Kill All the Lawyers

In the background, Steve could hear a commercial for a local dating service for overworked and horny executives.

'One day, when the appeal was pending,' Kreeger went on, 'I looked through every piece of paper in the file. You know what I found? Two copies of the police report of the boat accident. One attached to the State Attorney's brief and one in your file.'

'So what? Pincher was required to give me a copy when he filed his Williams Rule notice.'

'Right. Except your copy had an earlier time stamp. You had the police report first and you gave Pincher a photocopy. You dropped the dime on your own client.'

Steve didn't say a word. There could be a tape recorder rolling. They were, after all, in a recording studio.

The damn time stamps. He'd been sloppy, Steve realized. Well, what could you expect? He'd never sold out a client before.

'At first,' Kreeger said, 'I was mad enough to kill you. And you, of all people, know I'm capable, right? Then I realized you do whatever it takes. You live by your own code. You violated your attorney's oath in order to put your own client away.' Kreeger rumbled a laugh. It sounded like coal pouring down a chute. 'I get goose bumps just thinking about it. You put my theories into practice, Solomon. We're like long-lost brothers, you and I.'

'I don't kill people.'

'Not yet.' Another laugh. Then, with what seemed like dead-earnest sincerity, Kreeger said, 'We're gonna be great friends. We're gonna spend some quality time together.'

'The hell we are.'

'C'mon, Solomon. You owe me that much. In fact, you owe me six years. There I was, eating all that starchy food, living in a cell with a metal toilet, and you were out here enjoying the good life. You've got yourself a lady. What's her name? Victoria, right? I look forward to meeting her. And you have your nephew with you. Robert. Has some medical problems, doesn't he?

And you had a bit of a dustup with the state over custody. Well, you'd better keep your record clean. Wouldn't want to upset those hard-asses at Family Services. And how's your father, by the way? Judge Solomon drinking too much these days?'

There are lots of ways to threaten someone, Steve thought. At one end of the spectrum, your lawyer can send a letter, advising that you intend to use all lawful means to enforce your legal rights. At the other end, you can jam the barrel of a gun into someone's mouth, breaking off teeth and yelling you're going to blow their brains all over the wall. Or you can take a middle ground. You can mention everyone in the world the person loves and just leave it at that. Steve felt his face heat up, and his stomach clenched itself into a fist.

'Stay away from them, Kreeger. Stay the hell away or I'll cut you into little pieces and feed you to the sharks.'

'Doubt it. Like you said, Steve, you're not a killer.'

'And like you said: Not yet.'

'Pardon me for not peeing on my socks, but I've just spent six years in a rattlesnake nest and never got bit.'

'Maybe your next stay, you won't be so lucky.'

'Now, why would I go back to prison?'

'It's just a matter of time before you feel wronged by someone. You'll use that bullshit philosophy of yours to justify your actions, and before you can say, 'Man overboard,' there's another body floating facedown. So maybe I will stick close to you, Kreeger, because I want to be there the day the cops come knocking on your door.'

No one knocked, but the cushioned door to the control room popped open and two City of Miami Beach cops walked in. Weird, Steve thought. But life is like that sometimes. You think of a woman you haven't seen in three or four years, and that day she comes knocking on your door, with a little boy at her side who looks alarmingly like you. Not that it had ever happened to him, but he'd heard stories.

So what were the Beach cops doing out of their jurisdiction? Had Kreeger slashed some tourist's throat while waiting in line at Joe's Stone Crab?

'Are you Stephen Solomon?' The cop wore sergeant's stripes and had a mustache. He was in his forties, with a tired look.

'Guilty,' Steve said. 'What's this about?'

He was vaguely aware that Kreeger was leaning close to the microphone, his voice a portentous whisper. 'Exclusive report. Breaking news here at WPYG. You're live with Dr. Bill. . '

'You're under arrest, Mr. Solomon,' the sergeant said wearily.

'For what! What'd I do, curse on the air?'

'Steve-the-Shyster Solomon arrested, right here in Studio A,' Kreeger rhapsodized.

'Assault and battery.'

'I haven't hit the bastard yet.' Steve nodded toward Kreeger.

'Not him. A guy named Freskin.'

'Who the hell is that?'

The younger cop took a pair of handcuffs from his belt. 'Please place your hands behind your back, sir.'

Damn polite, just like they teach them in cop school.

'I don't know any Freskin.'

'I have to pat you down, sir,' the younger cop persisted.

'The excitement builds,' Kreeger announced, sounding like Joe Buck doing a World Series game. 'They're putting the cuffs on Solomon.'

'Goddammit. Who's Freskin?' Steve felt a mixture of anger and humiliation.

'State probation officer,' the sergeant answered. 'Arnold Freskin. You assaulted him in your law office.'

Oh, him!

'That freak? He was getting off wrestling with my secretary.'

Even as he spoke, Steve knew he was violating the advice he gave to every client he'd ever had.

'Never talk to the cops. You'll only dig yourself a deeper hole.'

'You have the right to remain silent,' the sergeant reminded him. 'You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney-'

'I know. I know.'

'They're taking him downtown,' Kreeger sang out cheerfully. 'Is Steve Solomon not only a shyster, but a violent thug, too? Stay tuned.'

Ten

EVEN MURDERERS NEED PALS

Steve stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the ink off his fingertips. He'd been booked and processed, fingerprinted and photographed, and generally ridiculed by cops and corrections officers who knew him from court. He had spent two hours in a holding cell where the walls were covered with yellowish-brown graffiti. Generations of inmates had used mustard from their state-issued bologna sandwiches to leave their misspelled profanities to posterity. Perhaps not as impressive as Paleolithic cave drawings, the graffiti nonetheless provided a sociological snapshot of our underclass, as well as an indictment of our public schools.

Judge Alvin Elias Schwartz released Steve without bail on the grounds that His Honor used to play pinochle with the defendant's father. Steve would be required to show up in a week to be arraigned on charges of assault and battery and obstructing a state official, to wit: Mr. Arnold G. Freskin, in the performance of his duties. According to the criminal complaint, Freskin's duties included an 'on-site interview with a probationer,' which Steve figured sounded better than an 'erotic wrestling match with an undressed secretary.'

Steve had taken a sweaty taxi ride home, the Jamaican driver explaining the A/C was on the blink, but Steve figured the guy was just saving gas. Steve's pants and shirt stuck to the vinyl seats, though the heat didn't seem to