“It broke a rearview mirror in the parking lot,” Bobby said.
“Hard and true, right on line to the catcher. A bit high, maybe…”
“You’re just trying to make me feel better.”
“The mint chocolate chip is supposed to make you feel better, kiddo. I’m here to tell you the truth. You have what they call a long arm.”
Uncle and nephew were sitting at a table outside Whip ’N Dip on Sunset Drive. Bobby had barely touched his ice cream. Steve had already polished off a cone of peanut butter swirl. And sure, he was trying to cheer up the boy. But Steve meant what he’d said. The velocity of the throw had been astonishing. The skinny kid had a rubber arm.
“You should be pitching.”
“Coach Kreindler will never let me.”
“I’m gonna work with you on your control, teach you a few pitches. Then we’ll show Kreindler what you’ve got.”
“When will you have time? You’ve got that stupid trial.”
Another sore point. Bobby desperately missed Spunky and Misty. And he was still pissed about Steve defending Gerald Nash.
“Everyone’s entitled to a defense, kiddo, even wackos like Nash.”
“He’s not charged for his beliefs. He’s not even charged with releasing the dolphins. He’s charged with getting a guy killed.”
Spoken like a true prosecutor, Steve thought.
“You care more about that bird turd than you do about Misty and Spunky,” Bobby fumed.
“Not true. But there’s nothing I can do about your pals.”
“You could have rented a boat and looked for them.”
“We’ve been through that, Bobby. Where would we look? The ocean’s too damn big.”
Bobby knew his uncle was right, but he was too upset to let up. “Your client’s full of shit, you know.”
“Meaning what?”
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“C’mon, kiddo. Why’s Gerald Nash full of shit?”
“I’m taking the Fifth.”
Steve had learned a long time ago that a trial lawyer, especially a solo practitioner, needed help. Take the Courthouse Gang, for example. Most lawyers ignored the retirees who hung around the Justice Building, wandering from courtroom to courtroom, seeking free entertainment. Hell, most lawyers never even
In his first year practicing law, Steve made friends with Marvin (The Maven) Mendelsohn, Teresa Torano, and Cadillac Johnson. All over seventy, and all had seen hundreds of trials. Together, the three were great at sizing up people, figuring out when they’re lying. Maybe it takes a long life to develop those instincts. Whatever the reason, Steve relied on the Gang for picking juries. He couldn’t afford a high-priced jury consultant, or even a low-priced one, for that matter. He could, however, buy The Maven a Reuben with extra Russian dressing, the standard fee for courtroom advice.
Bobby added something else to Steve’s team. The kid knew everything. Okay, that was an overstatement. But thanks to his echolalia and eidetic imaging, he remembered virtually everything he’d ever seen or heard. It was a gift, one of the quirks of his central nervous system abnormalities. While Steve couldn’t tell you what he ate for breakfast, Bobby could remember every license plate he’d seen on a drive from Miami to Disney World.
“Why are you holding out on me?” Steve asked.
“Bobby, this is your uncle Steve. We’re tight, right?”
“Most definitely.”
“So…?”
The boy’s abilities were not limited to memorization. If he grew interested in a subject-baseball, supermodels, dolphins-he was able to engage in abstract thinking, too. He could demonstrate mathematically that runs-batted-in are the least meaningful statistic in baseball. He invented a body-fat analysis that could reveal-using only photographs-which supermodels had surgically enhanced breasts. And he was translating dolphins’ clicks and whistles into dozens of words and phrases-that effort interrupted by the felonious Gerald Nash.
“Why’s Nash full of shit?” Steve persisted.
Bobby slurped at the ice cream puddling in his cup. “Nash told you the dead guy had a boat with a lift to pick up Spunky and Misty, put them in a tank.”
“Right. They were going to take them to the Straits and let ’em go.”
Bobby screwed up his face in a look that said
“Because if they left the dolphins in the Bay, they’d swim right back up the channel to the park.”
“So why didn’t they? The gate was wide open.”
“I don’t know. You tell me, kiddo.”
“The only way they’d come back was if somebody trained them to.”
“Okay, maybe your two pals would have just hung out in the shallows near the gate until Grisby came for them.”
“No way. The water’s all skanky there with oil and crud from the Crandon Marina. Spunky would have led Misty to deeper water. Then they’d get hungry and go out to open sea. They’d be free, just like your client says he wanted.”
“Maybe Nash didn’t know that.”
“Then he didn’t do his homework.”
“Okay, kiddo. Spit it out. What are you saying?”
“Victoria will be pissed if I tell you.”
“What? You’re conspiring with the enemy?”
Bobby swirled the ice cream, now a green river with logs of floating chocolate. “I’m hoping Victoria whips your butt,” he muttered.
“Thanks. You and Dad are my biggest supporters.”
The boy spooned up some melted ice cream and kept quiet.
“Let’s make a deal, kiddo. Only share with me what you tell Victoria. Nothing more. No special treatment.”
“It isn’t that much,” Bobby said.
“Fine. Whatever you’ve got.”
Bobby shrugged. “Your client didn’t want to set Spunky and Misty
Eighteen
Steve drove along the Miami River toward the county jail. He needed to confront Gerald Nash and get the truth. Bobby was right: the guy’s story wasn’t holding up. Just why did Nash need a boat to pick up Spunky and Misty? Why risk injuring them? Why slow down your own getaway? Why not just let the dolphins go
Clients lie. They lie under oath, which is bad enough. But they also lie to their own lawyers, which to Steve was both a capital offense and terminally stupid. Steve gave a speech to every lying, thieving, violent client he’d ever had:
