The Deep Blue Alibi

as he offered to buy them new shoes. After Jones two-putted for a par and the sheriff gave himself a five despite at least nine strokes, not including penalties, Steve sat at the bar in the Nineteenth Hole with the chief clerk.

'Your father was a mentor to me,' Jones declared.

'He was always terrific with other people's kids,' Steve conceded.

They drank beer and munched burgers. Steve was paying for lunch, too. He was happy he didn't have to pick up their greens fees.

'I was going to community college part-time when I started clerking for your father. The judge talked me into getting my bachelor's then helped me get a scholarship at FIU for my master's. Government administration. All the while telling me I could be whatever I wanted if I applied myself.'

'Funny, he used to tell me I'd never be half the lawyer he was.'

Jones chuckled. 'Half of Herb Solomon is still a helluva lawyer.'

When they'd run out of small talk, Steve said: 'I need to know what my father was involved in when Pinky Luber ran Capital Crimes.'

'Judge Solomon was involved in the pursuit of justice.'

'Aren't we all?'

'All I'll say is this: You keep this up about Herb's Bar license, you're gonna open a can of worms. Just let it go.'

'Not until I know what's in that can.'

Jones sipped at his beer, glanced out the window to where other golfers were finishing up. 'You remember the early eighties, after the Mariel boatlift?'

'I was still a kid. But I remember the Pacino movie Scarface.'

'Well, that wasn't far off. Cocaine cowboys. Shantytown under the expressway filled with Castro's mental patients and criminals. Machine-gun shootouts at the Dadeland Mall. Highest murder rate in the country. Tourism down, businesses leaving.'

'What's that have to do with my old man?'

'Herb was chief judge of the criminal division. He decided to do something about it.'

'What could he do that he wasn't already doing? Maximum Herb was always tough.'

'Before you can sentence them, you've got to convict them.'

'Meaning what? A judge has to be impartial.'

'If you examine your father's rulings, you'll find he was. The appellate courts must have thought so, too. Lowest reversal rate in the Eleventh Circuit.'

'What aren't you telling me? What the hell do you mean my father decided to do something about all the crime?'

Jones slid his plate away. 'The judge always had a pure heart. And cleaner hands than most.'

'You're talking in riddles, Mr. Jones.'

'And one more thing. Your father loves and respects you.'

'So I'm told.' By everybody except him.

SOLOMON'S LAWS

10. Choose a juror the way you choose a lover. Someone who doesn't expect perfection and forgives your bullshit.

Thirty-seven

WINNING STREAK

'You win cases in voir dire.'

Steve had told Victoria that when they tried their first case together, defending Katrina Barksdale in a murder trial.

'Lawyers think they win with closing argument. Wow the jury with their oratory. But it's too late then. Jury selection's the most important part of the trial. Not opening statement. Not cross of the state's chief witness. And not closing argument. Voir dire! Pick right, win. Pick wrong, lose.'

One of his many lectures. He could be so irritating when pontificating. But he was usually right. Which was even more irritating. Ever since she'd left the State Attorney's Office, Victoria had picked juries with Steve at her side. Now, on a rainy Key West day, she was standing alone. Okay, not quite alone. Her mother was perched like a snowy egret in the first row of the gallery. Virginal white the predominant color of her outfit. The Queen apparently trying to send subliminal messages of purity and innocence to the prospective jurors. A Max Mara skirt with a white jasmine floral design and an asymmetric hem, a white linen jacket with a tie front, and gunmetal sandals. The suede bag with lizard trim picked up the gunmetal color and provided what she called the 'accento.'

The Queen passed the time scribbling her observations about each potential juror, then handed the fine linen stationery to the bailiff, who slipped the pages to Victoria. Her helpful hints were confined to criticizing skirts that were too short, shoes that were out-of-date, and the mortal sin of carrying a knockoff faux-leather Prada handbag.

Hal Griffin sat at the defense table, trying to smile at each potential juror without appearing obsequious. His son slouched in the single row of chairs in front of the bar that separated the well from the gallery. Junior had warned Victoria that he was likely to fidget, as he was unaccustomed to being cooped up indoors. Would she mind if he dropped to the floor for eighty push-ups in the middle of voir dire? Yes, she would. Not wanting the defendant's son to be seen squirming in his chair, she advised Junior to run up and down the staircase to the ground floor if he started feeling antsy.

He'd passed her a note, too. Asking her out to dinner. She'd shaken her head and pointed at her briefcase. 'Work to do.' Junior had given her a sad smile, as if she'd broken his little heart.

Does he have any idea of the pressure of defending a murder trial?

With his father in the dock, shouldn't Junior be a little more understanding?

Now, she was annoyed with both Steve and Junior. Maybe with all men.

Reporters packed the first two rows of the gallery. Off to one side, the pool TV camera and a single newspaper photographer, all that was permitted under the rules of court. They would share their video and photographs with all the others.

Victoria forced herself to listen as Richard Waddle, the Monroe County State Attorney, made his introductory remarks to the jury panel. Nicknamed 'Dickwad' by defense lawyers, the prosecutor was a jowly man whose pencil mustache combined with seersucker suits gave him a 1940's look.

'The jury is the cornerstone of justice, the bedrock of freedom,' Waddle intoned. 'Samuel Adams called the jury the 'heart and lungs of liberty.' '

Actually, it was John Adams, Victoria knew. His cousin, Samuel, was the patriot who ignited the Boston Tea Party, probably so people would drink his beer.

Waddle strolled alongside the jury box, pausing at each occupied chair like a train conductor punching tickets. 'And when old Ben Franklin wrote the Declaration of Independence. .'

Thomas Jefferson, Dickwad.

'He guaranteed us the right to trial by jury.'

Actually, that's in the Constitution. But close enough for government work.

When did she become so sarcastic? Victoria wondered. Easy answer.

When I hooked up with Steve.

'The jury is what separates us from the uncivilized world,' Waddle prattled on.

And I thought it was pay-per-view wrestling.

Yep. Definitely Steve's influence.

'Without you good folks coming on down here, we'd have no justice system. So, on behalf of the state, I say