Trial and Error

Some people can throw a baseball a hundred miles an hour and knick a slice of airspace sixty feet, six inches away.

Some people can recite eighty-verse limericks from memory without blowing a line.

And some people can tell a story that will move a dozen strangers to either condemn or exonerate another human being.

While Steve mulled over these thoughts, Victoria began wrapping up, warmly thanking these good folks for leaving their jobs and families to come downtown and help do justice. The good folks beamed back at her, mighty proud to be of service.

The courtroom door opened and a woman took a seat in the last row. Mid-twenties, maybe. Difficult to tell her age because she wore wraparound sunglasses and a little white tennis jacket with a high collar turned up. Maybe it was the sunglasses. Maybe it was the style of her upswept blond hair. Or maybe it was the courtroom setting. Whatever the reason, Steve thought of Lee Remick in the classic movie Anatomy of a Murder. A woman of mystery and dubious credibility.

His client followed his gaze and seemed to squint. “Huh,” Nash said.

“Huh, what?”

“For a second, that woman looked like passion.”

It took Steve a second to realize Nash meant “Passion” with a capital “P.” Passion Conner. His girlfriend and accomplice, who’d hung him out to dry.

“But it’s not her,” Nash said.

Steve tried to get a better look at the newcomer. “You sure?”

“Yeah. Passion’s not a blonde.”

“You ever hear of beauty salons?”

Steve stood and took a step toward the gate that led to the gallery. The woman looked up at him, her body stiffening.

Steve moved through the gate and headed for her.

“Mr. Solomon!” Judge Gridley called out.

Steve ignored him. The woman bounded to her feet. She moved toward the door.

The judge hit his steam whistle. Spectators jerked up in their seats.

The woman pushed through the door to the corridor.

“Mr. Solomon! Ms. Lord hasn’t finished her opening. You don’t jump off a moving train-”

“Sorry, Judge. But nature calls.”

“Now?”

“Those cafeteria burritos, Your Honor.” He was out the door before the judge could reply.

In the corridor, Steve wheeled left, then right. Caught a glimpse as the woman turned a corner at the escalators. Six flights down to the lobby. He could beat her there by taking the stairwell.

He ran to the stairwell door, nearly knocking over two young lawyers in spiffy suits, sniffing the halls of Justice for fresh business. Steve took the steps two at a time, vaulting over the bannister to cut corners at each landing.

The floors flew by.

He burst through the door into the lobby.

The usual suspects. Cops. Corrections officers. Clerks. Public defenders, prosecutors. Spectators and witnesses and downtown lawyers. Milling about, buzzing like bees in a hive.

Steve waited at the bottom of the escalator. No blonde in a tennis jacket, with or without sunglasses. Maybe she got off the escalator on one of the higher floors, then switched to the elevator. Steve hurried to the elevator bank. A dozen people poured out of two cars. She wasn’t among them.

Damn.

No use standing here. He had to do something. And he had to get back to the courtroom before Judge Gridley held him in contempt.

Steve took the down escalator up, catching stares from the security guards and glares from the people he passed, going the wrong way. From lobby to second floor, then second floor to third.

And there it was.

A blond wig sticking out of a trash can. A white tennis jacket jammed underneath.

“Mr. Solomon.”

A man’s sleepy voice.

Elwood Reed, in his baggy bailiff’s uniform. Reaching into his pocket.

Oh, shit. Am I gonna be handcuffed?

“Judge thought you might need these,” Reed said, handing Steve a small bottle of pills.

Steve peered at the label. “Equilactin?”

“Judge says it’ll help form solid stools.”

“Well, he oughta know,” Steve allowed.

Thirty-one

Clueless

“You’re sure the woman was Nash’s ex-girlfriend?” Victoria asked.

“Why else would she run from me like that?” Steve answered.

“She could be your ex-girlfriend.”

“She never calls Nash, then shows up at the trial. Now, why would she do that?”

“What does Nash say?”

“No idea. He’s still heartbroken she ran out on him in the first place.”

They were sitting in the backyard of their home on Kumquat Avenue, Victoria sipping Chardonnay, Steve knocking back a Morimoto Ale. Friday night. On Monday morning, Victoria would put Wade Grisby on the witness stand, and Steve had nothing to poke holes in his story. A bleak thought occurred to him.

Maybe Grisby’s telling the truth. Maybe he was only defending himself when he gunned down Sanders.

There was nothing to tie Grisby to Hardcastle. There was no evidence Grisby had ever encountered Sanders before the raid. Without some link, without some motive for Grisby to kill Sanders, Steve had nothing.

Zilch. Bupkes. Gornisht.

Guilty as charged.

“I’ve never felt so clueless in a trial,” he said.

“Are you gaming me?”

He shook his head. “You’re going to beat me. But that’s not what’s bothering me. I’m letting Nash down. He’s just a naive kid who deserves better.”

She heard it in his voice. He was wounded.

“You’ve got lots of clues,” she said. “You just don’t know where they lead.”

“Are you trying to tell me something?”

She didn’t answer, just took another sip of the wine.

“Because if you know something about Passion Conner,” he pressed her, “under the discovery rules, you better tell me.”

“You don’t have to remind me about my ethical duties. And I don’t know anything about Passion Conner, except I’m glad my parents weren’t as creative when it came time for the baby naming.”

“She could be connected to Sanders,” Steve said. “They both sought out Gerald Nash. When Sanders suggested they hit Cetacean Park, Passion cheered him on. When Nash tried to call her, she’d already canceled her cell phone. The backstory she gave him, Marine Biology degree from Rosenstiel, was phony. No one with that name