due process, equal protection.”
“El bicho,” Cece said. “Steve don't know that shit.”
“Federal litigation?” Steve said, spearing a croquette. “That might work, after about ten years of motions and hearings.”
“So what'd you do?” Victoria asked. “Bribe the mayor?”
“And the commissioners,” Steve said.
“You didn't!”
“A dozen pulled pork sandwiches and some sweet potato pie.”
“You're making this up.”
“The law doesn't win cases, Vic. Emotions do. Feelings. The key to every case is finding those emotions and hitting those notes.”
“Do I get continuing education credits for your lecture?”
“You get seconds.”
Without realizing it, Victoria had wolfed down half a slab of ribs. Okay, Bruce didn't have to know. “Mr. Johnson, these are delicious.”
“Thank you, missy,” Cadillac said. “Now try some fritters.” He sliced a crisp, golden ball. Juicy pieces of conch oozed from the thin fried crust.
“Maybe just one.” She dipped the fritter in mango salsa, tasted it, closed her eyes with pleasure.
“Steve's my man,” Cadillac said. “He's a fighter. And the price is right.”
“Lunch?” she asked, taking a second bite.
“Hell, no. He pays for lunch.”
“Guitar lessons.” Steve was slicing the pie with a plastic knife. “Cadillac's a helluva musician. Rhythm and blues, early rock.”
“Played fish fries, juke joints, bars where you could get your throat sliced for looking at somebody cross- eyed,” Cadillac said.
“When you gonna teach me the blues with a shuffle feel?”
“Same day people stop calling you ‘Last Out.'”
“Why do they?” Victoria asked.
“Because I'm always the last one out of the library,” Steve said.
“Eso es mentira,” Cece said. “That's a lie.”
“A big fat whopper,” Bobby said.
“Steve made the last out in the College World Series,” Cadillac said.
“Aw, jeez,” Steve said.
“Uncle Steve's a 'Cane,” Bobby said. “Played at U of M.”
“Couldn't hit a lick,” Cadillac said.
Steve winced. “C'mon, guys. I was good at stealing bases.”
“And petty cash, if I know you,” Victoria said.
“Uncle Steve once scored from first on a single,” Bobby said proudly.
“I seem to have a knack for running in circles,” Steve said.
