Paul Levine - Trial and Error

“So why do you want to represent me?” Nash challenged Steve.

In the light, Nash bore some resemblance to Pincher. Lighter skinned than his uncle, but the same pugnacious jaw. A similarity in personalities, too. Just like the State Attorney, Nash projected arrogance and self-righteousness.

“Who says I want to represent you?” Steve fired back. “I like Wade Grisby, and you just screwed up his business.”

“He treats the dolphins as if he owns them.”

“He does own them. He caught them or bought them or bred them. Now he feeds them and trains them.”

“Sounds like a slave owner in the Old South.”

“Disabled kids swim with the dolphins for therapy, and Grisby doesn’t charge them a dime. The way I see it, he’s helping humanity, and you’re a worthless punk.”

“His park is nothing more than a chlorinated prison.”

“Bullshit. The dolphins get all-you-can-eat sushi. They have medical care. They love the people there.”

“You have no idea what dolphins feel.”

“And you do?”

“Have you ever run your hand over a dolphin’s belly, all wet and slippery?”

Nash said it with such a rhapsodic look, he might have been stroking Angelina Jolie’s ass.

“They’re gorgeous animals, anatomically perfect,” Nash continued. “They can swim twenty-five miles an hour and dive to a thousand feet. But you know what’s best about them?”

“They’re not sharks?”

“They live at peace in a harmonious society.”

“I wonder if the fish they eat would agree.”

“Did you know bottleneck dolphins have their own language?”

“Yeah, my nephew told me. He thinks he understands them. He also thinks you should be shot. He’s gonna be pissed if I represent you.”

“Why?”

“The dolphins you released are his pals.”

“Then he should be thrilled. Dolphins in captivity grow obese. They fill up with the junk food the stupid tourists throw them. They don’t hunt. They don’t dive. They need to be free.”

“You know what you are, Nash? A true believer. A self-appointed savior. And that makes you really dangerous.”

“This the way you get your cases, Solomon? Insult the client?”

“I don’t need the work, Nash.”

Technically, that was true, Steve thought. He could be working, pro bono, on any number of cases for Lexy and Rexy, the twin bimbo models, who spent as much time litigating as posing. For the umpteenth time, Lexy had 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.”