Paul Levine - Trial and Error

He wouldn’t offer to share evidence with one of Pincher’s dwarves on the other side. But this was Victoria. His partner. His lover. His best friend. He wanted to think through the case with her.

C’mon, babe. Let’s do some justice.

He figured her first reaction would be to stiff-arm him.

“It would be unethical, blah, blah, blah.”

Now, as he drove home from the Justice Building, fighting the traffic on Dixie Highway, Steve ran through the evidence.

On the face of it, Gerald Nash appeared one hundred percent guilty of felony murder. But there was just too much that didn’t make sense.

The mysterious Chuck Sanders.

Grisby in the park with a shotgun and a fuzzy story about why he shot Sanders.

Two tough guys who snatched Steve off the street and pumped him for information.

Steve remembered something his father, the cagiest trial lawyer Steve ever knew, told him years ago.

“If you come across a piece of the puzzle that just won’t fit, it means there’s a second puzzle where it’ll fit just fine.”

The first puzzle was why Grisby shot Sanders at all, much less twice. Steve had taken Grisby’s deposition a few days earlier. The owner of Cetacean Park testified that his regular security guard had quit abruptly and moved away.

Q: So instead of hiring another security guard, you decided to stay up all night and do the job yourself?

A: Yes, sir.

Q: With a Remington 870, even though you’d only armed your guard with a can of Mace and a cell phone?

A: I knew about those fools attacking that monkey lab down in the Keys. Not only that, the State Attorney had warned me I might be next. And don’t forget, I’d been hit before when I owned a dolphin park in California. Undersea World. That’s where the damned Animal Libbers got started.

Not just one reason for Grisby to be there, his shotgun at the ready. Three reasons. Each one good enough, all by itself. Add them all together and what do you get? Too much sugar in the mojito.

True stories are full of holes. Life isn’t a smooth freeway across a fruited plain. Life is a winding, potholed road, slick with oil, and studded with broken glass. It was one of Steve’s laws. If a witness’ testimony is too damn good, if there are no loose ends or contradictions, chances are his story is as phony as Donald Trump’s hair.

In his deposition, Grisby testified that he’d been spooked by a noise. Then he spotted Bobby on the floating platform. Telling the boy to stay put, he had walked along a path to the security shed to call Steve.

So far, all true. Bobby confirmed his end, and Steve had a clear recollection of Grisby waking him up with the phone call. But then the story got murky.

Grisby claimed he walked out of the security shed and stumbled on Sanders on the path behind the ficus hedge. Sanders had silently paddled an inflatable to the dock, his face blackened, like the Navy SEAL he’d once been. He carried tape, a coil of nautical line, and a Colt.45 automatic Grisby recognized instantly from his own time in the military. Sanders had apparently expected to find an unarmed and sleeping security guard. Instead, shotgun ready, Grisby popped out of the bushes and bellowed at Sanders to freeze.

Sanders stayed cool, told Grisby he didn’t want trouble, he just wanted the dolphins to be free. Then hell broke loose.

Two Jet Skis roared up the channel, herding up the dolphins.

Grisby trained his shotgun on Sanders and ordered him to surrender his handgun and move toward the dock. Grisby wanted to take a shot at the Jet Skiers, at least scare them off. Sanders refused to move, refused to give up his gun. Just stayed put, giving his accomplices time to chase the dolphins down the channel. Grisby yelled and threatened, but the guy challenged him.

“You’re not a killer, Grisby.”

“Don’t try me.”

But Sanders did try him, according to Grisby. Sanders went for his.45. Grisby fired the shotgun, catching the man in the hip with some pellets, but only knocking him to his knees.

Q: When he was hit, Sanders dropped the gun, didn’t he, Mr. Grisby?

A: I guess he did, but I can’t say for sure. It was dark. I was scared. I was acting on reflex.

Q: So, with Sanders on his knees, bleeding and unarmed, this “reflex” of yours caused you to rack the slide on your shotgun?

A: Yes, sir.

Q: And still on “reflex,” you aimed at Sanders’ chest?

A: I suppose I did.

Q: And finally, on “reflex,” you pulled the trigger and fired the shot that killed him.

A: It all happened a lot quicker than that. I was in fear for my life. You had to be there. You can’t sit here in a cushioned chair and judge me.

Not a bad answer. Righteous indignation works real well if you don’t overdo it. Grisby would do fine in front of a jury.

Nothing in the forensics contradicted Grisby. No way to disprove any of it. Steve shifted his thoughts to the late Chuck Sanders. Navy SEAL. Scuba diver. Hero in the Persian Gulf. Okay, you start with courage and savvy, all that Special Forces stuff. No rations; he’ll eat snakes and drink piss. So, sure, he might stand up to Grisby. Believing Grisby wouldn’t shoot him, Sanders might even have the cojones to walk away from an armed and scared man. But that’s different than going for his own gun.

Once you point your.45 at the man holding a shotgun, you have to fire it. You have to kill him.

Sanders had gone to Cetacean Park to steal the dolphins. But not to kill anyone. It seemed out of character for someone with his background and no prior criminal record.

It was a piece of the puzzle that didn’t fit.

And how about the two guys who’d jumped Steve? They’d been on a boat just outside the channel, ready to haul away the dolphins. But why? Where were they taking the animals? And who the hell were the “important people” who needed to know what Sanders told Nash?

All of which added up to one resounding, unanswered question: What was really going on that night? Steve didn’t know, and he was reasonably sure his client was just as clueless.

Bobby called out to Spunky and Misty. In his head. Trying to communicate telepathically. First in English, then in the clicks and whistles of dolphinese.

Well, why not? We send radio signals into deepest space, hoping some extraterrestrials will phone home. Our home.

Bobby had read all of Dr. John Lilly’s books about dolphins. Sure, lots of scientists considered the guy a nut job, a Dr. Doolittle on acid. But weren’t all pioneers vilified in one way or another?

Dr. Lilly believed that dolphins not only spoke their own language but composed music. He claimed that ancient dolphins created a society with a working government and folklore passed down through the generations. Dr. Lilly wanted to create a Cetacean Nation of whales and dolphins, recognized as an independent state by the United Nations. It didn’t help the doc’s standing in the scientific community that he administered LSD both to himself and the dolphins.

Bobby didn’t buy everything in Dr. Lilly’s bag, but some of it made sense. Bobby knew that dolphins had a moral code, that they would rescue injured or ill animals. He knew the dolphin’s brain was larger than the human brain. He knew, deep in his heart, that dolphins exhibit emotion in much the same way humans do. He believed that dolphins can love and be loved. What he didn’t know was whether Spunky and Misty could feel what he felt right now. Utter despair.