Kill All the Lawyers

At eight A.M. each day, Marvin the Maven could be found thumbing through the printouts attached to the clipboard outside each courtroom. As unofficial leader of the Courthouse Gang, a group of retirees who preferred trials to television, Marvin chose which cases to observe.

'So where's Ms. Lord?' Marvin asked.

'Don't need her,' Steve said.

'What mishegoss! Of course you need her.'

'I've got a plea all worked out.'

'You gotta know, a man who represents himself has a shmendrick for a client.'

'And a shlemiel for a lawyer?'

'Exactly.'

As they neared the door to Judge Schwartz's courtroom, Marvin said: 'So did you hear Dr. Bill today?'

'Apparently, I'm the only one in town who doesn't listen to the guy.'

'He was saying nice things about you. That you have a lovely girlfriend. And in his experience, a man must have some good qualities if a fine, upstanding woman sees something in him.'

'He's talking about himself, Marvin.'

'I don't get it.'

'He's sending a message that the two of us are alike somehow.'

Steve headed into the courtroom, Marvin in tow. Inside, it was 'shoot-around time,' Steve's term for the chaos of a motion calendar. Lawyers and cops, clerks and clients drifting all over the courtroom, defendants filling the jury box, everyone talking at once. A basketball team's shooting practice, a dozen balls launched toward the rim at the same time. Presiding over the disorder was the Honorable Alvin Elias Schwartz, the only person in the courthouse older than Marvin the Maven.

Judge Schwartz was propped on two pillows, either because his hemorrhoids were flaring up or because, at five foot three, he couldn't see over the bench. Known as King of the Curmudgeons when he was younger, his disposition had gotten even worse with age. He now had the title of 'senior judge,' meaning he was somewhere between Medicare and the mortuary. No longer permitted to preside over trials because of lousy hearing, a weak bladder, and chronic flatulence, he nonetheless handled bail hearings, motions, and arraignments.

At the moment, Judge Schwartz was peering through his trifocals at a teenager in baggy, low-slung pants. Skinny and round-shouldered, the kid had the vacant, openmouthed look of the terminally stupid. From what Steve could gather, the kid had just pleaded guilty to possession of marijuana and was getting probation.

'You're getting a second chance, you understand that, Jose?' Judge Schwartz said.

'My name's Freddy, Judge,' the kid said. 'You know, short for Fernando.'

'Hernando? Like the county? I own thirty acres up by Weeki Wachee.'

'Fer-nando!' the kid repeated.

'I don't give a flying fandango what your name is, Jose. You come back here for spitting on the sidewalk, I'm sending you straight to Raiford, where some big bucks are gonna use your candy ass for a pinata. You comprende?'

'Viejo comemierda,' the kid muttered.

Either the judge didn't hear him or didn't know he'd just been called a shit-eater, because he started absentmindedly thumbing through his stack of files.

Steve worked his way to the front row of the gallery and took a seat on the aisle. It took a moment to realize he was sitting next to Dr. Bill Kreeger.

'What the hell …?'

'Good day, Steve.'

'What are you doing here?'

'Surely you know that I testify on occasion. I'm considered quite an effective witness.'

'Pathological liars usually are.'

It couldn't be a coincidence, Steve thought. First, Kreeger popped up at Joe's. Then he started saying nice things about Steve on the air. Now he showed up in court, looking spiffy in a dark suit and burgundy tie. What was the bastard up to?

'And how's the gorgeous Ms. Lord?'

'Fine. How's your niece? Amanda, right?'

'Lovely young thing, isn't she?'

'Woman,' Steve said. 'Lovely young woman. Only psychopaths see people as things.'

'It's only an expression, Solomon. I assure you that no one in the world appreciates Amanda's qualities the way I do. She has an intelligence and understanding far beyond her years.'

'What did you say her last name was?'

'I didn't.'

'And just how is she your niece?'

'Too many questions, Solomon. Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat burglar?'

'State of Florida versus Stephen Solomon!' the clerk sang out.

Steve popped up and headed through the swinging gate into the well of the courtroom.

'Is the state prepared to proceed?' Judge Schwartz asked.

'The People are ready and holding steady, Your Honor.'

The voice came from the back of the courtroom. Bouncing on his toes, a trim African-American man in a double-breasted pin-striped suit strutted toward the bench. Silver cuff links shaped like miniature handcuffs clinked as he walked. The man was in his mid-forties and still looked like he could fight middleweight, as he did in Golden Gloves when growing up in Liberty City.

What the hell? Pincher only showed up for cases that could get him face time on television.

Dumbfounded, Steve whispered to Pincher: 'Sugar Ray, what's going on?'

'A special case that time won't erase.'

'What the hell's so special about it?' Steve hissed at the prosecutor. 'Are you backing out of the plea?'

'Relax, Solomon.' Pincher turned his politician smile on the judge. 'Your Honor, we've reached an agreement, but nothing vehement.'

'You mean a plea deal?'

'Which now I'll reveal.'

'Stop that damned bebop and get to the point.'

Pincher gave a courteous bow to the judge, as if he'd just been complimented on the cut of his suit. 'Your Honor, the state is prepared to dismiss the felony charges, and Mr. Solomon will plead nolo to simple assault with adjudication to be withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy.'

Steve let out a breath. Okay, that was exactly what he'd agreed to with one of Pincher's deputies. But why was the boss here? What was so damn special about the case?

'Mr. Solomon?' The judge seemed to focus on Steve for the first time. 'Aren't you that lawyer I throw in the clink every now and then?'

'I plead nolo to that, too, Your Honor.'

'Okay, then. Let's put the stuffing in this turkey.'

The judge started running through the plea protocol. Did Steve understand the charges against him? Did he know he had the right to a trial? Was he entering the plea freely and voluntarily?

Steve gave all the right answers, and in less than three minutes, the judge had checked off the boxes on his form and signed the order Pincher handed to him. Judge Schwartz leaned close to the document, showing the courtroom the crown of his bald head as he read: 'The Court finds that the defendant is alert and intelligent and understands the consequences of his plea, which is accepted for all purposes. Adjudication of guilt is withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy under the auspices of William Kreeger, MD, board-certified psychiatrist.'

What!? Did the judge say what I think he said?

'Dr. Kreeger will file a written report with the Court at the conclusion of said therapy.'