The Deep Blue Alibi

Paramedic to doctor. One small step for a man. One giant leap for a lawyer.

With wide-open physicians' locker rooms, hospitals were among the easiest venues to crack. Scrubs, lab coats, stethoscopes. Samples of the newest amphetamines, if you're into that sort of thing.

At the moment, Steve wore rubber-soled white shoes, scrub pants, and a lab coat with a name tag reading, 'G. Koenigsberg, MD.'

Spotting a cop standing outside a closed door, Steve headed that way. 'Officer, how's our patient doing?'

'Damned if I know,' the deputy answered. Another young one with hair shaved close enough to show scalp through the buzz cut. 'Your people won't let us in.'

'I'll check and see if he's up to talking.'

Steve entered the room, closing the door behind him. An oxygen clip in his nose, Ben Stubbs lay on his back. A snarl of tubes and wires sprouted from him. He was a small man with a narrow face and sunken cheeks, his skin the unhealthy gray of an amberjack. His chest was thick with white bandages, and a bedside machine beeped in sync with his heartbeat.

'And how are we feeling today, Mr. Stubbs?'

Stubbs' eyes were open but unfocused. He seemed to be in a twilight state of semi-consciousness.

'We'll have you waterskiing in no time. Unless you never skied before. Then it might take a little longer.'

Still no reaction.

Steve moved closer to the bed. 'Mr. Stubbs, can you remember what happened?'

The man's pale eyes blinked and he moved his head slightly.

'Who did this to you?'

Stubbs' lips moved. No words came out. Slowly, he raised his right hand a few inches above the bedsheets. Shakily, he held up two fingers, like a scalper selling a pair of Dolphins' tickets. A very weak scalper.

'Two? What are you saying? Two men did this to you?'

Stubbs' hand fell back to the bed, and the door flew open. A middle-aged man in a suit and tie stormed into the room, two uniformed deputies at his heels. 'Just who the hell are you?' the man demanded.

'You first,' Steve shot back.

'Dr. Gary Koenigsberg. Head of trauma.'

'Marcus Welby. Internal Security. Florida Department of Medicine. As a matter of professional courtesy, I'll just write up a warning today.'

'Warning? What the hell are you talking about?'

Steve unclipped the name tag and tossed it to the doctor. 'You've got some real security problems here, Koenigsberg.'

SOLOMON'S LAWS

2. Always assume your client is guilty. It saves time.

Four

PRESUMPTION OF GUILT

'You're impossible,' Victoria fumed. 'What would

you have done if a patient really needed a doctor?'

'Surgery,' Steve suggested.

'I leave you alone five minutes, and you get arrested.'

'I wasn't arrested. More like escorted out.'

'It's humiliating being your partner. Can you see why I need to be on my own?'

'Loosen up, Vic. I got some information from Stubbs.'

'He talked?'

'Not exactly. But I think two guys might have attacked him.'

Steve told her about Stubbs raising two fingers, but she seemed unimpressed with his sleuthing. 'It could mean anything,' Victoria said. 'Or nothing.'

It was just after nine on a muggy night, and they were back in the old Caddy headed north on U.S. 1. Well, the sign said, North. Steve knew they were on a portion of Useless 1 that ran due east. The Keys were a scimitar-shaped archipelago running northeast to southwest, from Miami to Key West. Though Key West was a coastal city, if you drew a line due north from Sloppy Joe's Bar on Duval Street, you'd actually end up west of Cleveland. The curving coastline created the geographic oddity, like Reno, Nevada, being farther west than Los Angeles.

Victoria was silent a few moments. Always an ominous sign.

Preferring to take his whipping in one dose, Steve asked: 'You're not still pissed about the hospital, are you?'

'I didn't care for the way you spoke to Uncle Grif.'

'C'mon, he loved it.'

'It's like you assume he's guilty.'

'I always assume clients are guilty. Most of them are, so it saves time.'

'Uncle Grif would never kill anyone.'

'How would you know? You haven't seen the guy since you were a teenybopper, making out with what'shis- name at the country club.'

'Junior. And you're right. He taught me to French kiss.'

'Remind me to thank him. My point is, our perceptions of people are skewed by our own circumstances.'

'No kidding? Look who took Psych 101.'

'You remember Griffin as someone who gave you great birthday presents. I see him as one tough customer.'

'Maybe he's a little rough around the edges, but underneath, he's a sweetheart.'

'All of us are capable of murder. Even you, Princess.'

'Don't call me 'Princess.' '

'Why not? Sweet old Uncle Grif does.'

'He doesn't make it sound like an accusation.'

Traffic was light as they crossed the bridge at Boca Chica. Overhead, two jet fighters banked in formation, practicing night landings at the Naval Air Station. Steve hit the gas and passed a Winnebago, giving the tourists a look at the Eldo's license plate, i-object. The car's top was down, the air rich with the salty aroma from the tidal pools. In a few minutes they would be at Herbert Solomon's houseboat, where they would spend the night. Steve was already tensing up at the prospect of seeing his father, and here's Victoria busting his chops.

He looked over at her. 'I do something wrong?'

'I hate it when you lecture me.'

'All I said-'

'The self-anointed senior partner dispensing wisdom. 'All of us are capable of murder.' Of all the fatuous cliches. .'

'Sorry. Only original thoughts from now on.'

'I really care for you, Steve. You know that?'

'Why do I think there's a 'but' coming?'

'But you're overbearing and arrogant and egotistical. . '

He decided to wait it out.

'And your T-shirt is ridiculous.'