The Deep Blue Alibi

'Bor-ing,' Bobby sang out.

'And what's with that note I got from your social studies teacher? Two demerits for insubordination?'

'All I did was ask: 'If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?' '

'Nobody likes a smart-ass, kiddo.'

'Re-al-ly?' Bobby and Victoria shot back in unison.

One hand on the wheel, Steve grumbled something to himself, stewing over Bobby, or Junior, or even her, Victoria figured. As the tires hummed along the roadway, she thought about the man sitting next to her. Her feelings for Steve were so scrambled. They seldom talked about their relationship, never really defined it. They had drifted into monogamy with no plan for the future.

Where are we headed?

Marriage? Steve never brought it up. He had suggested living together, but she thought that had more to do with cutting driving time than a blossoming commitment. They had gotten together while defending Katrina Barksdale on a charge she killed her husband during kinky sex. At the time, Victoria was engaged to Bruce Bigby, avocado grower and grown-up Boy Scout. She had laughed off Steve's flirtations, rebuffed his advances. In truth, she hadn't much liked him. A shark in the courtroom, a wise guy everywhere else. The idea of getting together with him had seemed preposterous.

But something had happened. Steve burned with a joyous fire. He would burst through the courtroom door like a rodeo rider coming out of the chute. Combat juiced him; injustice angered him. Once he believed in his client, he would do anything to win. Sometimes he crossed the line of acceptable behavior, often even erasing it.

'If the law doesn't work, work the law.'

At first, Solomon's Laws offended her. And even now Steve's tactics could shock her sense of gentility. But he was right about so many things. You didn't win cases by sticking to the rules carved in the marble pediments. You didn't win by citing precedent. 'Your Honor, referring to the venerable case of Boring versus Snoring. .'

You won by finding your opponent's soft spot and attacking. You won with showmanship and flair and, whenever possible, the truth. A trial lawyer is a warrior, a knight in rusty armor, who would often be bloodied but would never surrender. Steve taught her to conquer her fears.

Don't be afraid to lose.

Don't be afraid to look ridiculous.

Don't be afraid to steal home.

He sometimes won impossible cases. When a burglarious client was caught with his fingers lodged in the cash slot of an ATM machine, Steve not only beat the criminal charge, he successfully sued the bank for the man's mashed knuckles.

Steve had style. Prowling the well of the courtroom like a shark in the ocean, woe unto the fatter, slower fish. Where she was tense in trial and could even feel herself trembling during moments of stress, Steve was totally comfortable. It seemed he didn't just own the courtroom, he leased it out to the judge, the prosecutor, the jurors.

Not that the attraction was all intellectual. Steve was undeniably, if unconventionally, sexy. A thatch of dark hair a bit too long. Eyes a deep liquid brown, brightening with mischief. A sly smile, as if he were playing some joke on the world. A bad boy, a sleek male animal with an almost feral look. And an infectious enthusiasm. He had seemed so exciting compared to Bruce Bigby, the South Dade Avocado Growers Man of the Year.

Then there was the night it had snowed in Miami. Victoria and Steve had gone to Bruce's avocado grove to help the workers protect the trees from the frost. Smudge pots curled black smoke into the air; Christmas lights warmed the avocado trees; Benny More's love songs played with a bolero beat. It was a wholly surreal and bizarre night, which still did not explain what had happened.

I made love to Steve Solomon in a chickee hut …on Bruce's farm. Wearing Bruce's engagement ring! What a slut!

She had lived a life of rigid propriety, had never even cheated on a boyfriend, much less her fiance. But what a red-hot connection, her feelings crackling with electricity. Of course, the relationship couldn't sustain the heat of those first encounters. Every affaire d'amour has its peaks and valleys, she reminded herself.

And ditches and gulleys and sinkholes and deep, deep canyons.

She asked herself: When would she feel that sizzle with Steve again?

When it snows again in Miami?

Then, an even more depressing thought: Had her first impression of Steve been correct? That he was just wrong for her. That any relationship with him would be a ludicrous mistake. From the start Victoria knew she shared little in common with Steve. She was country club, Chardonnay, and pate. He was tavern, burgers, and beer. She had book smarts, winning awards, making law review. He had street smarts, passing the Bar after three tries. Maybe their different backgrounds and talents combined to make them better lawyers and more complete people. That was Steve's pitch, anyway. And true enough, they had a magnificent synergy, as long as they didn't exhaust each other sparring on the way to the courthouse.

Complicating her analysis, enter Junior Griffin, swimming back into her life. Whatever she now felt for Junior was surely wrapped in the mists of nostalgia, a dangerous and misleading emotion. She vowed to keep the relationship with Junior strictly professional. She hadn't kissed another man since that first night with Steve, and she wasn't about to now. She would get through this case, then reevaluate everything. Her professional life. Her personal life. Hell, even her hairstyle.

She shot a look at Steve. He was on the cell phone with Cece Santiago, their assistant. Setting up a deposition in his father's Florida Bar lawsuit. So typical. Plunging ahead even though his father had ordered him to drop the case. Not listening, always thinking he knew more than anyone else.

She glanced out the windshield and said: 'You missed the turn.'

He clicked off the phone. 'I'm taking Card Sound Road.'

'It's longer that way,' Bobby piped up from the backseat.

'Few minutes, is all.'

'So why go that way?' Victoria asked.

'I want to stop at Alabama Jack's. Stretch my legs. Get a brewski.'

Brewski, she thought. Like some college frat boy.

'You didn't even ask me,' she scolded.

'You don't like beer.'

He was either playing dumb or was truly clueless, she thought. 'You just plowed ahead. Unilaterally changed the itinerary.'

'What's the big deal? We're not visiting the great museums of Europe. We're driving home from the Keys.'

'Just typical you,' she said.

'Hold on, Vic. Listen to this.' He turned up the volume. On the radio, a local talk-show host named Billy Wahoo was interviewing Willis Rask.

'Sheriff, what can you tell us about the homicide investigation of that fellow from Washington?'

'Unless you're on the Grand Jury, Billy, that's none of your beeswax.'

'C'mon now, Sheriff. You can tell our listeners if that multimillionaire Harold Griffin is an interesting person.'

'You mean a person of interest, Billy?'

'Whatever.'

'Gotta go now. Couple deer stuck in traffic on the Seven Mile Bridge.'

'That was enlightening.' Steve punched a button on the radio, searching through the stations. 'Now, where were we? What were you busting my chops about?'

'Nothing.'

'I remember. You're upset because we're stopping for a beer. Or because I didn't ask if you wanted to stop. One of the two.'

'I'm not upset.' Thinking it wasn't the beer.