Kill All the Lawyers

'Your Honor doesn't have jurisdiction over the minor child,' Victoria said.

'He's in my courtroom, missy. My fiefdom. It's in the Magna Carta. You can look it up.'

'But Your Honor,' Victoria pleaded. 'Due process precludes-'

The judge rapped his gavel. Bang! 'That's it, Ms. Lord. Both of your clients go see the shrink.' Another bang! 'Ten-minute recess. My bladder ain't what it used to be.'

SOLOMON'S LAWS

10. You won't find it in Darwin, Deuteronomy, or Doonesbury, but it's an essential truth of human nature: We'll all kill to protect those we love.

Twenty-Nine

THE CON ARTIST BLUES

Carl Drake's suite at the Four Seasons was pretty much what Steve expected. Beige sofas with thick pillows in the living room, gray marble in the bath, a curved desk of blond wood in the tidy office. The windows looked across Biscayne Bay, glistening turquoise in the midday sun. Key Biscayne was a green atoll in the distance, a dozen sailboats visible on the far side of the causeway. Just what you would demand for twelve hundred bucks a night.

But who was paying for it? Before he even settled into the sofa, Steve was struck with the notion that The Queen would never get a shilling out of Carl Drake. No matter how much money Drake stole, he seemed to be the kind of guy who enjoyed spending every last cent.

Steve had filed the usual dilatory motions to slow down the mortgage foreclosure, but that could buy The Queen only so much time. Today, he intended to shake some money out of Drake. It was the first of two unpleasant tasks on his calendar, the second being a court-ordered appointment with William Kreeger, M.D.

'What'll it be, Steve?' Drake asked pleasantly, standing at the gleaming marble-topped bar. 'Champagne? Cristal.'

'No thanks, Carl.'

'Wait. I'm good at this. I know from dinner that you drink tequila after dark. Now, as for the daytime. .' Drake fingered a bottle of single-malt Scotch, then eyed a bottle of Maker's Mark. 'I'm betting you're a bourbon man.'

'Hemlock, if you have it. Drano on the rocks if you don't.'

'Been a rough week, has it?' Laying on a bit of a British accent. Stopping just short of saying 'old chap.'

'Carl, this is uncomfortable for me,' Steve said.

Drake poured himself a Scotch over ice, walked to a facing sofa and perched on the arm. He wore linen slacks the color of melted butter and a shimmering blue shirt, the fabric so soft, it invited petting. 'Did Irene ask you to come?'

'She ordered me not to.'

'Do you frequently disregard your clients' instructions?'

'All the time. I figure if they were so smart, they wouldn't need my counsel.'

Drake gave him a pleasant smile. It seemed to be a well-practiced gesture from a well-mannered, well- accented smoothie.

Steve took a breath and surveyed the room. A portrait of Sir Francis Drake sat on an easel. A map of the seven seas, circa 1550, was pinned to a display board. A polyurethane block embedded with gold coins- Spanish doubloons, Steve supposed-sat on the desk, a seductive tease for any possible heirs of the sixteenth-century privateer. A calfskin briefcase bulged with papers.

Steve turned back to Drake and said: 'What do you have in the pockets of those fancy pants you're wearing?'

'I beg your pardon?'

'Wallet? Keys? Take them out.'

'Are you robbing me?'

'When I hang you off your balcony by your ankles, I don't want you to lose anything.'

Drake laughed, the Scotch jiggling in his glass, a golden whirlpool. 'I guess that's called a 'shakedown,' isn't it? But from what I hear, you can't afford any more dates in Criminal Court.'

'You're gonna give Irene back her money.'

'Oh, would that I could. The money's already gone to pay expenses in the administration of the estate.'

'Like room service at the Four Seasons?'

'As a matter of fact, my travel expenses are included. But the payoff to Irene will far exceed-'

'At dinner, you said there were no fees.'

'I'm afraid I wasn't totally forthcoming. But I was loath to discuss business on Irene's birthday, and my little deception seemed a good way to short-circuit the conversation.'

'You're good, Drake. You're what my father would call 'slick as owl shit.' '

Drake hoisted his glass. 'A toast to your father, then.'

'Did you know the bank foreclosed on Irene's condo?'

Drake's suntanned face froze momentarily. 'The hell you say.'

'She's too embarrassed to tell you. Just like you're too embarrassed to tell her you're a con man. There's no estate of Sir Francis Drake. You're just pulling a scam. I'm guessing that ritzy briefcase of yours holds a first-class ticket to wherever scumbags go when the Grand Jury starts issuing subpoenas.'

Drake stood, walked to the bar, and poured himself another Scotch. 'Foreclosure? I don't understand it. Irene led me to believe she had millions.'

'It's a role she plays.'

Drake gave a little rueful laugh. 'Seems I'm the one who's been conned.'

'One difference, Drake. Irene didn't steal your money.'

'I never intended to hurt her. She's very special to me.'

'I'll bet you say that to all the widows.'

'This is different.' He took a long pull on his drink. His crisp British accent seemed to have been replaced by flatter tones-Chicago, maybe-and his shoulders slumped. Losing some of his polish, Drake seemed uncomfortable and out of place, like Vice President Cheney in a Speedo.

Drake nodded toward the briefcase. 'The plane ticket's there, all right, Solomon. Rio de Janeiro. I'm usually gone by now. I stayed only because of Irene. The damn truth is, I'm in love with her.'

'Great. Invite me to the wedding. After you pay her back.'

'I wish I could. Truly. But the money's gone.'

Steve considered himself a human polygraph machine. Looking at Carl Drake at that moment, the man's mask slipping away, his brow furrowing, his voice choked with regret, the machine said the con artist was telling the truth. For some reason, that only made Steve angrier. 'Dammit, Drake. You say you love her, but you stole the roof from over her head.'

'Are you going to hang me off the balcony, then?'

'I would, but I sprained my wrist hitting a guy. I'd probably drop you.'

'Then what shall we do?'

'Let's have that drink,' Steve said. 'Bourbon will be just fine.'

Cabanas-tents of flowing white cotton-blossomed like sails in the breeze. At poolside, Steve and Drake sat in the shade of a sabal palm and sipped their drinks, a soft breeze scented with suntan oil wafting over them.

'You could still go to Rio,' Steve said. 'There's nothing I could do to stop you.'

'Too depressing,' Drake said. 'That's where Charles Ponzi went.'

'The Ponzi pyramid scheme?'