Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

Sweetie?

“Bruce, what are you doing here?”

“Zoning Commission meets downstairs. How was the avocado salad?”

“Delicious,” she said, shooting a look, sharp as a dagger, at Steve, who judiciously kept quiet. “So thoughtful of you to make it.”

Who the hell is this guy? Boyfriend or personal chef?

“Sweetie!” Bruce Bigby sounded alarmed. “Where's your ring?”

Victoria glanced toward the jury box, then whispered: “It's a little ostentatious in front of the jurors.”

“Nonsense. They'll understand. You've got a man who loves you enough to go whole hog.”

Victoria smiled wanly, dug into her Italian handbag, brought out a small velvet box, and opened it.

“Holy shit.” Steve peered at a hefty slab of a diamond, held up by four pedestals, like one of those houses built on stilts in Biscayne Bay. Running up each side were two rows of smaller yet still chubby diamonds.

Victoria slipped the ring on. It looked heavy enough to give her a case of carpal tunnel.

“You're engaged?” Steve felt like someone had slugged him in the gut.

“Say, Steve, you like avocados?” Bigby said.

“I don't spend a lot time thinking about them.” He was still processing the information.

Victoria Lord was engaged!

“Because Monday, I could bring two salads,” Bigby said. “Baby lettuce, beefsteak tomatoes, and fresh avocados from Bigby Farms.”

Bigby Farms. Bingo. Thousands of acres between Homestead and the Everglades. Agriculture, real estate, land development…

Bigby said: “Nothing like six grams of fiber to flush you out.”

“Or a thousand grams of beef burrito,” Steve said, sinking deep into depression.

“Those nitrites will kill you, my friend. Thank God I got Victoria to become a vegan.”

Steve could have sworn he'd seen Victoria at the Sweet Potato Pie the other day, sucking on a short rib.

“Lips that touch pork chops shall never touch mine,” Bigby said.

Dammit, why hadn't she told me?

A beautiful woman without her engagement ring is like a handgun without a safety. She'd known he was interested. He'd offered her margaritas and tapas and his own personal mentoring. But she wasn't available. And still she let him go on. Had she told Bigby about the schmuck who kept hitting on her? Had they laughed at him over guacamole?

The more Steve thought about it, the hotter the fire burned. What was he doing giving her trial tips? Using kid gloves instead of brass knuckles? Didn't he have an obligation to zealously represent his client?

Damn right. You could look it up. The preamble to Rule Four of the ethical rules.

Zealous advocacy. It's required. Wimps need not apply.

To hell with winning nice. It was time to take Victoria Lord to school and steal her lunch money. He'd slash and burn, scorch the earth, leave bomb craters in the courtroom. When he was done with her, she'd never set foot in the Justice Building again.

Another thought crept into his mind, a searing realization of blinding truth. What he was planning was not so much zealous advocacy as jealous advocacy. Was Marvin right?

“Getting the Barksdale case is your alibi. It's the girl you're after.”

Not anymore. As for his plan to hustle the Barksdale case, forget it. He pictured Victoria down on the farm with Diamond Bruce Bigby, ridiculing Steve. “Solomon is so deluded, he thinks I'd send him Kat Barksdale as a client.”

“Say, Steve, mind if I say something out of school?”

Bigby talking. What the hell did he want?

“Shoot,” Steve said.

Bruce laid a protective hand on Victoria's shoulder. “My sweetie tells me you're one heck of a wily competitor.”

“She said that?”

Bruce laughed like a man who didn't owe anyone a dime. “Actually, she said you're a sleazy son-of-a-bitch who should be disbarred, flogged, and run out of town.”

“She's an excellent judge of character.”

“Isn't your hearing about to start, hon?” Victoria said.

Bigby plowed ahead, looking Steve squarely in the eyes. “I told Victoria you were her baptism of fire.” He stopped, caught himself. “That's not offensive to you, is it, Steve, the word ‘baptism'? I mean, I assume you're Jewish.”

“No problem. It's probably better than ‘Bar Mitzvah of fire.'”

“Anyway, I told her that crossing swords with you would be good training for coming in-house.”

“Not following you, Bruce.”

“After we're married, I want Victoria to come aboard. General counsel of Bigby Resort and Villas. We're converting farmland to vacation ownership units. More than eight thousand potential owners. Can you imagine the paperwork?”

“Time-shares?” Steve asked. “You're selling time-shares in the Everglades?”

Bigby held up a hand. “Please. Time-share is old school, used-car salesmen in cheesy sport coats giving away steak knives. Vacation ownership reflects modern sensibilities.”

“Like calling a garbage dump a sanitary landfill?”

“I can give you a heckuva deal on a unit right on the lake. Throw in upgraded cabinets, too.”

A beep interrupted them. Pulling out his pager, Bigby checked the digital display. “Whoops. Zoning Board's back. Gotta go.”

He brush-kissed Victoria, slapped Steve heartily on the back, and hustled out of the courtroom.

Victoria pretended to study her notes. “Don't say a word.”

“Real estate contracts? You, a paper pusher? And what's that bit with the salad?”

“I'm allergic to avocados.”

“And you've never told your fiance?”

“It would hurt his feelings.”

“Why aren't you that nice to me?”

“You don't have feelings.”

“So, you can be honest with a guy you call a sleazy son-of-a-bitch but you have to lie to the man you allegedly love?”

“This doesn't concern you.”

“May I ask a personal question?”

“No.”

“This Bigby. Does he have a foot-long shlong?”

“You are such a vulgarian.”

“Because I don't know what you see in him.”

“Go back to your table.”

“He's not right for you. He's got no poetry in his soul.”

“And you do?”

“Maybe not,” Steve said. “But at least I wish I did.”

“All rise! Court for the Eleventh Judicial Circuit in and for Miami-Dade County is now in session!” Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, announced His Honor's arrival as if the judge were Charles the Second ascending the throne. “All those having business before this honorable court, draw near!”

Judge Gridley strode in, robes flowing, and with a wave commanded all to sit. “Are counsel ready to proceed?”

“State's ready, Your Honor,” Victoria said.

“Defense is ready, willing, and able, Your Honor,” Steve said, sliding off the prosecution table.

“Mr. Solomon, call your first witness,” the judge ordered.

“The defense calls Mr. Ruffles,” Steve said.

“Objection!” Victoria leapt from her chair and knocked over a stack of books.

“On what grounds?” the judge asked.

“Mr. Ruffles is a bird,” she said.

2. In law and in life, sometimes you have to wing it.

A white cockatoo named Mr. Ruffles sat on the limb of a plastic tree, swiveling its head left and right, one blue-rimmed eye locked on Victoria. The fluffy bird, its feathers the color of sugar, resembled some dazzling sweet confection, she thought, a coconut cake maybe. The bird had a curved beak the color of blue curacao and intelligent, liquid eyes. On its head, a flaring sulfur crest added a punctuation mark, like a sapphire brooch on a gown.

“Hello there, fellow,” Judge Gridley said. “What's your name?”

“Feed me, dickwad,” Mr. Ruffles said.