Kill All the Lawyers

While a hospital resident on the psychiatry staff, Kreeger had argued that human beings were bred to be murderers. Homicidal instincts, he wrote, are survival tactics dating from prehistoric times. By historical practice, it is rational and sane to kill anyone who threatens your cave, your mate, or your dinner. Our DNA carries those instincts today.

'Murder should not be considered a perversion of human values. Murder is the essential human value.'

Then Kreeger went even further. To kill rationally, he declared, does not require one to be engaged in self- defense. Setting aside man-made notions of right and wrong, it would be logical to kill a rival for a promotion at work or for the love of a woman or even for the last seat on a bus.

Suddenly, preparing for the man's trial, it had all become clear to Steve.

William Kreeger, MD, was the love child of Ayn Rand and Ted Bundy.

A man so possessed of narcissism and self-interest and so devoid of feelings for others that he would eliminate anyone he believed was a threat.

His classmate. His lady friend. Or his lawyer.

Sure, Victoria was right. Not only was it illegal to turn over incriminating evidence to the state, with Kreeger as a client, it was also dangerous. So what now? Kreeger wouldn't be satisfied with pranks involving dead fish, marlin gaffs, and trash talk on the radio. Those were just preludes.

Kreeger could be planning his attack right now.

Which meant Steve needed a counterattack. Or better yet, an offensive. A way to bring down Kreeger before he took his shot. But how?

Storm into the radio station, jack Kreeger up against the wall, and rattle his fillings.

Nah.

Steve was a lawyer. A schmoozer. He could bob and weave in front of a jury and play rope-a-dope with opposing counsel. But violence? Not his style. Sure, he'd taken one swing with a stick that cracked a man's skull, but that had been necessary to rescue Bobby. What else?

Punching that probation officer in dubious defense of Cece's virtue? Not very impressive. Starting a brawl years ago by spiking the Florida State shortstop while breaking up a double play? Nah, nobody even got bruised.

But Kreeger? The man had a track record of deadly violence. So Steve needed a plan. But a problem there, too. How do you outsmart a man who is both brilliant and a killer, when you are neither?

SOLOMON'S LAWS

3. When you don't know what to do, seek advice from your father. . even if he's two candles short of a menorah.

Seven

KING SOLOMON AND THE QUEEN OF SHEBA

Steve needed advice. He needed to talk to the man who had once peered down at assorted miscreants, pronouncing them guilty, dispatching them to places where the only harm they could inflict was on one another. The Honorable Herbert T. Solomon had a feel for this sort of thing.

What do I do, Dad, when some nutcase is after me?

Steve walked out the kitchen door into his backyard. His father and nephew sat cross-legged on the ground, in the shade of a bottlebrush tree. Pieces of plywood and two-by-fours were strewn on the grass, along with a hammer, a saw, and an open toolbox.

'Shalom, son,' his father called out. Chin stubbled with white whiskers, long silvery hair swept straight back, flipping up at his neck. With a bottle of sour mash whiskey within arm's reach, Herbert T. Solomon looked like Wild Bill Hickock in a yarmulke.

Or maybe a biblical prophet. He held a weathered copy of the Old Testament in one hand and a drink in the other. 'The Queen of Sheba,' Herbert intoned in his Southern drawl, 'having heard of Solomon's fame, came to test him with tricky questions.'

'Get to the sexy part,' Bobby said. 'Where Solomon slips it to Sheba and all the concubines.'

Herbert took a sip of the whiskey. 'In due time, boychik.'

'What's going on, Dad?'

'Ah'm teaching Robert the good book.' Herbert flipped a page. ' 'The Queen of Sheba gave Solomon gold and spices, and-' '

' 'Spice' is Bible talk for nookie,' Bobby interrupted, grinning at Steve. 'Grandpop taught me that.'

'Grandpop's a regular Talmudic scholar.'

Bobby went on, excitedly: 'In the first book of Kings, it says that Solomon gave Sheba 'everything she desired and asked for.' You get it, Uncle Steve?'

'I think I can figure it out.'

'Did you know King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines?'

'No wonder he wanted to get out of the house and conquer Mesopotamia.' Steve turned to his father, who was pouring whiskey over ice. 'Dad, why are you filling Bobby with this nonsense?'

'Our roots are not nonsense.' Herbert took a noisy pull on his drink and turned to his grandson. 'Robert, our ancestors were warriors in the court of King Solomon. We're direct descendants from His Honor's own wise self.'

'Oh, for God's sake,' Steve groaned.

'Don't you blaspheme in mah presence.'

'And what's with the yarmulke? You covering a bald spot?'

'Ah pray for you, Stephen. You've become a Philistine.'

'And you've flipped out. Going orthodox at your age is just plain weird.'

Herbert shook his head. 'Cain't believe mah son's a heathen and mah daughter's a whore.'

'Hey, Dad. Cool it in front of Bobby with that stuff, okay?'

'Nu? What's the big deal? You think the boy doesn't know his mother's a junkie and a tramp?'

'Dad, that's enough.' Not that it wasn't true, Steve thought, but you don't smack a kid in the face with that kind of talk.

'It's okay, Uncle Steve.' Bobby fiddled with a two-by-four, showing no apparent concern. But Steve knew that look. A blank, neutral mask. It was how the boy hid the pain. What the hell was wrong with his father, anyway? Didn't he realize how sensitive Bobby was? Probably not. When Steve was a kid, his father treated him just as callously. Hadn't he called him a 'wuss' when four Marieltos at Nautilus Middle School beat him up for his lunch money?

Without looking up, Bobby said: 'The other day in the cafeteria, one of the kids asked about my parents.'

Steve held his breath. Kids can be so cruel. Little predators preying on the one who's different.

'I told them I didn't know my father, and my mom was in prison,' Bobby continued.

'You take some heat over that, kiddo?'

Bobby shook his head. 'Everybody thought that was way cool. Manuel said he wished he didn't know his old man. Jason asked if I ever visited Mom in prison.'

The boy let it hang there. His way of asking Steve why they never drove down to Homestead Correctional. So hard to understand the boy's longing. Janice had neglected and abused him. Locked him in a dog shed, starved him while she got stoned. And Bobby, what. . missed her? Steve decided to let it go. What could he say, anyway?