The Deep Blue Alibi

'Who owns that corporation?'

'The sole shareholder is the defendant, Harold Griffin.'

Slam, bam, thank you, Detective.

Sitting next to Victoria, a silent Hal Griffin was not looking chipper. A little gray in his usually ruddy cheeks. He'd told Victoria he wasn't sleeping well.

Welcome to the club, Uncle Grif.

Delia Bustamante swiveled into court wearing an ankle-length, espresso-colored peasant dress that would have been demure had she not left the drawstring untied at the neck. The curvaceous cook and activist jiggled to the witness stand, and when she raised her right hand to take the oath, her right boob peeked out of the tiered dress top. After some preliminaries, Waddle asked whether Griffin had offered her a job, and the answer lifted Victoria out of her chair.

'Mr. Griffin tried to buy me off to shut me up about Oceania.'

'Objection, and move to strike! Ms. Bustamante cannot testify as to my client's intentions.'

'Sustained. The jurors will disregard the witness' last statement. Ms. Bustamante, just tell us what the defendant did and what you did.'

'Okay, Judge. He offered me more money than even I thought I was worth. But I wouldn't take a cent from that man.'

Leicester Robinson, the well-read barge operator, testified he saw Griffin and Stubbs arguing. Watching through the salon window, Robinson couldn't hear what was said, but claimed he could tell from the animated gestures that both men were angry.

And yes, Griffin shoved Stubbs. Victoria cross-examined.

'What you're calling a shove was really just a finger to the chest, correct?'

'Stubbs took a step back. I call that a shove.'

'But there was no striking, no blow with the fist, isn't that right?'

'Where I come from, you don't raise your hand to another man unless you can back it up. Unless you can go all the way. But then, maybe your client did go all the way.'

'Your Honor, I move to strike the unresponsive answer.'

Clive Fowles testified that Griffin instructed him to place a waterproof bag filled with cash-he didn't know how much-in a lobster trap near Black Turtle Key the day before Stubbs was shot. Usually all business, Richard Waddle had some fun with Fowles.

'Were lobsters in season, Mr. Fowles?'

'No, sir. It's only a two-day season in July.'

'So, among other things, your boss is a poacher, a lobster mobster?'

'Objection. Argumentative.'

'Sustained.'

'All that cash is pretty unusual lobster bait, isn't it, Mr. Fowles?'

'I suppose.'

'Mr. Griffin tell you what the money was for?'

'No, sir.'

'But you figured it was for Ben Stubbs, didn't you?'

'Objection. Calls for a conclusion.'

'Overruled.'

'I thought the money might be for him, sir.'

'So, even though lobsters aren't in season, public officials are?'

Waddle tried to get Fowles to corroborate Robinson's version of the argument between Griffin and Stubbs, but the boat captain had developed a case of witness blindness, aka three-monkey disease. He heard no evil, saw no evil, spoke no evil.

'Come now, Mr. Fowles, are you telling the jury you didn't observe the exchange of words between the two men?'

'I have a habit of tending to my own business.'

'You like Mr. Griffin, don't you?'

'He's a good man.'

'A good man who signs your paychecks, correct?'

Okay, point made, Victoria thought. Fowles was being loyal to his boss, and the jury would see that.

All three witnesses agreed that the others had gone ashore before the boat left the dock. Standing on the dock, Leicester Robinson and Delia Bustamante watched Junior dive off the bridge and swim away.

The lunch recess was just minutes away when Victoria spotted Steve in the gallery, sitting next to Sheriff Rask. She hadn't known Steve was coming. No calls, he just showed up.

After the judge called the noon recess and Griffin hurried to the outside patio to sneak a smoke, Steve sauntered up to the defense table. 'Hey, Vic. How's it going?'

She shrugged. 'You know how it is. Some moments are better than others.'

'Getting crucified, huh?'

'I see you're making nice with the opposition.'

'Willis keeps me updated on Conchy Conklin.'

'They find him yet?'

'He's disappeared. But if he's still in the Keys, they'll get him. There's only a finite number of bars.'

'A large, finite number.'

'How 'bout lunch?'

'Oh, I'm meeting Junior.'

'Ah.'

'I need to prep him.'

'Can never prep enough. Especially dim witnesses.'

Too tired to fight, she let it go. 'Have you been working on your father's case?'

'Don't want to talk about it.' Like a proper gentleman, Steve grabbed her briefcase and walked her out of the courtroom. 'How's your mom?'

'Don't want to talk about her.'

Not now, she thought. Later, when the trial was over, she'd tell Steve about her mother's latest dramatics. Her father's suicide note and the mystery around it.

Father's alleged suicide note. Wondering if she could believe anything her mother told her.

They rode the elevator in silence. In the lobby, Steve seemed to want to hand over her briefcase but didn't know quite when and how to do it. It was like a lousy first date that neither party knew how to end. They left the building, and as they passed the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn, Steve said: 'Look, this is ridiculous. If you need any help. .'

She stopped in the shade of the tree, which bloomed with red flowers.

Sure I need help. With the case. With my mother. With my life.

'Thanks, Steve. I. .'

'Excuse me, mate.' Fowles approached, looking a little bashful at the interruption. 'Ms. Lord.'

'You've been excused, Mr. Fowles,' Victoria said. 'If you want to go home, you can.'

'Oh, I know that. I just. .' He was fumbling with his hands as if he didn't know quite where they belonged. 'How's it going, do you think?'

'Too early to tell. But you did fine. Really.'

'I hope it turns out okay. For Mr. G, I mean. No way he would have killed that arse-wipe.'

'Now, there's a closing argument if ever I heard one,' Steve said.

'Good luck, then.' Fowles raised his right hand, two fingers spread, in his Winston Churchill mode. 'V for Victory, Ms. Lord.'

'Thank you, Clive.'

Fowles seemed to have run out of things to say. 'Think I'll go have a pint.'