The Deep Blue Alibi

speargun.'

'Holy shit.'

'Can you believe it? Junior Griffin was right from day one. Stubbs pretty much shot himself and Hal Griffin fell down the ladder trying to go up and call for help.'

'What about that magnetic slate? You write that confession?'

'No, I didn't lie about that. Fowles signed the slate because he accepted moral responsibility for the death. I took that as permission to say he shot Stubbs.'

'A helluva rationalization. Welcome to the club, son.'

'The liars' club?'

'The ends-justify-the-means club.'

'Like you and Pinky?'

'Like a lot of people, son. It's not all black and white. There are a thousand shades of gray.'

'So I guess I owe you an apology.'

'For what? Lying in court? Or busting my balls?'

'Both.'

'Forget it. It's over.'

'You're letting me off that easy? Don't you want to hit me with at least one I-told-you-so?'

'Hell, no. Ah want you to finish your drink, then fix mah damn satellite dish.'

Fifty-four

GO HENCE WITHOUT DAY

Victoria's heart was beating at a staccato pace, and she could feel her face heating up. Hal Griffin squeezed her hand so hard, she heard her knuckles crack.

As the clerk prepared to read the verdict, Victoria feared she wouldn't hear the words above the kerthumping in her chest.

'We, the jury, find the defendant Harold Griffin not guilty on the charge of murder in the second degree.'

Yes! I did it. Okay, Steve helped. But I did it. A murder trial.

Griffin let out a long, whistling breath.

Waddle asked that the jurors be polled, and each affirmed the verdict, good and true. Judge Feathers thanked them for their service and told Griffin he was free to 'go hence without day.' Waddle gave Victoria a tight little 'Congratulations' and said he'd be convening the Grand Jury to consider murder charges against Leicester Robinson. Sheriff Rask winked at her and gave two thumbs-up.

Minutes later, on the courthouse lawn, she was surrounded by reporters, courthouse regulars, even a few curious tourists. She answered questions and posed for photos. An enormous bearded man in flowered shorts shoved a microphone in her face. Billy Wahoo, radio host, who now claimed he'd told his listeners Griffin was innocent and Victoria would prove it.

She broke away from the reporters, and Griffin hugged her once, twice, three times, then hurried off. The Queen was waiting at the airport, the Gulfstream's engines were already warming up. They'd planned a little celebration. Just the two of them, his place in Costa Rica.

Junior picked Victoria up and twirled her around, a Ferragamo pump flying off. He retrieved it from under the kapok tree, then knelt at her feet. Prince Charming to her Cinderella. She put a hand on his shoulder for balance and slipped her foot back into the shoe.

You're sweet, dear hunkalicious Junior, but you're not my prince.

Then she saw Steve across the street, standing in the doorway of the Green Parrot, a beer in his hand. Violating the open container law, a misdemeanant in nylon running shorts and T-shirt. She motioned Steve to come over, join the fun, but he shook his head. A moment later, she headed his way.

They walked along Duval Street, Victoria bouncing on her toes, swinging her purse.

Steve knew the feeling. Not so much joy as a lightness in being. First, the crushing weight is lifted, that uber-gravity of responsibility a lawyer bears when defending a client charged with murder. Then a sense of personal redemption: The state with all its money and all its minions condemned your client, branded him a murderer, and you're the tough guy who stood in the alley, arms crossed, saying, 'You'll have to go through me, first.'

But no chest-thumping, no triumphant exultation. More a vicarious pleasure for this living, breathing person who depends on you the way a patient depends on a surgeon.

'I wish you'd heard my closing.' Victoria's cheeks were still flushed with excitement.

'Willis said you were riveting. And ravishing.'

'I came up with a theme and drilled it into the jurors, just like you taught me.'

'The 'extra step.' Willis told me.'

Victoria's voice fell into its courtroom cadence. 'In most cases, the defense is content to show there's reasonable doubt as to guilt. But here, we took the extra step. We've proved not just that Harold Griffin is innocent. We've proved who is guilty. Clive Fowles murdered Ben Stubbs.'

Steve chose not to disagree. It was, after all, his story.

'I kept drilling it in,' Victoria continued. 'We took this extra step. We took that extra step. Then I asked the jurors: 'So what did the state do? The state charged the most convenient person, the other man on the boat. The state skipped a step. They skipped over the real killer and hauled the wrong man into court.' '

'Nicely phrased. Easy to remember. What'd you say about Robinson?'

' 'Leicester Robinson is a man of great intellect and ability. But utterly amoral and totally corrupt. Like rotten mackerel by moonlight, he shines and stinks at the same time.' '

'Cute. But didn't I use that once?'

'Twice. But I changed snapper to mackerel for the alliteration.'

'Nice work all around. Great job.'

She beamed at him then skipped a step of her own. If her mood were any more airy, Steve thought, she'd be floating. They passed an ice-cream parlor, the aroma of hot waffle cones wafting onto the sidewalk. Next, he knew from personal experience, would come her hunger pangs.

'I'm famished,' Victoria said. 'Want to grab lunch?'

Aha. Right on cue.

'I can always eat, Vic. You know that.'

The cafes were jammed with the cruise-ship passengers, unleashed on the town for five hours before the horns blew and they rushed back to the harbor like rats heeding the pied piper.

'What about here, Steve? Your pal's place. We'll get that barbecued tuna you like so much.'

Sure enough, they were in front of the Margaritaville Cafe, one of Jimmy Buffett's restaurants. The place was packed, with a line of starving patrons snaking out the door. Most had that pudgy, sunburned, tropical shirt right- off-the-hanger Midwestern look. Steve and Victoria moved to the end of the line.

'And how about some shrimp with andouille sauce?' she continued.

'Absolutely.'

'But let's start with chowder with conch fritters and smoked fish spread.'

'Anything you want. I'm buying.'

'In that case, a couple of rum runners. And key lime pie for dessert.'

More than she usually eats in a week.

He had planned to wait until she was on her second rum runner, but as they reached the end of the line, he just blurted it out: 'Should we talk, Vic? About the future.'

'Yes. I've wanted to.'