Paul Levine - Trial and Error

“How’s my favorite canoe maker?” Steve tried again.

No smile. No nothing.

“Bobby,” he continued, “did I ever tell you that Dr. Ling never had a patient who lived?”

Bobby rolled his eyes.

Still ignoring Steve, Mai smiled at the boy and held up the skull. “Bobby, do you know what I’m doing right now?”

“The skull has two different spiderweb fractures. You want to see which one caused the death because-and just guessing here-two different guys hit the dead guy.”

“You’re a very smart boy.” Mai set the skull on the counter and turned toward Steve. “What brings you here on a Saturday, Counselor?”

“Same as you. Pursuing justice.”

“If it’s the Nash case, my autopsy report speaks for itself. I have nothing to add.”

“I’m going to cross-examine you next week. Don’t you want a preview?”

“Sure. Preferably without wine.”

Steve spent a few minutes explaining what he wanted. Illustrations on the autopsy report showed the location of Sanders’ wounds. Pellets from the first shotgun blast peppered the gluteus medius muscle of the hip and lodged in the iliac crest. But the femoral artery wasn’t severed. Steve’s question was simple and direct.

“Would that first shot have killed Sanders?”

“I know what you’re getting at,” Mai replied. “You want me to say the first shot disabled Sanders but wouldn’t have killed him. Then you’ll argue to the jury that Grisby’s responsible for Sanders’ death by firing the second shot needlessly.”

“I want the truth, Mai. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“Ha.”

“C’mon. You’re supposed to be impartial. You’re a public employee, and my client’s a member of that public.”

“You want impartial? Here it is. I can’t tell to a reasonable medical probability whether the first hit was a kill shot.”

“I don’t believe that. You’re helping the home team, Mai, just like always.”

“And just like always, you’re being a total shit.”

“Please. No profanity in front of the child,” Steve said, with a straight face.

Bobby tossed off a laugh. “That’s whacked, Uncle Steve.”

“Mai, I’m gonna move to strike your testimony on account of bias and prejudice.”

Mai’s eyes blazed from beneath her purple eye shadow. “Dammit. I’m telling you the same thing I told the FBI agent. There’s no way to know for certain whether-”

“What FBI agent? This is a state case.”

“Great. Go tell it to Washington.”

“C’mon, Mai. Who came to see you?”

“A female agent. I don’t remember her name.”

“I need to know who’s mucking around in my case.”

“Oh, you have needs? Well, guess what, Steve? So do I.”

“Jeez, don’t make this personal. Now, I know you, Mai. Anytime you talk to someone, you make a note in the file. Those files are public records. If I have to get a court order, I will.”

“Bobby,” Mai said. “Will you promise me that when you grow up, you won’t be a defense lawyer?”

“I’m going to be a major league pitcher,” the boy promised.

Six minutes later, Dr. Mai Ling reached into a file cabinet and handed Steve the file. It didn’t take long for him to find what he wanted. Stapled inside the cover was a business card.

Constance Parsons. Special Agent. Federal Bureau of Investigation.

“Happy now?” Mai asked.

“Did she tell you why the FBI was involved in a state murder case?”

“She told me she was investigating. That’s all.”

“Constance Parsons,” Steve said, as if the name might conjure up something. “What else can you tell me about her?”

“She’s one of the young ones. You know how they are. Gung ho, until they get transferred to Missoula or Rapid City.”

“Connie Parsons,” Bobby said.

Steve gave him a look. “Constance. Connie. What difference does it make, kiddo?”

“Nothing much. Except her friends probably call her Connie.”

“Yeah, probably. So?”

“‘Connie Parsons’ is an anagram for ‘Passion Conner,’” Bobby said.

“Does this mean I can’t pitch to you today?” Bobby asked.

“No way. We’re gonna work on the circle change-up,” Steve told him. “You’ve got to follow through all the way, make ’em think a fastball’s coming.”

They were in Steve’s Mustang, headed down South Dixie Highway toward Coconut Grove.

“What about finding the FBI agent?” Bobby asked.

“A fastball’s all about power. A change-up is about deception. I like the change-up.”

“Uncle Steve. What about Connie Parsons?”

“Gonna take care of that right now.”

Steve picked up his cell phone. It took a while to work through the automated menu of the local FBI office, but finally he reached a real person, the weekend operator.

“Agent Constance Parsons, please,” Steve said.

“The office is closed today, sir.”

“Do kidnappers and bank robbers know that?”

“Would you like to leave a message, sir?”

“My name’s Steve Solomon. I know you have emergency contact numbers for all the agents. So please contact Agent Parsons immediately. Tell her to meet me for drinks at six o’clock at the Rusty Pelican on the causeway. I’m buying.”

“Are you asking Agent Parsons out on a date, sir?”

“More or less. Please also tell her if she doesn’t show, I’ll subpoena her to testify in open court in the Nash case, and she’ll never work undercover in this town again.”

“Is there anything else, sir?”

“Only that I have her wig and sunglasses.”

Steve clicked the phone off and winked at Bobby.

“Can I come along, Uncle Steve?”

“Nope. After we work out, I want you off your feet. You have a game tomorrow.”

“It doesn’t take much energy to stand in right field.”

“You’re pitching tomorrow, kiddo.”

“Does Coach Kreindler know that?”

“Not yet. But I’ll talk to him.”

“Riii-ght.”

“You gotta trust me, Bobby. On everything. At six o’clock today, I’m gonna solve the Nash case. And tomorrow, when the First Baptist Bashers come to the plate, you’ll be pitching.”

The sun dipped toward the Everglades and painted a ribbon of clouds the color of pomegranates. The still water of Biscayne Bay sparkled with diamonds. It would have been a beautiful evening, Steve thought, if he didn’t have to threaten an FBI agent over cocktails.

The Rusty Pelican sat on the north side of the Rickenbacker Causeway, halfway between the mainland and the island of Key Biscayne. Arriving early, Steve had parked his Mustang in the restaurant lot, walked across a tropical walkway over a man-made waterfall, and entered the place, a tourist trap with average food but a stunning view of Miami’s skyline across the Bay. The Pelican had burned down once, and been blown away a couple of times by hurricanes. But like a chopped-down melaleuca tree, it kept coming back to life.

Steve chose the meeting spot both for the view and the fact that Agent Parsons would be unlikely to shoot him in such a public place. Now he sat under a wicker paddle fan, nursing a Clase Azul tequila, watching a triangular sailboat race just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He wondered if she would show up.

Passion Conner.

Animal rights activist. Girlfriend of the terminally dim Gerald Nash.

Constance Parsons.

FBI agent. Undercover operative. Instigator. And…

What’s the word I’m looking for?

Provocateur.

Steve was on his second tequila when someone came up behind him. “Mr. Solomon.”