Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

He slipped off the table and plopped into the chair next to her. Victoria searched for a reply, but before she could say a word, the rear door to the courtroom opened and Judge Althea Rolle hurried in, robes flowing. “Don't bother standing,” she said, dropping into her high-backed chair. “We're gonna finish this up real quick.”

It had been a performance. Steve wasn't nearly as sure of himself as he tried to appear. But he had taken a shot, aiming for the deepest part of Victoria, the part she kept hidden. He had aimed for her heart.

If it didn't work, if she finked to the Fink and to the judge, he had another option. It would take them several days to crank up the machinery of the criminal justice system. You can't get an indictment overnight. You need subpoenas, affidavits, sworn testimony. Time enough to pack the old Caddy with everything important-some sweats, some John D. MacDonald paperbacks, the panini grill-and uncle and nephew would hit the road. To where, he didn't know.

Matamoras, Mexico? Tegucigalpa, Honduras?

He'd never been to either place, just liked the sound of the names.

“Now, Ms. Solomon,” the judge began, nailing Janice with a steely look, “my question is this…”

Steve sneaked a peek at Victoria. Perched on the edge of her chair, she looked like a bird about to take flight.

“Between the state and your brother,” the judge continued, “who would you choose to care for your son?”

“Your Honor, I have something to say,” Victoria said.

Damn. Steve wondered if his passport was up-to-date.

“Hold on, Ms. Lord,” the judge said. “You'll get your chance. Now, Ms. Solomon-”

“It's important, Your Honor.”

“I said, in a minute.” Judge Rolle gave Victoria a stern look, then turned back to Janice. “The state or your brother, Ms. Solomon? What's your choice?”

Victoria fidgeted in her chair but kept quiet. For the moment.

“I been in enough state facilities to know the shit that goes down there,” Janice said. “Stevie's blood. He's good people. Why not give him a shot?”

“I thought so,” the judge said.

Victoria sat at her table, clutching her note cards in a white-knuckled grip.

What's she going to do?

“Does the state have any more witnesses?” the judge asked.

“My cupboard is bare,” Zinkavich said, “but I move for a continuance until I can locate Mr. Thigpen.”

“Denied.”

“Then I ask that the Court withhold ruling until the State Attorney's Office can investigate the veracity of Ms. Solomon's testimony,” Zinkavich said, desperately.

“Denied.”

“I request for a stay of all proceedings until-”

“Denied. Ms. Lord, please sum up for the Petitioner.”

Victoria seemed stunned. “Oh, Your Honor, I'm not ready for closing argument. But there's something I need to disclose-”

“Ms. Lord, if you're half the lawyer I think you are, you already know which way the Court is leaning. So stand up, talk quick, then sit down.”

Victoria stood, shakily. “This is difficult. I don't know exactly how to say this.”

She was torn, Steve thought. Torn between her heart and those damn rules.

“Ms. Lord, just give me a thought or two about Mr. Solomon, and we'll call it a day, okay?”

Victoria's eyes seemed to focus on a spot on the wall. She sighed. Then she said, “Your Honor, Steve Solomon is the most exasperating man I have ever known.”

“That's a start,” the judge said. “Go on.”

“He has great empathy for people who've got no one to stand up for them. But he's also maddening, impetuous, utterly irrational.”

Winging it, Steve thought. But where would she land?

“He has absolutely no respect for the rules,” Victoria continued. “He makes up his own. He's witty and fun and smart, but he can do some incredibly stupid, thoughtless things. He-”

“Your Honor,” Zinkavich interrupted. “Is this closing argument or couples therapy?”

“Quiet,” the judge said. “I want to see where this is going.”

“I know this man, Steve Solomon,” Victoria said. “Oh, Judge, I know him so well. I've looked deep inside him.”

“Objection!” Zinkavich shouted. “Counsel is testifying. It's totally improper to offer personal opinions on the issues.”

“Counsel is right,” Victoria said, before the judge could rule. “I just crossed the line. It's forbidden by the rules. Frowned on by legal scholars.” Her voice took on a sarcastic lilt. “And, oh, how I've always followed the rules.”

Her face was flushed now, her eyes flashing with sparks. Running on emotion.

“I got straight A's while working two jobs and playing varsity tennis at Princeton,” Victoria said, while unbuttoning her double-breasted jacket. “At Yale, I was the star of the law journal.” She tore off her jacket and tossed it at Steve. His hands came up late, and the jacket covered his face before he could whisk it away.

“I was going to make my mark in the public sector,” she continued, “spend time in private practice, then go on the bench. All mapped out on color-coded note cards. I planned something else, too. A tall, handsome, suitable husband and two-point-four perfect children. And I was going to follow all the rules.”

Victoria turned, walked back to the table, and drew back an arm. For a second, Steve thought she was going to slug him, but instead, she swept an open palm across the table, knocking her files to the floor with a crash. “That's what I think of the rules!”

Three note cards remained on the table. She scooped them up and tore them into pieces, showering Steve with confetti. “And that's what I think of my stupid, color-coded note cards.”

Complete meltdown, Steve thought. He had no idea what she would say next, figured she didn't, either.

“And I'll tell you something else, Judge.”

Here it is. The end of the line. She was going to snitch on him.

“My feet are killing me.” She propped one ankle over a knee, pried off an ankle-strapped Prada pump, and tossed it to Steve. The second shoe came a moment later. The toss was low, but he scooped it up in one hand.

Victoria padded toward the bench in her panty-hosed feet. “Where was I, Your Honor?”

“Somewhere between Mr. Solomon's irresponsible and irritating conduct and your two-point-four perfect children. And may I compliment you on your toenail polish? Malibu Sunset?”

“Painted Desert, Your Honor.”

Victoria moved back to her table, and for a moment, Steve panicked: the brown taffeta blouse might be coming off next. “Steve Solomon's taught me so much,” she said. “‘When the law doesn't work,' he always says, ‘you work the law.' At first, it sounded illegal or at least immoral. But it's not. When used to do good, it's the true meaning of the law. Law tinged with compassion. Law that seeks the truth. Law that protects the innocent. It's the only place where the law and justice truly meet.” She turned toward Steve, her eyes glistening with tears. “Otherwise, we're just robots. Unfeeling automatons. Bloodless and soulless. Sin alma o corazon.”

She picked up a paper clip from the table, twisted it apart, pricked a finger with a sharp end.

Ouch.

She held up her hand. A drop of blood oozed from a fingertip.

“I'm not a robot. I bleed. I feel pain. And I feel love. So does Steve Solomon. I've never known anyone who loves a child more, who gives more of himself to a child.”

She stood there a moment, seemingly dazed, then turned back to the judge. “Your Honor, may I be excused?”

“Go on now,” the judge said, with a wave of her hand, “before you bleed on your skirt. Philippe Adec?”

“Zanella.”

“Lovely. Wish I was tall enough for the A-line.”