Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

Victoria needed the father to paint a portrait of his son. Who is this man? So she asked her questions, and Herbert told his stories, the mellifluous flow of his Savannah drawl as pleasant as a burbling brook.

Herbert talked about Steve and young Janice growing up in the old, rambling house on Pinetree Drive on Miami Beach. He credited Steve's mother, Eleanor, “God rest her soul,” for keeping the family together while he was busting his tail as a lawyer, making his name with pro bono work, then on to the bench, eventually becoming chief judge of the circuit, and the first name on the governor's short list for appointment to the Florida Supreme Court.

“That's when my troubles began,” Herbert said, “but we're not here to talk about me, except as it relates to Stephen.”

He said he regretted all the missed opportunities to spend time with both his children when they were young. Janice took some wrong turns early, running with a bad crowd, using drugs, while Stephen was a jock at Beach High.

“Ah was too in love with mah own ambitions to pay mah children much mind,” Herbert said. “Eleanor was sick for years, and there was only so much she could do. The kids grew up pretty much on their own. Ah remember one time ah rushed from court to Tropical Park for the state track meet. Got there too late, just missed Stephen winning the hundred meters. Ah hustled into the stands, and one of the bailiffs from downtown stopped me and said, ‘Judge, you must have some of them Negro Israelites in your blood, 'cause white boys don't run like that.' Later, ah told Stephen how ah watched him win, but he knew ah was fibbing.”

“Your Honor.” Zinkavich was on his feet. “This is heartwarming, but I object on grounds of relevance.”

“Sit down,” the judge ordered.

“When Stephen was in college, he started asking me questions about lawyering,” Herbert continued. “Just scratching and pecking, not saying what he meant. Eleanor was dying and ah was about to be indicted on false testimony. Ah didn't have the heart to fight, so ah quit the bench and resigned the Bar in return for them dropping the investigation. Stephen was tore up, maybe more than me. That boy never told me straight-out, but ah know the reason he went to law school was to clear mah name. He wanted to ride into court on a big ole white horse, prove ah was innocent. When ah wouldn't let him do it, he got angry at me, too.”

Steve squirmed in his chair, Victoria sneaking a peek at him. Painful memories were etched on his face.

“Stephen's got this deep resentment of injustice. Maybe he doesn't always follow every little rule the fat cats come up with, but on things that matter, mah son's got integrity. His principles are more important to him than money. And he's a fine role model for mah grandson.”

There was a catch in his throat as he continued. “A man can't help but compare himself to his own son. Me? Ah was caught up in mah own inflated self-importance. Lawyer of the Year? Like being the best rattlesnake in the Okefenokee.”

“Don't be so hard on yourself,” Judge Rolle said. “You were widely admired. Still are, in my circle.”

“Ah'd lost mah way, Althea,” Herbert confided, dropping the formalities. “Ah never missed a Bar convention or a Chamber luncheon, and ah'd hang out at the Judiciary receptions till the last shrimp was gone from the bowl. Lord, how ah loved the applause, the slaps on the back, even those damn fool plaques they give you with the little gavels. Stephen doesn't give a rat's tuchis about those things. He'd rather spend time with a boy who needs him.”

Herbert Solomon turned in the witness chair and looked at Steve head-on. “Mah point is simply this: Ah admire Stephen so much for the man he's become. He puts Bobby first. Before his social life, before his career, before everything. Maybe ah was the better lawyer, but Stephen's the better man.”

It was an involuntary movement, what Victoria did then. Placing her hand on top of Steve's, letting her fingers lace through his. He tightened his hand into a fist, pulling Victoria's fingers tight between his, and they remained that way a long moment, his hand warm and firm beneath hers, the two hands wound so closely together as to nearly be one.

Steve carried the sleeping Bobby to the car, Herbert walking alongside. Victoria hung back a few steps, giving father and son a moment of privacy.

“You could stay with us tonight, not drive so far,” Steve said.

Herbert shook his head. “Ah'm a creature of habit. Need mah hammock on the back porch, mah laughing gulls singing to me.”

“What are you doing this weekend?”

“Not a damn thing. You teach Bobby to fish yet?”

“Thought that was your department, Dad.”

“Y'all come down to Sugarloaf Saturday, we'll chase the wily bonefish.”

“We'd like that.”

Victoria listened, realizing this strange, coded conversation was the male dance around edges of emotion. Steve was saying thank you, and Herbert was saying he wanted a closer relationship. Underneath it all, she supposed, father and son were each saying: “I love you.”

Finally, Herbert reached over and tousled Steve's hair, just as Steve did so often with Bobby. Then Herbert got into his rusty Chrysler and pulled out of the parking lot.

Minutes later, Steve was guiding the old Caddy convertible off the Miami Avenue exit of I-95. Bobby was asleep in the backseat. As they neared Victoria's condo, Steve said: “The way I acted when Dad came in

…”

“Yeah?”

“I was a real horse's ass, to use one of his expressions.”

Which she took to mean he was sorry.

“You really turned the case around,” he continued.

A thank-you, she translated. “All I did was call your father. He's the one who turned it around.”

“It was good lawyering, Vic. Really good.”

They sat quietly another moment before she said: “I need your help with Thigpen and your sister.”

“Just wing it.”

She looked over at him. The lights from the Brickell Avenue condos shadowed his face. What was he thinking?

“You might be able to wing it,” she said, “but I need to prepare for cross.”

“You'll be fine.” He turned the Caddy into the driveway of her building, pulled to a stop under the portico. “See you tomorrow, Vic.”

“Hey, you.”

“What?”

“We won a murder trial today.” Wanting to talk. Not wanting the night to end.

“How's it feel?”

She shrugged. “I don't know. I'm exhausted, emotionally drained. And…”

“A little let down?”

“Yeah.”

“It's always that way. If you win, the high's not high enough. If you lose, the low is lower than you thought possible.”

“We should celebrate.” Even as she said it, something struck a dissonant note.

Celebrate how? Just the two of us? Invite Bruce? That didn't sound like much fun.

“Sure thing,” Steve said.

“Katrina says she'll have a check for us by Friday. A big one.”

“Great.”

But he didn't sound great, Victoria thought. “Just what you wanted, Steve. A case to put you in the big leagues.”

“Yep.”

Since when did he become Mr. Monosyllabic?

“And I almost forgot, Katrina's planning a victory party,” Victoria said. “Everyone's supposed to dress as cops and convicts.”

“You can be the cop.”

“Actually, I'll be away. On…”

“Your honeymoon.”

“Maui.”

“Nice.”

“Bruce says they have some avocado-growing techniques he'd like to study.”

“A tax-deductible honeymoon. The Bigster is one savvy fellow.”

That seemed to drain the juice from the conversation. She wanted to ask him to come up, share some tequila, relive their victories. But Bobby was snoozing in the backseat, and it was late, and-an ever bigger reason-this was not the man whose ring she was wearing. Not the man to whom she was betrothed, the man she'd soon promise to love and to cherish till death did them part… and the man whose prenuptial agreement she needed to read before morning.