Paul Levine - The Deep Blue Alibi

"Ex-lawyer," Victoria said.

"Whatever. The lawyer takes the stand and opines on who killed the decedent."

"The State Attorney has a point." The judge turned to his bailiff. "Take the jury out for a spell. We're gonna figure this out without mucking up the record."

After the jurors had filed into their little room, Judge Feathers asked Victoria, "Just what is it you're trying to elicit from your partner?"

"Ex-partner," Victoria corrected. "Your Honor, may I voir dire Mr. Solomon in the absence of the jury?"

"Be my guest."

"Mr. Solomon, did Clive Fowles tell you who killed Ben Stubbs?"

"He did."

"I knew it," Waddle said. "There's hearsay coming round the bend."

"Keep your britches on, Dick," the judge said. "Just because I'm hearing it doesn't mean the jury will. Keep going, Ms. Lord."

"What did Clive Fowles tell you?"

"He worked for a third party, someone he wouldn't name. The third party wanted Stubbs to sink Oceania by writing a negative environmental report. Fowles' job was to convince Stubbs to go along. And to kill him if he didn't."

So far, all true.

"And what did Mr. Fowles do in response to these instructions?"

"He sneaked onto the Force Majeure, and when Stubbs refused to do what he was told, Fowles did what he'd been ordered to do."

Sort of the truth.

"Could you be more specific, Mr. Solomon?"

Steve took a deep breath. There was nowhere to run. Telling the literal truth-that Stubbs had been shot accidentally-would get Griffin off the hook, if the jury ever heard the testimony. But the truth wouldn't nail Robinson. "Fowles said he shot Stubbs with the spear-gun. He killed the man, just as he'd been instructed."

Now, that didn't hurt, did it? Actually, yes it did. "Besides saying he killed Mr. Stubbs," Victoria said, "what else did Mr. Fowles do?"

"He wrote a confession and signed it."

"Where and when did this happen?"

"Yesterday. On Fowles' World War Two chariot."

"His what?" the judge asked.

"A two-man underwater craft that looks like a torpedo with seats. You ride it in scuba gear. We were on the ocean floor at the time."

"The ocean floor?" Waddle laughed. "Sounds like the witness has a case of nitrogen narcosis."

"And how did Mr. Fowles write this confession underwater?" The judge was intrigued.

"On a magnetic slate. The kind divers use."

Waddle cleared his throat. "Best evidence rule, Judge. Where's this alleged written confession?"

"Lost at sea," Steve said. "I dropped the slate when Fowles rammed Conklin's boat and they were both killed."

"Jesus on the cross." Judge Feathers let out a low whistle.

"Your Honor, I move to bar all of Mr. Solomon's testimony," Waddle announced. "The alleged confession is a hundred percent hearsay, pure and simple."

"State Attorney's right," the judge said. "Ms. Lord, if you had that slate, I'd be inclined to let Mr. Solomon authenticate it and get it into evidence. But without it…"

"Thank you," Waddle smirked. "Now may we bring the jury back in and try this case according to the rules?"

Just then, the courtroom door opened, and a tall, handsome, suntanned man barged in. Junior Griffin wore flip-flops, chinos, and a muscle tee, and his long blond hair was wet and slicked back. To Steve, he looked like one of those men's cologne commercials.

But what's he holding?

"Hope I'm not too late." Junior was waving a mesh bag. Inside the bag was the magnetic slate.

Steve couldn't believe it.

I'm supposed to be the hero. Not Junior Friggin' Griffin!

"It was only in eighty feet of water," Junior said, nearing the bench. "But the Coast Guard coordinates were a little off. It took me five dives. No tanks, of course."

The court reporter, a young woman in open-toed sandals and a short skirt, was gaping at Junior as if he were a butterscotch sundae. "Could I get your name for the record?" she asked.

"Harold Griffin, Jr."

"And your phone number?" she continued.

"Let's see what you've got there, young man," Judge Feathers said.

Junior opened the bag and handed the slate to the judge. The message was still there: "I killed Stubbs." With Clive A. Fowles' signature.

"Mr. Solomon, is this the written confession you were talking about?" the judge asked.

"It is."

"And you saw Mr. Fowles sign this?"

"I did."

"All right, then. Let's bring in the jury. I believe Ms. Lord has some evidence to introduce."

Two days later, in a blissful daze of Tylenol with codeine, Steve was semi-snoozing in the rope hammock strung between two sabal palms along the shoreline at Sugarloaf Key. He would have fallen asleep if his father hadn't been spouting profanities as he crab-crawled across the roof of his houseboat, wrestling with his satellite dish.

"Suck egg, cornholer!" Herbert yelled, then banged the dish with a wrench.

The Solomons were genetically impaired in home improvement genes, Steve knew.

"Still snowing," Bobby called out from inside the living salon. He was watching the TV screen as his grandfather tried to realign the dish.

"Hey, lazybones!" Herbert growled. "You might give us some help over here."

Steve rocked back and forth in the hammock. "If you'd fix the leak, so the boat wouldn't list to starboard, you wouldn't have to keep moving the dish."

"Like you know electronics."

"So why ask me to help?"

Bare-chested, wearing paint-splattered shorts, Herbert was glistening with sweat. He grunted as he tried to muscle the dish a few millimeters.

"Dad, why don't you come down before you have a heart attack?"

"Don't go spending a fortune on the funeral," Herbert ordered. "Not that you would."

"A blizzard now," Bobby reported from inside.

"To hell with it." Herbert climbed down the ladder to the rear deck.

Bobby stuck his head out a window. "Uncle Steve, can you fix the TV?"

"Do your homework. Television's bad for you. Especially Fox News."

A few minutes later, Steve heard the unmistakable clink ing of ice cubes in a glass. He opened his eyes to see his father approaching the hammock. He carried two large glasses swirling with golden liquid.

"May I assume that's not root beer?"

"Ain't gator sweat, neither." Herbert sat down in a plastic chair alongside the hammock. "Scotch with a shpritz of soda."

"I hope it's more than a shpritz. Those are sixteen-ounce glasses."

"Should last us a spell. Good for what ails you."

"Is Bobby doing his homework?"

"He is if his teacher assigned a website with cameras inside the cheerleaders' locker rooms."

"Great." Steve sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the hammock. "Ooh."

"You okay, son?"

"When I was running on adrenaline in court, I was fine. Now I'm just a little woozy."

Herbert handed him a drink. "L'chaim."

Steve tilted his glass toward his father. "Confusion to the enemy."

The men drank, and Herbert said: "So what do you hear from Victoria?"

"Jury went out at eleven this morning."

"You oughta be there."

Steve shook his head, and billiard balls bounced between his ears. "It's her case. Not mine."

"So?"

"When she gets a verdict, it should be her moment. She deserves her autonomy."

"What kind of word is that? 'Autonomy'?"

"Victoria's word."

"Thought so." The old man took a long pull on the Scotch. "So we gonna talk, or what?"

"I dismissed the Bar suit, if that's what you're wondering."

"That ah already know."

"How?"

"Pinky Luber told me."

"You're still talking to him?"

"Talk? Hell, ah'm taking Pinky fishing next week."