Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

“Yeah?”

“The receptionist in Family Services is a cousin of my late Oscar's grandniece,” Teresa said, “and she eats lunch with an investigator who works with Zinkavich.”

“What's that gotta do with me?” Steve asked.

“Zinkavich told his investigator he's gonna kick your culo.”

“The momzer,” Marvin said.

“Zinkavich wants to take Bobby away from me,” Steve said.

“That's not it,” Teresa said. “He's talking about criminal charges.”

Steve stopped dead. “For what?”

“All I know, he took a trip to Blountstown to look into it.”

Calhoun County, Steve thought. In the Panhandle. Where he'd busted Bobby out of the commune. And busted the bearded guy's skull.

A feeling of dread swept over him. Criminal charges?

Why's the Fink coming after me? All I want is to protect Bobby, give him a life.

“You watch out for Zinkavich,” Marvin warned. “He may look like a schlub, but he's mean as a Cossack.”

“Even worse,” Teresa said. “Mean as a comunista.”

Walking into Judge Gridley's courtroom with Marvin and Teresa at his side, Steve took a quick inventory of his life. Zinkavich was gunning for him; his crazed sister was on the loose; and a mysterious pickup truck might be tailing him. Not only that, a case he lusted after seemed beyond his reach. Maybe a woman, too.

Could it be, he wondered, that the high point of the last couple days was spending time in jail with Victoria Lord?

The jurors were in their box. Reading, knitting, staring into space. Ray Pincher was in the gallery, pumping constituents' hands. Judge Gridley was in his chambers, probably on the phone with his bookie.

At the prosecution table, Victoria was shuffling through her neatly arranged note cards. Steve nodded in her direction. “Marvin, give me your quick read.”

The old man squinted through his thick glasses. “Gucci pumps, snakeskin. And that woven leather handbag. Bottega Veneta. Fancy-schmancy.”

“I figure she's an heiress.”

“Not just expensive,” Teresa said. “Good taste, too.”

Steve headed toward her. “Wish me luck.”

“Gai shlog dein kup en vant,” Marvin said. “Go bang your head against the wall.”

Steve sized up Victoria's miniature war room. Her table was ringed with a Maginot Line of law books stacked six high. At her feet were boxes filled with files. On the table were cross-indexed depositions, fat pleadings binders, a box of index cards, and a dozen yellow pads. Lined up alongside were colored pens, Magic Markers, a ruler, and a pair of scissors. A plastic salad container held her uneaten lunch.

As Steve approached, he noticed that her skirt was hiked several inches above the knee. He'd known women lawyers who intentionally gave the jury a peek. Not Victoria. Any show of thigh would be totally accidental. But still appreciated.

He watched her drum her fingers on the table. Rookie jitters. The nails were painted a light pink. He pictured her at an expensive spa. Massage, facial, body wrapped in seaweed. Marvin was right. Fancy-schmancy.

At that moment, Victoria was also looking at her nails. Before racing to court, she had clipped, filed, and painted them a color called “Alaskan Dusk.” They'd been in terrible shape, the polish chipped, cuticles ragged. Now she used a fingernail to scrape some excess polish from a cuticle. Damn, she'd been rushed. When was the last time she spent the money for a manicure, much less a pedicure? These days, she did all her own grooming, including the blond highlights in her hair. Number eight Winter Blonde mixed with twenty volume peroxide. Her mother, who spent endless hours in the best salons, was appalled and let her know about it.

Victoria heard her stomach growling. There'd been no time for lunch. Not when she had to prepare for Solomon's stunts. While she had put on the state's case, he'd been unexpectedly well behaved. What was he planning? Pincher had it right when he advised her: “Keep your cool while he plays the fool.”

Don't worry, boss. Nothing Solomon can say or do will frazzle me.

She made another vow, too.

I'm going to win.

She had the evidence; she had the law; and she was smarter than Solomon.

Victoria imagined herself an architect, drawing up precise plans for a solid house. Solomon was a vandal, tearing down pillars, spray-painting graffiti. To him, laws were meant to be twisted, judges manipulated, jurors confused. He didn't even do research, for God's sake. She indexed every deposition by subject matter and cross-indexed by keyword. Every relevant appellate case was Shepardized, summarized, and yellow-lined. Her closing argument had been prepared for weeks. When Solomon came to court, carrying nothing but a cup of coffee, his hair was still wet from the shower and he was shaving in the elevator.

And here he came now, with that annoying grin on his face. Was he staring at her legs again?

“Got some trial tips for you.” Steve parked his butt on the corner of her table.

She covered up her index cards so he couldn't steal her closing argument.

“Never skip lunch,” he said, pointing at the unopened salad container. “Trials are draining. You need your energy.”

“What do you want, Solomon?”

He picked up a pair of scissors from her table, folded an index card twice, began snipping. “Look at my table. What do you see?”

“Your client. Sound asleep.”

True. Slumped in his chair, bird smuggler Amancio Pedrosa was snoring, drool dripping into a rectangular patch of whiskers just south of his lower lip. He was a stocky man in his forties in a rumpled guayabera.

Steve continued snipping at the card. “What else you see?”

“Nothing. There's nothing on your table except a blank legal pad.”

“Almost blank,” he agreed. “Sofia wrote her home number there while we were at lunch.”

“Sofia?”

“The court reporter.”

He nodded toward the attractive, dark-haired woman slipping a new roll of paper into her stenograph machine. Sofia Hernandez smiled back.

The woman's see-through orange blouse seemed inappropriate for court, Victoria thought. It was also a trifle small, or were her breasts simply a trifle large?

“What do you and Sofia do for fun?” Victoria asked. “Have her read back your best objections?”

“C'mon, this for your own good. What do the jurors think when they look at my table?”

“That you're not prepared.”

“That I'm not worried.” He gestured with the scissors toward the wall of law books on Victoria's table. “This little fortress seals you off. Unfriendly. Off-putting. The jury's thinking, ‘If she had to do all that work, she's got a weak case.' So, tip two, come into court lean and mean.”

“You practice your way, I'll practice mine.”

Steve unfolded the scissored index card and handed her the cutout of a long-winged bird. “For you. To remember this day.”

The courtroom door opened, and in walked a tall, handsome man with a great head of silvery blond hair.

“Oh, no,” Victoria groaned. She scooped up her salad container and tossed it into an open trial bag.

The handsome man walked toward them with long strides. He wore gray slacks, a blue blazer, and a white shirt with a club tie. His tie tack was a Phi Beta Kappa key. He looked Steve in the eye and extended a hand. “I'm Bruce Bigby,” he boomed so cheerily he might have been running for County Commissioner. “Are you Steve Solomon?”

“I am, unless you're a process server.”

Bruce Bigby? The name was familiar, but Steve couldn't get a handle on it.

“Heard all about you.” Bigby shook Steve's hand hard enough to crack walnuts. He leaned over and kissed Victoria on the cheek. “Hello, sweetie.”