Kill All the Lawyers

'First Dade Bank has sued to foreclose the condo of my client, Irene Lord. One of your junior associates filed the papers. Unfortunately, Irene's in a bit of financial trouble and could use a break.'

'I've heard all the sob stories, Solomon. The family breadwinner died. The kid's in the hospital. The roof blew off and there's no insurance.'

'Yeah, a bunch of whiners out there.'

'I represent the bank. My obligation is to the shareholders, not the poor slobs who take on too much debt.'

'What about practicing what you preach? Charity, sympathy, gifts of the deacons.'

'Religion is one thing, the practice of law is another. You, of all people, must know that.'

'Why me of all people?'

'I asked around about you, Solomon. You give sharks a bad name.'

'My rules are simple. I don't lie to opposing lawyers or stab them in the back. Head-on, I'll kick you in the cojones.'

'From where I sit, you're a low-rent lawyer with bargain-basement scruples.'

'Actually, I'm a no-rent lawyer, but I catch your meaning.'

'My answer's the same to you as to anyone else,' Collins continued. 'No negotiation. Pay up or hit the pavement.' His tone had changed. From principled humanitarian to icy defense lawyer in the blink of a time sheet. 'So, unless you have a legal defense to the foreclosure…'

'Now that you mention it, there's a problem with the papers the bank had Irene sign,' Steve said. 'The disclosures about the adjustable rates aren't in boldface. Violates the Banking Act.'

'Nice try, Solomon. But every borrower initials the rates clause. That proves actual notice that the rates may go up. And just so you know, we've been hit with lots of consumer lawsuits. I haven't lost one yet, and frankly, I was up against lawyers a helluva lot better than you.'

'Different,' Steve said.

'I beg your pardon?'

'You were up against lawyers different than me. Not better.'

Collins laughed as heartily as a poker player who filled an inside straight on the river. 'If that's your best shot, I really have to be going-'

'Got one more. I sent my secretary over to the Justice Building the other day. You've had seven parking tickets in the last year.'

'I've also jaywalked quite a few times and I might have failed to put out the garbage cans on pickup day.' Collins got to his feet.

'Three of the tickets were issued within one block of the Shangri-La Motel on Seventy-ninth Street. You know the neighborhood, Collins? The one the cops call 'Hooker Heaven.' As for the motel, it's what, thirty bucks for thirty minutes?'

Collins sank back into the pew. He shot looks left and right, as if the saints might be eavesdropping.

'Can't blame you for not parking that Mercedes convertible in the motel lot,' Steve continued. 'But you ought to feed the meters.'

'What is it you want, Solomon?' His voice still in even-keeled lawyerly mode.

'The bank gives my client a grace period of eighteen months. Stay all principal and interest during that time. Then she'll resume payments without penalty.'

'And if I don't agree?'

Cool and aloof, as if representing someone else. But then, didn't they call Presbyterians the 'frozen chosen'?

'Maybe you didn't notice, but the Shangri-La Motel has that camera above the front desk,' Steve said. 'When you pay for the room, they take excellent digital video. A two-shot of the guy paying and whatever debutante is standing next to him.'

Collins' suntan seemed to fade one shade. 'You son of a bitch. It's sleazy bastards like you who give the profession a bad name.'

'And I suppose foreclosing mortgages is doing God's work?'

'Bastard,' Collins repeated.

'Maybe you'd like one of those videos for your talk about redemption.'

Collins stayed quiet for a long moment. No more curses. The savvy lawyer seemed to be tallying up the odds. One measly condo mortgage against his life getting sucked down the drain.

I would never, ever follow through on the threat, but you don't know that, do you, Collins?

The bank lawyer barely registered a blip on Steve's personal chart of bad guys. Sure, Collins was a hypocrite. But that ranked pretty far down on Steve's sliding scale of sins. Collins' church work seemed real, and apparently was deeply felt. Maybe his way of repenting for his personal flaws.

So who am I to judge this man?

Florida Bar. Chamber of Commerce. Presbyterian church. Wife and kids and a house in Snapper Creek. In earlier times, Steve thought, Collins would have been called a pillar of the community. Steve wouldn't turn the pillar to salt; the guy simply didn't deserve it.

But I will bluff him till the hookers come home. C'mon, Collins. I'm not robbing the bank. I'm just asking for time.

Collins let out a soft hiss. 'It will take a day or so to draw up the papers,' he said. Then without a 'Good day' or 'Screw you,' Collins shot one look toward the altar, stood, and walked out.

Steve sat alone, watching dust motes float in the light of the stained-glass windows. He was not particularly pleased with himself. Though it was cool in the sanctuary, he felt his shirt sticking to the pew. He wanted to splash cold water on his face.

Years ago, he had asked his father what the profession was all about.

'Lawyerin's like playing poker with ideas,' Herbert Solomon had drawled.

It sounded both romantic and exciting. Like telling a kid that being a cowboy was about riding horses, leaving out all the shit-shoveling. Lawyering, Steve concluded, was more demolition derby than Texas Hold 'Em, and there was at least as much shitshoveling as at the rodeo.

Thirty-Three

FEELINGS …WHOA… OH …OH…FEELINGS

Victoria sipped her Chardonnay and began crumbling blue cheese for the salad. Then she stopped. Steve liked grated Parmesan. She would go with that. But first, she checked the oven. The sweet potatoes-Steve's favorite- were coming along nicely, emitting a syrupy aroma.

This should be his night, she thought. A special night. No arguments, not even a debate over whether figure skating qualifies as a sport. Earlier today, Steve had said he wanted to talk. Not about work. Not about the Dolphins. But about them.

'I want to open up, talk about my feelings.'

Yep, he used the dreaded 'f' word, the two-syllable one. And this just one day after she spied him sitting in church. A quiet, contemplative Steve. Meditating or praying. Or maybe just thinking about their relationship. So rare in men these days.

She sensed a turning point. And just in time. Everything had become so strained between them.

Maybe it was her fault. Steve had been under so much pressure with Kreeger creeping back into his life. Then there were the two assault-and-battery charges.

And Janice, lurking in the background, threatening to file a custody action.

'You should be more understanding and less demanding, dear.'

Amazingly, that's what her mother told her last night. She and The Queen had had dinner at Norman's in the Gables, and over mango-glazed snapper and a bottle of Zinfandel, her mother had expressed warm-and-cuddly