When she didn't respond, he said: “You still there or you bust out?” Somewhere, deep inside the walls, the plumbing groaned and water gurgled. “Suit yourself, but I gotta take a leak.”
What a jerk.
Solomon was one of those men you run into in bars and gyms, she thought, so clueless as to believe they're both witty and charming.
“No peeking,” he said.
There was a plague of these men, with a sizable percentage becoming lawyers.
“Unzipping now…”
Dear God, scrunch his scrotum, zipper his balls.
“Ahhh,” he sighed, the tinkle-tinkle sounding like hailstones on a tin roof. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall,” he sang out. “Ninety-nine bottles of beer…”
“I didn't realize they still made men like you,” Victoria Lord said.
I'm getting through to her, Steve thought. Sure, she was still playing that old I am strong, I am invincible, I am wo-man shtick, but he sensed a shift in her mood.
There seemed to be something different about the feisty Ms. Lord. Nothing like the court stenographers he usually dated. Quiet, rather submissive women who transcribed whatever they heard. And nothing like the SoBe models, whose brains must have been fried by exposure to so many strobe lights.
He remembered looking around the courtroom when Victoria rose to address the judge. All the players-from his shifty client to the sleepy bailiff-had been riveted. Jurors, witnesses, cops, probation officers, jailers, clerks, public defenders. Hell, everybody watched her, even when he was talking. Yeah, she was a natural, with the kind of pizzazz they can't teach in law school.
Maybe the best rookie I've ever seen.
Of course, she had a rigid prosecutorial mentality, but he could work on that, once she forgave him for suckering her into contempt. Not that he minded the downtime. To him, this eight-by-eight cell was a cozy second home, a pied-a-terre with a view of the Miami River from the barred window. Hell, they ought to put his name on the door, like a luxury suite at Pro Player Stadium. Failing that, he scribbled on the cell walclass="underline"
Stephen Solomon, Esq.
“Beating the state's butt for nine years”
Call UBE-FREE, 822-3733
Steve preferred to defend the truly innocent, but where would he find them? If people didn't lie, cheat, and steal, he figured he'd be starving, instead of clearing about the same as a longshoreman at the Port of Miami who worked overtime and stole an occasional crate of whiskey. Steve usually settled for what he called “honest criminals,” felons who ran afoul of technicalities that would not be illegal in a live-and-let-live society. Bookies, hookers, or entrepreneurs like today's client, Amancio Pedrosa, who imported exotic animals with a blithe disregard of the law.
Steve glanced into Victoria's cell. She had resumed pacing, a tigress in a cage. Her tailored plaid jacket was draped over an arm. An expensive outfit, he was sure, but wrong for the jury. The high neck accentuated her-well, stiff-neckedness. She should ditch that Puritan look, get something open at the collar, a bright blouse underneath. The matching skirt was fine, a little tighter than he'd expect on the prim prosecutor. A nice ass for someone so flat on top.
“What do you say, after we get out, we hit Bayside, dive into a pitcher of margaritas?” he said.
“I'd rather drink from the toilet bowl.”
Keeping her distance for now, he thought. Made sense as long as they were in trial. “Okay, let's wait till we get a verdict. Win or lose, I'll treat you to tapas.”
“I'd die of starvation first.”
“You might not be aware, but over the years, I've tutored several young women prosecutors.”
“I'm aware you've bedded down a few. And rifled their briefcases in the middle of the night.”
“Don't believe everything you hear in the cafeteria.”
“You're one of those toxic bachelors, a serial seducer. The only thing that shocks me is that some women find you attractive.”
Have I missed a signal? Shouldn't she be warming up by now?
“I'll bet any relationship you've had, the woman always ended it,” she said.
“My nephew lives with me and scares most women off,” Steve said.
“He scares them off?”
“He's kind of a reverse chick magnet.”
“That sort of thing genetic?” she asked.
An hour later, her feet still ached and the toilet still gurgled, but at least Solomon had shut up. Victoria hoped he understood that she had no interest in him. You hit some men with a frying pan, they think you're going to make them an omelette.
But as annoying as she found him, the sparring did help pass the time. And if nothing else, jousting with Solomon might sharpen her courtroom tactics. The trick was not to let him provoke her once they were back in front of judge and jury. She made a vow. Even if he led a herd of elephants into the courtroom, she would maintain a Zen-like tranquillity.
If I get back into the courtroom.
She wondered if word had reached Ray Pincher that she'd been sent to the slammer. A shudder went through her, and suddenly she felt both alone and afraid.
Awfully quiet over there, Steve thought, trying to see her through the shadows.
What was she thinking right now? Uptown girl inhaling the stale sweat and toxic cleansers of her own private Alcatraz. Probably planning what she'd tell her boss, that pious phony Ray Pincher. Scared he'd demote her to Traffic Court.
Had he gone too far, Steve wondered, baiting her into those outbursts? Judge Gridley's contempt citations were sort of like calling unsportsmanlike conduct on both teams. But would Pincher understand? Did he even recognize Lord's potential?
Dammit, Steve thought, beginning to feel regretful. He hadn't wanted to hurt her. He was just trying to have some fun while defending his client.
Another worry, too. His nephew, Bobby, barely eleven, was home alone. If Steve was late, who knows what might happen? One day last week, when he rushed through the door just after seven, the kid announced he'd already made dinner. Sure enough, Bobby had found a dead sparrow on the street, covered it with tomato sauce, zonked it in the microwave for an hour, and called it “roasted quail marinara.” It had been easier to throw out the microwave than to clean it.
If he ever dated Victoria, he'd introduce her to Bobby, his relationship litmus test. If she responded to the boy's sweetness and warmth-if she saw past his disability-she might be a contender. But if she was repulsed by Bobby's semi-autistic behavior, Steve would toss her out with his empty bottles of tequila.
Now what the hell was going on? Did he just hear a sniffle?
I will not cry, Victoria told herself.
She didn't know what had come over her. A feeling of being totally inadequate. A loser and a failure and a fraud. Dammit, what baggage had spilled out of the closet without her even knowing it?
“You okay?” Steve Solomon called out.
Shit, what did he want now? A lone tear tracked down her face, and then another. Great. Her mascara would turn to mud.
“Hey, everything all right?” he asked.
“Just great.”
“Look, I'm sorry if I-”
“Shut up, okay?”
The clatter of footsteps and the jangle of keys interrupted them. Moments later, a man's voice echoed down the dim passageway. “Ready to go back to work?”
“Go away, Woody,” Steve said. “You're disturbing my nap.”
Elwood Reed, the elderly bailiff, skinny as an axe blade in his baggy brown uniform, appeared in front of their cells. He hitched up his pants. “Mr. Pincher wants to see both of you, pronto.”
A chill went through Victoria. Pincher could fire her in an instant.
“Tell Pincher I don't work for him,” Steve said.
“Tell him yourself,” Reed retorted, fishing for the right key. “He's waiting in Judge Gridley's chambers and he ain't happy.”
Reed unlocked their cells, and they headed down the passageway, Steve whistling a tune, jarringly off-key, and Victoria praying she still had a job.