blush under pressure.
She dreaded going back into the courtroom with Pincher perched on her shoulder like one of Pedrosa's illegal birds. All she wanted now was to win and prove she had the chops to be a trial lawyer.
But what if she lost? Or worse, got fired? The legal market sucked, and her student loans weighed a ton. Each month she wrote a check for the interest, but the principal just sat there-eighty-five thousand dollars-taunting her. The only clothing she'd bought since law school came from Second Time Around, a consignment shop in Surfside.
Except for shoes. Shoes are as important as oxygen, and you don't want to breathe another person's oxygen, right?
If she lost her job, she'd have to start selling the jewelry The Queen had given her. Irene Lord, called The Queen for her regal bearing and lofty dreams. Even when her money was gone, she had maintained her dignity and grace. Victoria pictured her mother, dressed in a designer gown for the Vizcayans Ball, her Judith Leiber evening bag flecked with jewels but lacking cab fare inside. She remembered, too, her mother fussing about Victoria's decision to go to law school. A dirty business, she called it.
“You don't have that cutthroat personality.”
Maybe The Queen was right. Maybe law school had been a mistake. She struggled to be strong, to cover up her insecurities. But maybe she just didn't have what it takes. Certainly Ray Pincher seemed to doubt her abilities.
What's this bullshit about Pincher sitting second chair? Steve hated the idea. There'd be no more fun in the courtroom, that's for sure. And Pincher would put even more pressure on Victoria. Steve wondered if she could handle it.
Doing his pretrial homework, Steve had looked her up in the State Attorney's Office newsletter, the “Nolo Contendere.” Princeton undergrad, summa cum laude, Yale Law School, a prize-winning article in the law journal. Nice pedigree, compared to his: baseball scholarship at the University of Miami, night division at Key West School of Law.
In addition to the ritzy academics, there was a little ditty in the newsletter: “We're hoping Victoria joins us on the Sword of Justice tennis team. She won the La Gorce Country Club girls' tennis championship three years running while in high school.”
La Gorce. Old money, at least by Miami standards, where marijuana smugglers from the 1980's were considered founding fathers. The La Gorce initiation fee was more than Steve cleared in a year. Thirty years ago, no one named Solomon could have even joined.
So why was Victoria Lord slumming in the grimy Justice Building, a teeming beehive of cops and crooks, burned-out lawyers and civil service drudges, embittered jurors and senile judges? A place where an eight A.M. motion calendar-a chorus line of miscreants on parade-could crush her spirit before her cafe con leche grew cold. Steve felt a part of the place, enjoyed the interplay of cops and robbers, but Victoria Lord? Had she gotten lost on her way to one of the deep-carpet firms downtown? Stone crabs at noon, racquetball at five.
Now Steve tried to follow the conversation. Judge Gridley was spouting his views on a college football playoff-a grand idea, there'd be more games to bet on-when they were interrupted by a cell phone chiming the opening bars of Handel's “Hallelujah.”
“Excuse me,” Pincher told them, fishing out his phone. “State Attorney. What? Good heavens! When?” He listened a moment. “Call me when the autopsy's done.”
Pincher clicked off and turned to the others. “Charles Barksdale is dead.”
“Heart attack?” the judge asked, tapping his own chest.
“Strangled. By his wife.”
“Katrina?” Victoria said. “Can't be.”
“She probably had a good reason,” said Steve, ever the defense lawyer.
“Claims it was an accident,” Pincher said.
“How do you accidentally strangle someone?” the judge said.
“By having sex in a way God never intended,” Pincher said. “They found Charles tied up in some kinky contraption.”
“This is big,” Steve said. “Larry King big.”
“Charles was a dear friend,” Pincher said, “not just a campaign contributor. To die like that…” He shook his head, sadly. “If the grand jury indicts, I'll prosecute it myself.”
Pincher was not given to many honest emotions, Steve thought, but the old fraud seemed genuinely upset.
“Charles was a gentle man, a charitable man, a good man,” Pincher continued.
Now he sounded like he was rehearsing his closing argument.
“Boy, would I love to defend,” Steve said.
“Widow'll end up with Ed Shohat or Roy Black,” Judge Gridley predicted.
“I'm as good a lawyer as they are.”
“This ain't a Saturday night stabbing in Liberty City,” Pincher said. “This is high society.”
Pincher was right, Steve knew. He'd had dozens of murder trials, but most were low pay or no pay. He never had a client with the resources of an O. J. Simpson or Klaus von Bulow. Or the looks and glamour of Katrina Barksdale. He didn't know the Barksdales, but he'd read about them. Charles had made millions building condos while collecting custom yachts and trophy wives. Katrina would have been number three or four. Wife, not yacht. Photos of the old hubby and young wifey were routinely plastered in Ocean Drive and the Miami Herald. You couldn't open a restaurant or hold a charity event without the glam couple. And when her husband stayed home, Katrina was on the arm of an artist or musician at younger, hipper parties.
The lawyer who got this case was gonna be famous.
Steve could picture the Justice Building surrounded by sound trucks, generators humming, a forest of satellite dishes, an army of reporters. A carnival in the parking lot, vendors hawking “Free Katrina” T-shirts, iced granizados, and grilled arepas. There'd be TV interviews, magazine profiles, analysts critiquing the defense lawyer's trial strategy and his haircut. It'd be a ton of publicity and a helluva lot of fun. And then there was the fee. Not that money juiced him. But Bobby's expenses were mounting, and he'd like to put some bucks away for the boy's care.
And wouldn't he love going mano a mano with Pincher? The bastard would try to ride that pony all the way to the governor's mansion. All the more reason Steve lusted after the case. He hated pretension and self- righteousness, but most of all, he hated bullies. And in Sugar Ray Pincher, he had all three.
“This one's out of your league, Solomon,” Pincher said, hammering the nail home.
Out of his league.
God, how he hated that. Which prompted another disheartening thought.
Was Victoria Lord out of his league, too?
MIAMI-DADE POLICE DEPARTMENT TRANSCRIPT OF EMERGENCY FIRE AND RESCUE CALLS
Dispatch:
Miami-Dade Police. One moment, please.
Caller:
911? Goddammit, are you there? 911?
Dispatch:
Miami-Dade Police. Is this an emergency?
Caller:
My husband! My husband's not breathing.
Dispatch:
Please remain calm, ma'am. Is his airway obstructed?
Caller:
I don't know. He's not breathing!
Dispatch:
Was he eating?
