Forty-four
FESSING UP
Steve was driving and Victoria was in the passenger seat, going over her note cards. They were headed north on Ronald Reagan Avenue, so named because the former President once ate a Cuban sandwich at a restaurante there. They would cut over to Coral Way, take Twenty-seventh Avenue, and they'd be at the Juvenile Justice Center with maybe two minutes to spare. Steve knew he was running out of time to fess up.
“There's something about Bobby's case I haven't told you.”
“Yeah?” Putting down her cards, sounding worried.
“I've got some evidence that'll totally discredit Kranchick.”
“What is it?” Sounding dubious now.
“She's using an illegal drug. Something not approved by the FDA.”
“Wow. You sure?”
“Positive. But you can't use the evidence.”
“Why not?”
“Because we stole it.”
“We?”
“Okay. Me. Actually, Cadillac, at my request. He rifled her wastebasket.”
“The wastebasket?” She shook her head. “Like the Winnie-the-Pooh case?”
Steve knew the case. The judge dismissed a suit against Disney in part because the plaintiffs went through the company's garbage. “Pretty much. Which is why you've got to be subtle.”
“How is one subtle with illegally obtained evidence?”
“Get Kranchick to admit she's using an unapproved drug.”
“And just how do I do that?”
“Play on her pride. She really believes what she's doing is right. No matter how unethical it is.”
As they crossed the Twenty-seventh Avenue bridge, he told Victoria about the opinion piece, Kranchick expressing support for dangerous medical research that had been condemned by medical ethicists. “She's not afraid of taking unpopular positions, of being out of the mainstream. Her principles are her own, not the FDA's.”
“So she's like you?” Victoria said. “She makes up her own laws?”
“Mine don't put people's lives at risk.” Steve ran a yellow light, another motorist honking at him. They were less than a block away, passing a run-down strip mall with a discount liquor store, a muffler shop, and a pawnshop-Casa de Empeno. “The key to cracking her is that she's not ashamed. She has a sense of honor about what she does. Which is why I don't think she'll lie.”
“Your gut again, right?”
“Yeah. Plus my research. Something you taught me.”
He pulled the car into the parking lot, thinking the Juvenile Justice Center resembled a prison more than a courthouse. Concrete block pods were built around a barren concrete terrace that had all the warmth of a prisoners' exercise yard. The building's windowless stucco walls had once been white but were now streaked with permanent rust stains. A grim, impersonal place. Steve wondered how Bobby would react to the unfamiliar surroundings. They would find out tomorrow when they brought him to meet the judge. Tonight, he was with Marvin and Teresa, eating a Cuban sandwich and drinking a mamey milk shake at the Versailles on Calle Ocho.
“I don't know if I can pull this off,” Victoria said.
“Sure you can.”
They got out of the car and headed inside, a jet on final approach to MIA screaming over their heads. She still looked troubled. “We both could go to jail and lose our licenses.”
“If you do it right, Kranchick will never know where we got the information.”
“And if I do it wrong?”
“We'll both go to jail and lose our licenses,” Steve said.
Forty-five
HERBERT SOLOMON'S SON
Standing in front of the bench, Zinkavich announced formally: “Jack Zinkavich for the people of the State of Florida.”
Not all of them, Steve thought, as his partner got to her feet.
“Victoria Lord, on behalf of Stephen Solomon.”
Just little ole me, Steve thought.
They were in the cramped courtroom of Judge Althea Rolle. The judge was a petite black woman with a streak of gray in her tightly cropped hair. Two teddy bears sat on her desk. Drawings by sixth graders covered the walls. Dozens of snapshots were taped to a blackboard, the judge posing with happy families who had just adopted children. There would be no jury here; Bobby's fate was entirely up to Judge Rolle.
The lives of Juvenile Court judges were schizophrenic, Steve figured. They packed off troubled teens to Youth Hall in delinquency proceedings. They handled the gut-wrenching cases known as TPRs-Termination of Parental Rights-yanking kids away from abusive or neglectful parents. And occasionally they brought joy to families who adopt children no one else wants.
Like Jack Zinkavich, Family Services poster boy.
The judge looked up from her file, studied Steve a moment. “You wouldn't be Herbert Solomon's son, would you?”
“Guilty, Your Honor.” Steve was used to the question but never knew what to expect next. Sometimes there would be a sad shake of the head, sometimes a scowl, and sometimes…
“What a wonderful man.”
Steve eased out a breath.
“A judge with a heart,” she continued.
“Ex-judge,” Zinkavich piped up, an open box of Krispy Kremes on his table. Steve spotted a dulce de leche-a top seller in Miami-a cinnamon twist, and an iced donut, with its dark little rim around the top, like a chocolate yarmulke. Salivating, he realized he'd violated one of his own rules-he'd skipped lunch-and dinner was hours away.
“I was so sorry when I heard about your father's troubles, Mr. Solomon,” the judge said. “Would you give him my best wishes?”
“I'll do that, Your Honor,” Steve said. “Thank you.”
Zinkavich cleared his throat. “Judge Rolle, may I inquire into the extent of your relationship with the Petitioner's father?”
“I never slept with him, if that's what you mean.”
Zinkavich's head jerked back, causing his several chins to jiggle. “Of course not. I just meant-”
“But if he'd asked me, I don't know what I'd have done.”
“I just wondered how close the two of you were,” Zinkavich said.
“How many cases you try before me, Z?”
“Twenty-five or so.”
“Am I always fair to you?”
“Yes, ma'am. You usually rule with me.”
“Yes, I do, even though you're a royal pain in the butt and a total weenie.”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“You win, Z, because Family Services almost always has the best interests of the child at heart, and that's my sole consideration.”
