Kill All the Lawyers

'They're willing to settle, even with an intervening tortfeasor?'

'No one says 'intervening tortfeasor' as sexily as you. In fact, no one else says it at all.'

Something wasn't ringing true, she thought as they drove through the canyon of high-rises, home to Miami's cliff-dwelling lawyers and bankers. 'So what's the offer?'

'Nothing yet. But I'll have mucho dinero by noon.'

So unlike Biscayne Supermarkets, Victoria thought. They fought every slip and fall, no matter how long the banana peel had been rotting on the floor. And this case had even trickier liability problems. Harry Sachs, one of Steve's 'repeat customers,' as Cece called him, had used the supermarket's rest room and ended up stuck to the toilet seat, which had been coated with Krazy Glue by a prankster. Paramedics used a blowtorch to melt the glue, and the seat peeled off, along with a semicircle of Sachs' butt skin.

'I'm surprised you're getting any offer.'

'You know how persuasive I am, Vic. Rolly Ogletree will write me a check before lunch.'

Funny, Victoria thought. She'd seen Rolly at motion calendar last week and he'd talked about a fishing trip he had planned for this week. Costa Rica. But she kept quiet. Why would Steve lie about something like that?

He pulled the car to a stop in front of the State Trust Building, a high-rise at Calle Ocho and Brickell. 'Wish me luck.' He leaned over and kissed her. As he opened the car door, ready to hop out, she said: 'Where's your file?'

'You know me, Vic. I don't need no stinking files.'

'Uh-huh.'

'I keep everything right here,' he said, pointing to his head.

He was lying about the Sachs case, she decided. Lying about a conference with Rolly Ogletree. For someone who twisted the truth so often, he wasn't very good at it.

'Good luck, Steve.'

Victoria came around to the driver's side, taking her time, watching Steve bound up the steps of the State Trust Building. Sure, that was where Ogletree amp; Castillo, P.A., maintained its office, defending an array of tight- fisted insurance companies. But something was wrong. She pulled out into traffic heading toward the bridge that would take her downtown, and then across the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. But on impulse, she hung a right onto Brickell Key Drive and parked against the curb.

Okay, Victoria, what are you doing? Surveillance on your boyfriend?

It seemed ridiculous. But with Steve interrogating a naked woman-twice-then his ham-fisted lie just now, what was he up to? Then she saw him in the rearview mirror. Hurrying across Brickell, crossing to the west side of the street.

Superquick settlement conference, partner.

She watched as he turned north, heading toward the bridge. When he disappeared from sight, she got out of the car and doubled-timed it back to the intersection, a task not so simple in her velvet-toed pumps with the two- inch heels. She stayed on the east side of the street, keeping Steve in sight, staying half a block behind him. It only took a minute. Steve crossed the intersection at Seventh Street, and then ducked into the archway of one of the oldest buildings on Brickell.

The First Presbyterian Church.

Well, at least there wouldn't be a rendevous with a naked woman. But what was he doing there? Steve never even attended synagogue. Why the old church? She jaywalked, dodging traffic, and approached the sturdy building, a four-story Mediterranean Revival structure of stucco and keystone with a copper roof.

She entered through one of the archways, pausing before opening the heavy door to the sanctuary.

What if Steve sees me? How do I explain what I'm doing here? But then, what's he doing here?

She took a breath and walked inside, entering the cool darkness of the vestibule. The place smelled of old wood and wet stones. She took cautious steps, careful to make no sound. The light, a golden hue, filtered into the sanctuary through stained-glass windows. Simple oak pews, walls of bare plaster, a ceiling of acoustical tiles. A spare, clean Protestant look to the place.

Two elderly women sat in a back pew. Then she saw Steve. He sat in a pew at the aisle, one elbow propped on the side rail, his chin in his hand.

Thinking? Praying? Repenting?

At the very least, seeking solitude. Why couldn't he have told her? She had thought Steve lacked the capacity for quiet introspection. But maybe this was where he came for meditation and spiritual guidance. Not making a big deal out of it, just searching for peace in his own way. A flood of warm feelings swept over her. This was, after all, the man she loved. Surely she must have sensed this part of Steve's personality, even though he kept it hidden. She fought the urge to rush down the aisle and throw her arms around him.

No, he deserved this quiet time. She turned and left the sanctuary, wondering if perhaps a house with a yard might be perfectly fine for them after all.

Steve looked at his watch. He was on time, which meant that opposing counsel was late. It gave him time to think. Had Victoria seemed suspicious? God, how he hated to lie to her. Maybe that was why he'd told a half-truth. This was a settlement conference. But it had nothing to do with Harry Sachs and his sticky butt. This was far more personal. Steve had promised Irene Lord that he would get her out of a jam-save her condo from foreclosure-without Victoria ever knowing.

The legal task seemed impossible. Mortgage foreclosures had damn little wiggle room.

'Has the mortgagor paid the mortgagee?'

'No.'

'Judgment for mortgagee.'

Irene was five months in arrears, and the bank had demanded acceleration of the loan, meaning the entire balance-more than four hundred thousand dollars- was now due. No way Steve could allow the case to go to court.

He heard the clicking of leather heels on the tile, turned, and saw Harding Collins moving toward him. Tanned. Tall and trim, with a fine head of gray hair that had been expensively cut. A charcoal suit that shouted Brooks Brothers, and a white shirt with tasteful blue stripes. If Collins weren't a real bank lawyer, he could play one on TV.

'You must be Solomon.'

'Sit down, Collins.' Steve slid over to give the man room.

'Why on earth did you insist on meeting here?' Collins said.

'I like historic buildings. The wood in here came from the first Presbyterian church in Miami, the one where William Jennings Bryan taught Sunday school.'

'I'm very well aware of that.'

'Right. Because you're a deacon.'

'Not here, of course.' A hint of condescension. No, Harding Collins wouldn't attend what amounted to an inner-city church.

'I'm deacon at Riviera Presbyterian. On Sunset Drive.'

A Suburban Presbyterian.

Steve considered himself a City Jew, though he had so little faith, he doubted he was entitled to the title. Basically, he'd come up with his own concept of Unintelligent Design, his belief that if a divine entity created humankind, He (or, heaven help us, She) was either dim-witted or a sadist.

Not knowing much about Presbyterians, Steve had enlisted Bobby and Cece for research and investigation. Cece came up with some dirt on Collins, and Bobby announced that 'Presbyterian' could be rearranged to spell 'Best in Prayer.'

'My secretary caught a talk you gave at your church last week,' Steve said.

Collins smiled, softened a bit. 'Your secretary's a Presbyterian?'

'More like a parolee. But she liked your speech. Something about sympathy and service.'

'Gifts of the deacons. Next week, I'm speaking about redemption. Feel free to attend.'

'Actually, I play for another team.'

'All are welcome,' Collins said with a pinched ecumenical smile. 'Now, what can I do for you?'