Paul Levine - Trial and Error

“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 bullshit. “Why go to all that trouble?”

“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 free. If there was a boat to pick them up, it’s because he was going to keep them.”

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 free ?

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:

“Lie to your priest, your spouse, and the IRS, but always tell your lawyer the truth.”

It seldom worked. He didn’t really expect it to. Clients lie for all sorts of reasons. Sometimes they’re embarrassed at what they’ve done. Sometimes, if they admit guilt, they’re afraid you won’t fight as hard for them. That, of course, was ass-backwards. You have to fight harder for someone who actually did the deed. How else could you win?

Long ago, Steve decided there were several ways to pry the truth from perjurious clients.

You can plead with the weaselly bastards: “Gerald, please. I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what really happened.”

You can treat your client like an adverse witness. Bob and weave and cross-examine: “But Gerald, yesterday you said the moon was made of green cheese. Were you lying then or are you lying now?”

Or you can pound them into submission with a frontal assault: “Nash, you self-righteous prick. I know you’re lying, and unless you come clean, I’m going to withdraw and let the public defender mishandle your case.”

As he walked into the county jail, Steve still hadn’t decided on his approach. He figured he’d just look at Nash and instinctively know what to do.

The visitors’ room was crowded with wives, girlfriends, and children of the men who were awaiting trial or had been sentenced to less than a year’s incarceration. The place smelled of dried sweat, dirty feet, diapers, and machine oil. From inside, inmates shouted and wailed. Steve had come to believe that modern jails and medieval mental asylums had a lot in common.

He had been here hundreds of times, but the overweight sergeant at the desk still insisted on making him show his Florida Bar card when logging in.

“Crenshaw, why do you do this? You know me.”

“I figure one day, after they disbar you, you’ll show up without that card.”

Sticking out his tongue at the security camera, Steve signed the sheet. He waited for Crenshaw to hit the buzzer and open the steel-barred door.

“Can you hurry up, Sergeant? I’ve got a wrongfully accused man waiting for me.”

“Nope. Regs say I can keep out any visitor who’s inappropriately dressed.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your T-shirt, asshole.” He pointed at Steve’s chest and the slogan: “What Would Scooby Do?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s blasphemous.”

“It’s satirical. Like that old bumper sticker ‘Jesus Saves. Moses Invests.’ It’s all in good fun.”

“Solomon? That’s a Jewish name, right?”

“Aw, jeez, Crenshaw. Don’t pull a Mel Gibson on me.”

“You wanna come into my house, you gotta take that shirt off. Except then you’d still be inappropriately dressed, so I guess you’re shit out of luck today.”

Steve could have told him to go fuck himself. Or he could have called the ACLU. Instead, he tugged the T-shirt over his head, turned it inside out, and put it back on again.

Crenshaw glared at him. “All defense lawyers are cockroaches, ain’t that right, Solomon?”

“Will it speed this up if I say yes?”

“And this is the roach motel.” The buzzer sounded, and the electric lock clinked open. “One day you’re gonna check in, Solomon, but you ain’t checking out.”

Three minutes after being insulted by the bored and burned-out sergeant, Steve wagged a finger at his client. “Nash, you stupid shit! Why are you lying to me?”

The frontal assault.

“I’m not lying,” Nash whined. A kid accused of swiping cookies.

“You didn’t need a boat to pick up the dolphins. If you were really worried about them swimming back to the park, you could have bolted the gate on your way out.”

Nash shook his head stubbornly. Jailhouse stink clung to his faded orange jumpsuit, and he looked as if he’d lost weight on jail gruel. “We were afraid they’d stay there and be recaptured. Or just swim back up the channel when the gate was opened. That’s what Sanders said, anyway.”

“My nephew says he’s wrong.”

“I dunno. Sanders knew all about dolphins. Even their Latin name. Tursiops something-or-other.”

Then it’s even worse, Steve thought. If Sanders was so damn knowledgeable, he’d lied to Nash. But why?

“Let’s start at the beginning,” Steve said. “Sanders offered to provide the boat, right?”

Nash nodded. “He said he could get one with a lift and a saltwater tank.”

“And the two guys on the boat. Where’d they come from?”

“Dunno. Except they worked for Sanders.”

“And you have no idea where I can find them?”

Nash dug a finger into one ear. It didn’t make him look any smarter. “I didn’t meet them until they ferried our Jet Skis over to the Key. Never asked their names and they didn’t offer. Last time I saw them was when they dropped Passion and Sanders and me off.”

“How about a description? What did they look like?”

“Two guys in their thirties in good shape.”

“Great. I’ll look for suspects at Bally’s.”

“Fuck, man. It was dark out. The guys wore watch caps. They never made eye contact.”