1. When the law doesn't work… work the law.
Two
HUMILIATIONS GREAT AND SMALL
No more tears, Victoria vowed as they approached the entrance to Judge Gridley's chambers. She would rather break a nail, tear her panty hose, and shear off a heel of her Prada pumps than cry in front of Steve Solomon.
Biting her lower lip, she tried to transport herself to more pleasant venues. A clay tennis court on Grove Isle, stretching high for an overhead smash, the solid thwack of racket on ball. Handling the wheel of her father's gaff schooner-the Hail, Victoria-when she was ten, the wind snapping against the mainsail. Anyplace but here, where her boss lay in wait, armed with the power to destroy her career.
“Something wrong?” Steve said, walking alongside.
Instincts like a coyote, she thought. The door was six steps away. She felt her insides tighten; her heart pitched like a boat in a squall.
“I've known Pincher for years,” Steve persisted. “Why not let me handle him?”
“Does he like you?” she asked.
“Actually, he hates my guts.”
“Thanks, anyway.”
“Then a word of advice. Don't take any shit.”
She stopped short. “What are you saying? That Pincher will respect me if I stand up to him?”
“Hell, no. He'll fire you. Then you can come over to my side.”
Steve thought the chambers cannily reflected both of Judge Gridley's pursuits, misconstruing the law and bungling pass-interference calls. There were the required legal volumes, laminated gavels, and photos of the judge shaking hands with lawmakers and lobbyists. Then there were old leather football helmets and photos of the striped-shirted Gridley at work on Saturdays in various college football stadiums.
One wall was devoted to trophies and posters, evidencing the judge's fanatical devotion to his alma mater, the University of Florida. A plaque celebrated Gridley as a “Bull Gator Emeritus,” and on his desk was a stuffed alligator head with its mouth open, teeth exposed, like a hungry lawyer. Only two things were missing, Steve thought: a bronzed jockstrap and Judge Gridley himself.
Standing on the orange-and-blue carpet was a scowling, trim, African-American man in his forties, wearing a three-piece burgundy suit. When he moved his arms, there was a soft clanging of metal. Raymond Pincher's dangling silver cuff links were miniature handcuffs.
Steve thought that Pincher, the duly elected State Attorney of Miami-Dade County, would have to loosen up considerably just to be called tight-assed. Pincher billed himself as a crime fighter, and his campaign billboards pictured him bare-chested, wearing boxing gloves, a reminder of his days as a teenage middleweight in the Liberty City Police Athletic League. He'd won the championship two years running, once with a head butt, and once with a bolo punch to the groin, both overlooked by the referee, who by serendipitous coincidence was his uncle. Boxing had been excellent preparation for Florida politics, where both nepotism and hitting below the belt were prized assets. These days, when someone suggested he'd make a fine governor, Ray Pincher didn't disagree.
Pincher glared at Victoria, who was biting her lip so hard Steve thought she might draw blood. Suddenly, Steve was worried about her and wanted to save her job. But how to do it? How could he take the heat off her?
Victoria said a quick prayer. First that her voice wouldn't break when she was required to speak. Second, that Solomon would keep his big mouth shut.
“Hey, Sugar Ray,” Steve called out. “Execute anyone today?”
Oh, Jesus.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Pincher.” Victoria nodded stiffly, struggling to remain calm.
“Ms. Lord, I am disturbed by what I hear and concerned by what I see,” Pincher chanted in a melodious singsong. Before attending law school, he had studied at a Baptist seminary. There, office gossips claimed, he'd been expelled for selling Bibles intended as gifts to Central American orphanages. “A prosecutor is the swift sword of justice, the mighty soldier in the war of good against evil.”
“Amen,” Steve said.
Victoria felt her cheeks heating up.
Dammit! Don't be such a girl.
“A prosecutor must never be held in contempt,” Pincher said. “Contempt is for defense lawyers of the flamboyant persuasion.” “Flam-boy-ant” sounding like a flaming French dessert. “Contempt is for the hired guns who sell their souls for filthy lucre.”
“Or for peanuts,” Steve said.
“Stay out of this, Solomon,” Pincher said. “Ms. Lord, what is the most important attribute of any trial lawyer?”
“I'm not sure, sir,” she said, afraid to venture a guess.
“The ability to lie while saying hello,” Solomon volunteered.
“Dignity,” Pincher fired back. “Ms. Lord, do you know what happens to prosecutors who bring disrespect to the office?”
She stood rigidly, unable to speak.
“Hellfire, damnation, transfer to hooker court,” Steve enumerated.
“Termination,” Pincher said.
“C'mon,” Steve said. “Give her some room. She's gonna be really good if you don't squeeze the life out of her.”
Great, Victoria thought, a compliment from Solomon, as helpful as a stock tip from Martha Stewart's broker.
Steve said: “She's already better than most of your half-wits who want to plead everything out and go home at four o'clock.”
“Not your business, Last Out.”
Last Out. What was that all about? She'd have to ask around.
“My point, Ms. Lord, is that you cannot let Mr. Solomon badger, befuddle, or bedevil you.” Pincher often employed the preacher's habit of alliteration and the lawyer's habit of using three words when one will do.
“Yes, sir,” Victoria said.
“I myself have tried cases against Mr. Solomon,” Pincher said.
“You're the best, Sugar Ray,” Steve said. “Nobody suborns perjury from a cop like you do.”
Cuff links jangling, Pincher wagged a finger in Steve's face. “I recall you bribing a bailiff to take two six-packs of beer to the jury in a drunk-driving case.”
“‘Bribery' is an ugly word,” Steve said.
“What do you call club seats for the Dolphins?”
“The way they're playing, torture.”
“You're Satan in Armani,” Pincher said.
“Men's Wearhouse,” Steve corrected.
“You have raised contumacy to a high art.”
“If I knew what it was, I'd be even better at it.”
“We have a dossier on you. Contempt citations, frivolous motions, ludicrous legal arguments.”
“Flatterer,” Steve said.
“Any more circus tricks, I'll have the Florida Bar punch your ticket.” Pincher shot his cuffs and flashed a hard, cold smile. “You don't watch your step, you're gonna end up like your old man.”
“Leave him out of this.” Steve's tone turned serious.
“Herbert Solomon felt he was above the law, too.”
“He was the best damn judge in the county.”
“Before your time, Ms. Lord,” Pincher said, “Solomon's father was thrown off the bench.”
“He resigned!”
“Before they could indict him. Bribery scandal, wasn't it?”
“You know goddamn well what it was. A phony story from a dirty lawyer.”
“I was only a deputy then, but I saw the files. Your father's the dirty one.”
The room had grown tense.
“What's the penalty for slugging the State Attorney?” Steve said. His hands were clenching and unclenching.
Pincher balanced on his toes like a prizefighter. “You don't have the balls.”
The two men glared at each other a long moment.
“Boys, if you're through wagging your dicks,” Victoria heard herself say, “I need to know whether to go back into court or look for a new job.”
After a long moment, Steve laughed, the tension draining away. Now she was trying to help him. “Aw, fuck it, Sugar Ray.”