Trial and Error

been ticketed for parking in a handicap zone, despite Steve’s warning that bulimia did not qualify. He was also fending off lawsuits against her sister, Rexy, who had a habit of selling costume jewelry as the real thing on eBay. Rexy claimed innocence on the grounds that the cheap jewelry had been worn by a semi-famous SoBe model, her very own self, and therefore it took on additional value.

“So why are you here?” Nash asked. “Why aren’t you in the courthouse with all those clients of yours?”

A perfectly good question. Steve had awakened around eleven, pulled on jeans and a T-shirt with the slogan: “Speak Slowly. I’m Not Fluent in Idiot.” He took Bobby to school, figuring half a day of sixth-grade education was better than none. Cece, his secretary or assistant or office czarina, or whatever the hell she called herself this week, phoned to say that a jail inmate named Gerald Nash wanted to see him.

Despite his posturing, Steve wanted the case of State v. Nash. Not that he liked Nash. But that was okay. Maybe even better. If you’re fond of your clients, it’s harder on you when they’re carted off to prison.

If he got the case, Steve would have to explain some things to Bobby. He’d tell the boy that guilt isn’t black or white. The legal system is filled with shades of gray. Gerald Nash was more misguided than dangerous. Should he be put away forever based on the dumbest thing he ever did? Steve believed in the power of people to change. Okay, maybe not serial killers. But if he was spared prison, Gerald Nash might change his life. Maybe he’d work in animal rescue and give up the felonious stuff.

Then there’s the little matter of the felony murder rule, a hoary remnant of the English Common Law. Sure, Nash was responsible for the loss of Misty and Spunky, but he didn’t gun down his accomplice.

“Why do you want me?” Steve asked, turning the tables.

“I keep thinking about that crazy stunt you pulled. Chasing me. Diving into the channel. You’ve got principles and you’re tough. You’re the kind of guy I want on my side.” Nash paused a moment. From somewhere inside the bowels of the jail, a piercing wail could be heard. “Your turn, Solomon. You’ve been doing nothing but trashing me and my cause. What are you doing here?”

“I figured anybody who pisses off Ray Pincher can’t be all bad.”

Nash laughed. “It’s my father Uncle Ray really hates. Clifford Nash.”

He said it as if Steve should know the name.

“Dad’s a professor at FSU. Geopolitics. The global corporate conspiracy. How the military-industrial complex has taken over the country and people like Uncle Ray are just banal servants of evil, the Adolph Eichmanns of our time.”

“Family reunions must be a lot of fun.”

“Know what really torques Uncle Ray? My old man’s white. Not bad enough he’s an old lefty and a hippie pothead, but white, too. Now, here’s the weird thing. Dad thinks black. He hung with Huey Newton and Eldridge Cleaver. When I was a kid, one year at Thanksgiving dinner my old man says he’s more black than Uncle Ray. Man, they got in a huge fight over that. Ray called Dad an ‘ivory tower pinko’ and Dad called him a ‘house nigger.’ They started pushing and shoving and the turkey ended up on the floor. That pretty much ended the relationship.”

Nash was quiet a moment. Maybe thinking about his father and uncle tossing the gravy boat at each other. Then he began telling Steve what happened the night before. The other Jet Skier-the one who got away with the dolphins-was Nash’s girlfriend.

Oh. A woman.

Steve hadn’t realized that. In the dark, a hundred yards away, in a black wet suit, there’d been no way to tell. Her name, it turned out, was Passion Conner. Steve gave Nash some shit over that, like maybe she’d plucked the name off a daytime soap or out of a James Bond book. It had a Pussy Galore or Mary Goodnight ring to it.

“Where is she now?” Steve asked.

Nash shrugged. “I tried calling her cell phone from in here. Disconnected.”

That was fast, Steve thought. Either Ms. Passion Conner figured Nash would phone from jail, where calls are monitored, or the lady wanted to cut all ties with him. Smart, either way.

“What can you tell me about her?” Steve said.

“Master’s in Marine Biology from Rosenstiel. Last summer, when everyone else was interning at NOAA, Passion crewed on a tuna boat. Used a hidden camera to get video of dolphins being illegally netted. Hundreds at a time, dragged under and drowned. If the crew had caught her, there’s no telling what they’d have done to her. How could I not love a woman like that?”

“Was she already your girlfriend? Before last summer?”

Nash shook his head. “She looked me up when she got back to Miami. Passion heard about my work. She wanted to join ALM.”

“So the two of you got all hot and bothered about the dolphins in the sea and the hamsters in the labs and decided to do something about it as soon as you fucked each other’s brains out.”

“Don’t make it sound frivolous! It wasn’t. Passion’s more radical than I am.”

“What about the dead guy? Cops found his rental car in a lot at the marina. ID’ed him as one Charles Sanders, Colorado driver’s license.”

“We met about two months ago at a bar in Islamorada. Sanders tracked me down through mutual friends in the Animal Liberation Movement.”

“You seem to meet a lot of people that way.”

“Sanders had done his homework. He knew about me trying to sink that whaling ship. And how I’d torn down those hunting platforms in the Glades and paint-bombed that fur store in New York.”

“You’re a one-man demolition team.”

Nash seemed to take this as a compliment. “Yeah, I got some props in the brotherhood.”

The brotherhood of anarchistic fuckups, Steve figured.

Sanders had claimed credit for some missions of his own, Nash said. Burning down a canine toxicology lab on the West Coast, a place that drugged puppies for pharmaceutical research. That was a pretty big deal in the ALM. But before he’d shown up, Nash and his cronies had never heard of the guy. Smelled cop or FBI informant. Then Sanders proved his worth. They’d broken into the primate research lab in Marathon, freeing the monkeys and setting them loose in the Glades. Except for the unfortunate ones that got turned into roadkill on Overseas Highway.

“Did Passion know Sanders any better than you did?”

Nash shook his head. “We met him at the same time.”

“You mean, that’s what she told you.”

“What are you getting at? You think Passion knew Sanders and lied about it?”

“How should I know? She’s your girlfriend.”

“You’re way off, Solomon. Passion loves me.”

“And she shows that how? By disappearing?”

Nash had no answer, so Steve moved on. “What was Sanders doing when he wasn’t saving the world?”

“Insurance.”

“You’re kidding.”

“He had a card. Chief adjuster for some casualty company.”

“And you believed that?”

“I didn’t care one way or the other. But you’re right. He didn’t look like an insurance adjuster. Rugged guy. Little over six feet. Maybe two hundred pounds. Fit and ripped. A terrific swimmer, like maybe he’d competed at one time.”

“How’d you three decide to knock off Cetacean Park?”

“Not my idea. I’d been looking into this chain of pet stores. Figured we’d maybe crash a pickup through their window, take the animals. But Sanders said, ‘Let’s go bigger.’”

“And Passion agreed with him?”

“Yeah, she did. She wants to make her mark.”

Steve listened as Sanders recounted the attack on Cetacean Park. Sanders had surveilled the place. A lone security guard. Old guy who sat in a shed all night watching telenovelas on a black-and-white TV. Unarmed except for a can of Mace and a cell phone. They had their plan all worked out. Sanders was supposed to slip ashore and tie up the guard. Nash had never confronted anyone mano a mano, so he was happy to let someone else handle it.