Paul Levine - Solomon versus Lord

Victoria scooped up her purse and headed for the door. Leaving her shoes, her jacket, and her client behind.

“Z, you got anything to add to these proceedings?” the judge asked.

“Only that I wish I'd gone to dental school,” Zinkavich said.

Judge Rolle leaned back in her chair and spun a full 360 degrees. When she stopped, she drilled Steve with a steady gaze. “You must be a handful, Mr. Solomon.”

“Beg your pardon, Judge?”

“To get a woman like that so hot and bothered.” She sighed. “You Solomon men are really something.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Steve agreed, not knowing what else to say.

“Okay, here's the way it's gonna be.” The judge pulled out the court file, made a notation on the cover. “Mr. Solomon's petition is granted. He is awarded full guardianship rights with no limitations other than my request to bring Bobby to chambers for lunch now and then.”

She banged her gavel and headed off the bench. Zinkavich gathered his files and left without a word.

Steve sat there alone, shredded pieces of note cards stuck to his jacket.

Holding one of Victoria's shoes, the inside still warm to the touch.

Wondering how it was possible to be so happy and so sad at the same time.

Frank Sinatra was singing, “Bang bang, she shot me down.”

“I hate this song,” Steve said, punching a button on the car radio.

“Wonder why,” Bobby said.

“It's not that. It's just a weak song. Beneath Frank's dignity.”

“Uh-huh.”

They were driving the old Caddy, top down, across the MacArthur Causeway to Steve's office. Bobby sat cross-legged in the front seat, eating a flaky guava pastelito. It was a breezy winter day of picture-postcard beauty. Palm trees swayed, terns hovered over the water, and the gleaming white cruise ships stood out in sharp focus at their berths.

So why am I so miserable?

He figured part of it was simply the adrenaline crash, the letdown after a battle. They'd won the headline-making murder trial. He'd won custody of Bobby. A truly joyous event, more important than any case he ever had or would have. Bobby was already talking about an upcoming fishing trip with his grandfather.

But still, a feeling of emptiness crashed over Steve.

Victoria would be stopping by later to pick up her things. And then she'd be gone.

Win the case, lose the girl.

Not that he ever had her, unless you count a stolen hour on a surreal night of firelight and snow. Had it even really happened? Maybe it was all a dream.

There was no reason to feel down, he told himself. Last night, he'd paid a visit to the Barksdale home. Katrina had kissed him on the cheek and thanked him for his splendid work. Her exact words were: “You're a fucking great lawyer and you've got one fine ass.”

She was drinking Cristal, which she offered to Steve, and even though he considered champagne carbonated piss, he said, sure, why not. She wore a white, ripply camisole with cabana pants that tied at the waist, or to be accurate, about several inches below her flat and suntanned belly. She kept flinging her dark hair around, repeating how fucking brilliant he was. Soon she was slurring her words, saying he was positively “edible,” but probably meaning “incredible,” he figured.

She handed Steve a flute of champagne and a cashier's check, her frozen accounts having defrosted after the charges were dismissed. Two hundred fifty thousand dollars to be split evenly with Victoria. After taxes and repaying Teresa the hundred thousand he'd borrowed, Steve figured he'd be about twenty thou in the hole. A few more victories like this, he could declare bankruptcy.

Steve asked where Manko was, and Katrina said he was preparing the boat for a trip to Bimini, just the two of them.

“You remember, I told you we were all going to go to Bimini, before Charlie croaked?”

“Sure, it was part of our defense-why would you plan a trip with Charlie a week after you were going to kill him.”

“Now Chet and I are going. But not Charlie.” Giggles burst from her like bubbles of champagne.

“Is there something you want to tell me, Katrina?”

“Nope.” Another sip, another giggle. “Unless you want to know a big secret.”

He wasn't sure. He wasn't sure if he wanted to hear that his edible and incredible self had cleared a guilty woman of murder. But he had to know. “Go ahead. Tell me a secret.”

“No,” she said with a little-girl pout. “I shouldn't.”

“Let's play a game, Katrina. I'll confess something if you will.”

“I like games,” she said with a titter. “You first.”

“Okay. Remember that security tape?”

“Sure. First you thought there was a shadow of somebody out in the hall. But then your expert said it was nothing.”

“That's what I told you. Victoria, too.”

“Yeah?”

“I lied.”

“Whadaya mean?”

“It was a simple photogrammetry problem, solved with a trig equation. The shadow was a person about six-foot-three, probably over two hundred pounds. Who does that sound like?”

“My Chet,” she cooed. She put down her wineglass, cocked her head coquettishly. “So you knew Chet was there?”

“I knew.”

“Why didn't you tell Victoria?”

“I wanted her to work as hard for you as I would.”

“Why work so hard if you thought I was guilty?”

“It's my job.”

“That's all?”

“That's a lot.”

“You still think I killed the old perv?” She seemed to be sobering up.

“You tell me.”

“C'mon, you proved Charlie committed suicide.”

“I proved Charlie wrote a suicide note. There's a difference. I figure you and Manko killed Charlie before he had a chance to do the job himself.”

“You've got it backward, silly. Sure, Chet was gonna kill him, but Charlie beat him to it.”

“Is that the truth? You might as well tell me. They can't try you twice for Charlie's death.”

“Final jeopardy, right? But it's the truth, I swear. Charlie committed suicide by strangling himself. You should have seen it. His eyes nearly popped out of his head. Gross!”

She seemed totally guileless, and Steve felt a mixture of relief and revulsion. Okay, maybe, she wasn't guilty, but she wasn't exactly innocent, either. Had justice been served? He supposed it had. Katrina had wanted to kill Charlie, but we punish people for what they do, not what they wish. If every woman who wanted to strangle her husband was indicted, criminal defense lawyers would all drive Ferraris. Katrina was morally guilty, of course. If there truly were a judge on a heavenly throne, a real Court of Last Resort, Steve figured she'd face some ultimate justice. But as far as earthly law was concerned, Katrina had been rightfully acquitted. He'd done his job well.

She downed the rest of her champagne. “So, congratulate me.”

“For not killing your husband?”

“For marrying Chet.”

“Thought you said Chet was just a sport fuck.”

“But a good one.” She laughed. “We're getting hitched in Bimini.”

“Congratulations.” Two scorpions on a yacht, he thought. He wondered how long it would take one to sting the other.

“Before we go, there's something I need you to do.”

“Yeah?”

“Can you make me one of those prenups?” Katrina asked.

The Caddy was just passing Parrot Jungle when Steve's cell phone rang.

“Althea Rolle called me this morning.” Herbert Solomon sounded peeved.

“Oh, shit. I was so drained last night…”

“You forgot to tell me some big news.”

“I'm sorry, Dad. Really.”

Herbert harrumphed into the phone. “Anyway, ah'm glad for you. And Bobby.”