“Didn't we just try that?” Victoria asked. “‘Katrina Loves Charles'?”
“That was courtroom blather. Love's not about buying watches and diamonds. It's about putting the other person first. What Bobby needs is someone who'll do anything for him, not doctors who want to publish papers about him. What he needs is me.”
“I wonder if that's enough,” she said. “To win the case, I mean.”
“Did you ever see that English movie Love Actually?” he asked.
“Yeah. It put me into glucose overload.”
“First scene, we see all these couples meeting at the airport. Lovers hugging, kissing, reuniting. And Hugh Grant's saying it's wrong to think we live in a world that's filled only with hatred and greed.”
“Yeah, sure. It's a world of milk and honey.”
“What he says is, if you look for it, love actually is all around.”
He had a distant and almost blissful look. In the right time and place, like a Barry Manilow concert or a freshman seminar on Kahlil Gibran, the look might be appropriate, Victoria thought. But in the grungy law office over the Dumpster, faced with the reality of losing his nephew, Solomon's spaciness was alarming.
He's losing it.
“I remember the scene,” she said. “I was thinking, ‘This is gonna be one sugar-glazed donut of a movie.'”
“That's what love is, too. Besides the sacrifice and the caring, I mean. It's a Sinatra song. Moonbeams on the bay. A puppy opening its eyes for the first time.”
“Where's the Solomon I know? The guy who teaches birds to shit on opposing counsel?”
“When I see Bobby sleeping, tears come to my eyes. I'm gonna tell the judge that. I'm gonna translate every emotion into admissible evidence.”
Okay, she thought. Turns out the courtroom shark was a hopeless romantic. And like another romantic, he was preparing to tilt at windmills, riding a spavined steed and carrying a rusty lance.
“I'm having a little trouble seeing how this is going to win your case.”
“That's the beauty of it. It's right in Chapter Thirty-nine of the statutes.” He grabbed a book from his desk. “Look. Section Eight-ten, Subsection Five. The court must consider the ‘love, affection, and other emotional ties between the child and the person seeking custody.' If the judge does that, I win.”
“What about Kranchick's report?”
“Not to worry. I'm gonna wax the floor with it.”
“What about all the other criteria in the statute?”
“I'll deal with them.”
Unwilling to budge, unable to see that he was hot asphalt and his opponents were riding the steamroller. She wondered how she could get through to him. He was always so much in control when handling other people's problems. Now he seemed so lost in his own.
“I just wonder if you should talk to a lawyer who specializes in dependency cases,” she said, diplomatically. “Maybe work together. Turn negatives into positives. Kranchick thinks you're exposing Bobby to improper influences. But you argue that taking Bobby to the office and court is great for his development.”
“I do it mostly because we like to hang together,” Steve said.
“That's good,” she said. “Most boys would love to spend more time with their fathers.”
Steve's face seemed to brighten. “You have a feel for this, Vic. You should represent me.”
“I've never handled a guardianship case.”
“You're a trial lawyer, an all-purpose utility player. You can play any position without being afraid of any case or any lawyer.”
“I'm not afraid,” she said. “It's just…”
“What?”
“Too much responsibility. I know how important this is to you.”
“That's why I need you. I wouldn't trust anyone else the way I trust you.”
“If I screwed it up…”
“You won't.”
“I'm sorry, Steve. I just can't.”
Ten minutes later, Steve was considering the puzzling Ms. Victoria Lord. Most lawyers he knew had inflated egos. They weren't nearly as good as they thought they were. With Victoria, it was the opposite. She didn't know how good she could be. Her humility made her even more effective in the courtroom.
But why wouldn't she help him? That he couldn't figure out. He stole a glance across the room. On this chilly day, with gusts rattling the windowpane, Victoria wore a brown knit skirt fringed at the bottom. A matching hooded cardigan and fleece-lined, high-heeled suede boots completed the outfit, which Steve had never seen before. He wondered if he was starting to memorize her wardrobe, as he had done with her features, her every look. There was the furrowed brow with pursed lips when she studied a law book, the triumphant smile when she pounced on a winning point, the mysterious gaze when she stared into space. And another look, too.
He'd seen it once, and only because he opened his own eyes to find hers closed. When their lips had parted during their one and only kiss, she radiated total rapture.
Now he replayed their conversation of just a few minutes ago. He surely knew Victoria well enough to crack her codes. Suggesting he get counsel, she'd been overly polite, overly delicate. Then he said, Fine, you represent me. And she said no. Why?
There could be only one reason.
He felt his mood plummet. It's not that she lacked confidence in her own abilities.
She thinks I haven't got a chance. She thinks I'm going to lose.
Thirty
WEDDING BELL BLUES
An hour later, Steve was still stewing about Bobby's case, and Victoria was grinding away on the murder case, reading appellate cases, taking notes in neat lettering on her cards. The intercom buzzed and Cece said: “Yo, Vic. Hottie alert. Beefcake on final approach.”
Bruce Bigby, in a double-breasted charcoal suit with a thin chalk stripe, breezed through the doorway, kissed Victoria's cheek, and opened a briefcase, all in one motion.
“Hate to burst in like this, sweetie. Hey, Steve.” He did a double take. “Jeez, your face.”
“Shaving accident,” Steve said.
“Hon, what are you doing here?” Victoria said.
“We've got a thousand things to do.” He pulled a file from his briefcase. “Steve, you've got to be more careful.”
“I'm fine. Stick to your gourds, Bruce.”
“Mind your manners, partner,” Victoria warned.
“Avocados aren't gourds, Steve,” Bigby said.
“Who gives a shit?”
“Steve!” Victoria glared at him.
“I'm sorry, Bruce,” Steve said contritely. “Just having a bad day.”
“Not a problem, Steve. I understand.”
What a nice guy, Steve thought. So even-keeled. So imperturbable. So irritating. Steve realized he both resented and envied Bigby. Then he felt guilty about it. He owed Bigby for trying to help with Kranchick, even if it hadn't worked. And he wanted to make up for being such a prick just now. Forcing some cheer into his voice, he said: “So what's new on the farm, Bruce?”
“Arctic front's headed our way. We might be burning smudge pots by the weekend.”
“If you need any extra hands, I'm there.” Steve didn't know which would be worse, freezing his ass off, or
