Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

Scowling, the judge turned to Steve. “Counsel, control your bird.”

Steve signaled Marvin the Maven in the front row. “My associate may be able to help.”

Marvin toddled through the swinging gate, opened a small deli bag, and began feeding the bird a prune Danish, one nibble at a time.

Victoria quickly decided that her job was to keep Solomon from turning the courtroom into a zoo and herself into a laughingstock. The judge had sent the jurors back into their little room to bitch and moan in private while the lawyers argued whether a cockatoo could testify, or at least talk a bit.

“Birds represent love in mythology,” Steve began.

Victoria felt Pincher's eyes on her back, heard his pen scratching on his notepad. “What's love got to do with anything?” she demanded.

“A revealing question,” Steve shot back, “considering the unfortunate choice you've made in your personal life.”

“That's totally improper. Your Honor, defense counsel should be admonished for the ad hominem attack.”

“Settle down, both of you.” Judge Gridley tossed aside Lou's Sure Picks, a betting tip sheet. “Mr. Solomon, just what the heck are you saying?”

“Every bird must be heard,” Steve said. “It's in the Constitution.”

“Where?” Victoria demanded.

“It was implied when the Founding Fathers chose the bald eagle as the symbol of the country.”

“That's ridiculous. In the history of the Republic, no bird has borne witness in a court of law.”

“Ms. Lord overlooks The Case of the Perjured Parrot.”

“Don't think I know that precedent,” the judge said.

“One of the early Perry Masons,” Steve said. “A parrot named Casanova witnessed a murder.”

“Your Honor, this is ludicrous,” Victoria said. “A bird can't swear to tell the truth.”

“Tell the truth!” Mr. Ruffles said, spitting crumbs of prune Danish.

“Shut up!” Victoria said. Startled, the bird hopped from its tree to Steve's shoulder.

“Your Honor, Ms. Lord is harassing my bird,” Steve said.

The judge's gavel cracked like a rifle shot. “C'mon up here, both of you.”

As she approached the bench, Victoria felt her pulse racing. But just look at Solomon. A bird on his shoulder, a shit-eating smirk on his face. The judge was going to ream them both, and the idiot didn't even seem to care.

“Y'all want to have your dinner tonight in the stockade?” the judge asked.

“Certainly not, Your Honor,” she said respectfully.

“Chipped beef on toast again?” Steve inquired.

“My outburst was provoked by Mr. Solomon, Your Honor. And his friend, Ruffles.”

“Mister Ruffles,” protested Mr. Ruffles, flapping his wings.

“Ms. Lord doesn't understand creative lawyering,” Steve said.

“Mr. Solomon doesn't understand ethics.”

Judge Gridley exhaled a long sigh. “When I checked my calendar this morning, it said, ‘State versus Pedrosa,' not ‘Solomon versus Lord.'” He leaned back in his leather chair. “You two remind me of a couple beagles I have on my farm outside Ocala. One male, one female, always yapping and nipping, raising general hell. Tried keeping those two apart, but they'd just yowl. See, they couldn't stand each other, but couldn't stand to be apart. They just loved the fight.”

“Loved the fight!” Mr. Ruffles said.

“Then one day, it all stopped.”

“Did the female kill the male?” Victoria asked, hopefully.

The judge cleaned his trifocals on the sleeve of his black robe. “I came out to the barn and found the male humping the bitch, just pumping away on a bale of straw.”

“Humping the bitch,” Mr. Ruffles said.

“If that's the court's order,” Steve said, “we have no choice but to comply.”

“You see what I have to put up with.” Victoria felt her face redden.

“After that, those two dogs stayed as close as hog jowls and black-eyed peas,” the judge said. “Now, I'm not gonna referee you. Y'all want to rut around, find your own barn on your own time.”

“Six o'clock works for me,” Steve said.

He's a juvenile delinquent, Victoria thought. A spoiled brat. She turned her back on him.

“As for the pending issue,” the judge continued, “no dad-gum animal's gonna testify in my courtroom. I'm warning you both. Any attempt to elicit information from the bird will be considered a contempt of court.”

Victoria felt herself exhale. Ye-ssss! Solomon wanted to give her trial tips? Here's a tip for you. Don't mess with Victoria Lord.

“Now, git on back to your places and let's hang the ham in the smokehouse,” the judge said, then gestured for the bailiff to bring in the jury.

On the way to her table, Victoria smiled at Pincher, letting him know she'd won the motion. He nodded his appreciation. Then she felt Steve alongside her.

“Another trial tip, Lord,” he whispered. “In law and in life, sometimes you have to wing it.”

“Thanks a bunch,” she said.

“I have to wing it right now. You know why?”

“I don't care.”

“My client's guilty.”

She stopped short. “What?”

“He imports illegal birds, snakes, big cats. Sells them to zoos and collectors.”

Now she was confused. “You want to plead him out?”

“No way. Pedrosa gives people work, and the animals are healthy and happy.”

“What he does is a crime.”

“A victimless crime,” Steve said. “Pedrosa came to this country with nothing. He's put two kids through college. He's good people.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you can dismiss the case and spare yourself embarrassment.”

“Forget it.”

“Then I'm not responsible for what happens.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You're going to be a fine lawyer someday, Lord. But not until you find your heart.”

Victoria felt dizzy as she sat down, as if she had plunged through the rabbit hole and just kept falling. Hoping to stem the vertigo, she tried focusing on the sign above the judge's head. We Who Labor Here Seek Only Truth.

Sure. Solomon seeks to beat her brains in, the judge to beat the point spread, and the jurors to beat the traffic home.

Amancio Pedrosa swore to tell the truth and Steve started asking questions.

“What's your occupation, sir?”

“I run an animal shelter for poor, injured creatures,” Pedrosa said.

And Fidel Castro runs Club Med, Victoria thought.

“So you have birds on your property?” Steve asked.

Pedrosa's eyes welled with tears. “Flamingos with broken legs. Pelicans with fishhooks in their beaks. Egrets that swallow beer-can tabs.”

The jurors seemed stricken, Victoria thought. Could they be buying this shit?

“Do you recognize the bird sitting on my shoulder?”

“Looks like a Brazilian white cockatoo with a sulfur crest,” Pedrosa said.

“Cockatoo!” Mr. Ruffles said, as Steve hand-fed him another prune Danish.

“Did you smuggle this bird into the country?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how do you explain how Wildlife Officers found the bird on your property?”

“Hurricane Brenda,” Pedrosa said. “You remember? The storm came up the coast from South America.”

“So the hurricane blew our feathered friend north and deposited him on your property,” Steve said.

No one laughed, no one screamed, and Solomon's pants didn't catch fire.

Just wait till cross-examination. I'll show you a hurricane.

“That's about it,” Pedrosa said. “One day just after the storm, I saw that bird perched in a gumbo-limbo tree.”

“Gumbo-limbo,” Mr. Ruffles said.

“The same day, the Wildlife people showed up and arrested me.”

“For saving this bird's life, you were arrested,” Steve said sadly. He gave Mr. Ruffles a nudge, and the bird flapped his wings and hopped to Pedrosa's shoulder.