She felt the first sharp dagger of panic.
The judge's order. Have I violated the judge's order?
Next to her, Pincher cleared his throat with the sound of a truck dumping gravel. She could feel Solomon's presence, gliding into the well of the courtroom, circling like a hungry shark.
“It's Mr. Solomon's fault,” she said. “He planned this. I don't know how exactly, but I know he did.”
“That doesn't cut it, Judge,” Steve said. “Ms. Lord has shamefully induced Mr. Ruffles to incriminate the defendant. I reluctantly move for a mistrial.”
The word “mistrial” sent a shiver of fear through her. She groped for the right response, not daring to risk a glance at Pincher.
“But Pedrosa's guilty! Solomon told me so.” The words just poured out. “That's why he's winging it. Solomon's diabolical, unbalanced, dangerous. He should be locked up along with his guilty client.”
The courtroom was hushed. Everyone was staring at her. Victoria looked down. She was pointing her scissors at Solomon, her hand shaking.
“Bailiff, disarm counsel,” the judge said, gravely.
Elwood Reed hitched up his belt, walked purposefully to the prosecution table, and took the scissors from Victoria.
“Mistrial granted,” Judge Gridley said. He turned to the jurors and thanked them for their service, explaining that their duties were over, and isn't it wonderful to live in a country where the rule of law prevails?
Victoria slumped into her chair, dazed. She was vaguely aware of Pedrosa hugging Steve Solomon at the defense table. There was a flapping of wings. The damned bird was celebrating, too. Next to her, Pincher stirred uncomfortably.
“I'm sorry, sir.” Her voice was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves.
“Some lawyers aren't cut out for the courtroom,” Pincher told her. “Maybe you can be a back-office scrivener somewhere, but trial work's not for you.”
She must have been shaking her head, because he said, “Do you understand?”
“No, sir.”
“Do I need Donald Trump to deliver the news? You're fired.”
Pincher got up and left her there, alone. A loser. A leper in a colony of one.
Her throat felt constricted, and her heart, which had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, seemed to stop. The courtroom became unbearably hot, the lights excruciatingly bright. Footsteps of departing spectators echoed like thunderclaps, whispers cackled like derisive laughter.
She tried to compose herself, knowing her cheeks were crimson, her makeup melting. And then it came. The first salty tear.
At the defense table, Steve looked at Victoria sitting alone and forlorn. Only another trial lawyer could understand what she was going through, her blood pooling on the courtroom floor. Steve had lost cases-though perhaps none so spectacularly-and he knew the shame. He'd heard Pincher fire her. The prick hadn't even waited until they were back in the office.
And now what?
Oh, jeez, she's crying.
Steve felt an emotion that seldom wormed itself into his consciousness: guilt. He hadn't meant to get her fired. He wanted to tell her that the only lawyers who never get humiliated in court are those too chickenshit to venture there. He wanted to tell her that she had more potential than any young lawyer he knew. She was a gladiator who'd gone down swinging her sword. Nothing to be ashamed of, not her fault her boss was a jerk.
Steve watched Victoria unstrap her expensive Italian shoes and toss them into a plastic bag, slipping on white Nikes for the trek to the parking lot. The Warrior Princess stripped of her armor. He told himself that someday she'd look back and realize it was for the best. Why should she waste her time with Sugar Ray Pincher? He'd do nothing but stunt her growth. She should be in private practice. Like him.
An idea was forming.
He could groom her, teach her all his tricks.
We could handle the Barksdale case together.
He wondered just how furious she was. Would she even listen to his offer? Would she help him-help them-land Katrina Barksdale as a client? He gathered up Mr. Ruffles and walked to the prosecution table.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“No you're not.”
“I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity.”
“I hate you, you know.”
“I hate you,” Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.
“What are you going to do now?” Steve asked.
“I don't know.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“You've done quite enough.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“Shit!” she screamed.
“Don't say that till you hear me out,” he said.
“Dammit! Your bird.”
Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.
“They say it's good luck,” Steve said.
GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH By Joan Fleischman
Herald Staff Writer
The Miami-Dade Grand Jury will hear evidence Monday in the strangulation death of construction magnate and philanthropist Charles Barksdale, 60. County Coroner Wu-Chi Yang reportedly will tell the Grand Jury that Barksdale died from “erotic asphyxia,” death from cutting off the air supply during sex. The issue before the Grand Jury is whether there is probable cause that the death resulted from a homicide, rather than an accident. Dr. Yang would not comment on these reports, and all proceedings before the Grand Jury are confidential. The sole suspect in the inquiry is Barksdale's widow, Katrina Barksdale, 33, who reportedly was with her husband in the bedroom of their luxurious bayfront home when the incident occurred last Wednesday night. The couple had been married four years. Barksdale was best known for his waterfront condominium projects and as a sponsor of book fairs and poetry seminars. Asked for a comment, State Attorney Raymond Pincher said, “We will present the Grand Jury with evidence that Mrs. Barksdale had ample motive, opportunity, and means to commit this heinous crime, and that she did so with premeditation and malice aforethought.” The State Attorney then added, “Not that I'm prejudging her.”
Eight
THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA BREEZE
What the hell did his father want?
What was so important that Steve had to fill the mammoth tank of his 1976 Cadillac Eldorado for the drive down Useless 1, the old highway that runs from Maine to Key West?
And why did the old man say to leave his grandson behind? Strange, because Bobby's the one Herbert Solomon enjoyed seeing.
These were the questions plaguing Steve as the old Caddy powered past the mango groves and vegetable farms of South Dade. Not that he had anything better to do. With the bird trial ended and his office empty of clients-customers, Cece called them-he had time for a quick trip to the Keys.
Or a long trip.
He felt a stab of pain when he saw the billboard with a drawing of pastel-colored low-rise buildings around a lake ringed by avocado trees.
BIGBY RESORT amp; VILLAS
Your Forever Getaway
Sounded like Menorah Gardens Cemetery, he thought. He had tried calling Victoria last night, but she wasn't picking up the phone, even though he'd dangled irresistible bait.
“Your Prince Charming here,” he said to her answering machine, “and if you ever want to see your size eight-and-a-half Guccis again, you'll return my call.”
In Victoria's haste to flee the courtroom, bird crud on her sleeve, Nikes on her feet, she had left her shoes behind. The snakeskin pumps, greatly admired by Marvin the Maven, now sat on the cracked white leather of the passenger seat, like a pair of miniature schnauzers.
When the phone rang just before midnight, he hoped it was Cinderella calling back. No luck.
“You stepped in the deep shit this time,” Herbert Solomon had drawled, sounding semi-blitzed, “and ah'm gonna pull you out.”