“Sometimes, I spit on the guy’s cock,” Lexy whispered, fidgeting in her chair. “But some guys, if it’s too slippery, they claim they don’t feel a thing.”
“Shhh.” Victoria placed a hand on Lexy’s bare, artificially tanned and superbly toned arm. The model wore a leopard-print strapless cotton sundress, and her oiled skin was goose-bumpy in the meat-locker-cold courtroom. A jumbo Fendi crocodile purse sat next to her feet, which were shod in red patent leather Mizrahi mules. A great outfit for a drink at the Delano, but Victoria would have preferred something more conservative for court. Still, as Lexy usually dressed like a Victoria’s Secret model-which, in fact, she was-it could have been worse.
Lexy was one of the
“Let’s take a look at what else is posted on the website,” the judge said, turning a page, then reading aloud, “‘Don’t date a bitch named Lexy, a SoBe model with mud for brains. She’s a vapid, vacuous airhead who drinks Cristal by the magnum, which she’ll charge to your platinum card.’”
“Creepskate,” Lexy murmured.
Meaning, Victoria figured, a guy who was both cheap
“Now, Ms. Lord,” the judge continued,
“Yes, Your Honor,” Victoria admitted.
“Then I don’t see how you can maintain an action for libel,” Judge Barash said. “All the other comments are statements of opinion, and the law says there’s no such thing as a false opinion.”
“Nine out of ten guys say I give great head,” Lexy hissed in Victoria’s ear.
“Hush,” Victoria cautioned, using one of her mother’s favorite words. She turned toward the bench. “Your Honor, by posting intimate, personal information, the website invaded Ms. Larson’s privacy.”
“I don’t believe your complaint makes that allegation,” the judge replied.
“In that case, Your Honor, I would consent to a dismissal without prejudice in order to file an amended complaint stating a cause of action for invasion of privacy.”
“Excellent idea, Ms. Lord.” Doubtless thinking he’d be retired to Hilton Head before this lame lawsuit came to trial.
“What’s happening?” Lexy demanded. “Whadaya mean, ‘dismissal’?”
“Everything’s fine. Go to your Pilates class. I’ll rewrite the complaint for Steve.”
“Where is that cutie? He should have been here.”
Lexy said it with a little whimper that men probably found enchanting.
“Like I told you, Lexy, the cutie had a hard night.”
When he had dropped into bed, Steve mumbled something about trouble at Cetacean Park.
He started snoring then, a sound vaguely reminiscent, Victoria decided, of the whistles made by Bobby’s dolphins. When she dressed for court, Steve was still snoring. She checked on Bobby, curled up in his own bed, breathing heavily. As she left the house, she saw Bobby’s bicycle sticking out of the trunk of Steve’s car.
This was the third time in a month the boy had sneaked out, and Victoria was worried. He’d been making progress, seeming to adjust so well. But then his fascination with dolphins pushed everything else aside. He was obsessed with the animals, and it didn’t seem healthy.
“Ms. Lord,” the judge said, “I wonder if you could join me in chambers a moment.”
“Is there a problem, Your Honor?”
“Not with this pipsqueak of a case.” The judge eased out of his chair and headed for the door behind the bench, tossing over his shoulder, “A murder trial, Counselor.”
The firm of Solomon amp; Lord didn’t have any. These days, their clients were mostly Whiplash Willies and hapless misdemeanants. Steve’s job was to hustle most of the cases. But as a rainmaker, he was more of a drizzler.
They’d also had a run of bad luck. Just last week, a jury rejected their client’s claim that he was sleepwalking when he entered the liquor store with gun in hand. When the judge sentenced him to seven years in prison, the jerk said he’d rather get eight years, because 8 was Daunte Culpepper’s jersey number, and the quarterback was his favorite Miami Dolphin, even if he was over the hill. Victoria started to protest, but Steve said he was just thankful the guy’s favorite player wasn’t Jason Taylor. It took Victoria a second to realize that Steve meant Taylor wore number 99.
Something else had been bothering her lately, too.
Working together and living together. Sharing an office and sharing a bed. All Steve, all the time. She loved Steve-but she didn’t love working with him.
She feared that their professional life was beginning to threaten their personal life, but what to do about it? She’d even toyed with the idea of opening her own shop, but when she’d raised the idea, Steve had sulked for days.
“We’re a team,” Steve told her. “Just like the cobra and the mongoose.”
“The cobra and the mongoose fight each other to the death,” she said.
“See. That’s why we’re so great together. I paint the big picture. You point out the details.”
Eight
Judge Barash was hanging up his robe when Victoria walked in. The chambers had the requisite oak desk, heavy crimson drapes, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, and handsome Persian rug. Standing at the bookshelves, a man fiddled with a brass model of the scales of justice, tilting them out of whack like a butcher with a heavy thumb.
“Ms. Lord,” the judge said, “I’m sure you know the State Attorney.”
“I worked for Mr. Pincher,” she replied, omitting the fact that he’d fired her.
“Ms. Lord was still green then,” Pincher said. Victoria wondered if that was an apology.
The State Attorney wore a jet-black suit with a silk burgundy shirt and matching tie. Pincher’s cuff links- miniature handcuffs-rattled as he played with the scales. He had a military officer’s posture and projected both self-confidence and self-righteousness.
“I assume Solomon told you what happened out on the Key in the wee hours,” Pincher said to Victoria.
“Is Steve in any trouble?” she asked.
“For once, no. Actually, inconceivably, he’s sort of a semi-hero.”
Pincher took several minutes explaining that the Animal Liberation Movement, the ALM, had been terrorizing zoos and tourist attractions and research labs for months. Last night, they’d hit Cetacean Park. Three guys. One got
