“Charles was a gentle man, a charitable man, a good man,” Pincher continued.
Now he sounded like he was rehearsing his closing argument.
“Boy, would I love to defend,” Steve said.
“Widow'll end up with Ed Shohat or Roy Black,” Judge Gridley predicted.
“I'm as good a lawyer as they are.”
“This ain't a Saturday night stabbing in Liberty City,” Pincher said. “This is high society.”
Pincher was right, Steve knew. He'd had dozens of murder trials, but most were low pay or no pay. He never had a client with the resources of an O. J. Simpson or Klaus von Bulow. Or the looks and glamour of Katrina Barksdale. He didn't know the Barksdales, but he'd read about them. Charles had made millions building condos while collecting custom yachts and trophy wives. Katrina would have been number three or four. Wife, not yacht. Photos of the old hubby and young wifey were routinely plastered in Ocean Drive and the Miami Herald. You couldn't open a restaurant or hold a charity event without the glam couple. And when her husband stayed home, Katrina was on the arm of an artist or musician at younger, hipper parties.
The lawyer who got this case was gonna be famous.
Steve could picture the Justice Building surrounded by sound trucks, generators humming, a forest of satellite dishes, an army of reporters. A carnival in the parking lot, vendors hawking “Free Katrina” T-shirts, iced granizados, and grilled arepas. There'd be TV interviews, magazine profiles, analysts critiquing the defense lawyer's trial strategy and his haircut. It'd be a ton of publicity and a helluva lot of fun. And then there was the fee. Not that money juiced him. But Bobby's expenses were mounting, and he'd like to put some bucks away for the boy's care.
And wouldn't he love going mano a mano with Pincher? The bastard would try to ride that pony all the way to the governor's mansion. All the more reason Steve lusted after the case. He hated pretension and self-righteousness, but most of all, he hated bullies. And in Sugar Ray Pincher, he had all three.
“This one's out of your league, Solomon,” Pincher said, hammering the nail home.
Out of his league.
God, how he hated that. Which prompted another disheartening thought.
Was Victoria Lord out of his league, too?
MIAMI-DADE POLICE DEPARTMENT TRANSCRIPT OF EMERGENCY FIRE AND RESCUE CALLS
Dispatch:
Miami-Dade Police. One moment, please.
Caller:
911? Goddammit, are you there? 911?
Dispatch:
Miami-Dade Police. Is this an emergency?
Caller:
My husband! My husband's not breathing.
Dispatch:
Please remain calm, ma'am. Is his airway obstructed?
Caller:
I don't know. He's not breathing!
Dispatch:
Was he eating?
Caller:
We were having sex. Oh, Charlie, breathe!
Dispatch:
What's your name and address, ma'am?
Caller:
Katrina Barksdale, 480 Casuarina Concourse, Gables Estates.
Dispatch:
Have you tried CPR?
Caller:
My husband's Charles Barksdale. The Charles Barksdale! Jeb Bush has been here for drinks.
Dispatch:
CPR, ma'am?
Caller:
I'll have to untie Charlie.
Dispatch:
Untie him?
Caller:
I've already taken off his mask.
Three
ZINK THE FINK
Pacing the corridor outside Judge Gridley's courtroom, Steve's mind drifted far from the bird-smuggling trial. He wanted to land the Barksdale case before a bigger, faster shark beat him to it. The case could change his life. And, more important, Bobby's.
Just last month, Steve had consulted a doctor specializing in central nervous system maladies. No one could pin a name on his nephew's condition, which combined acute developmental disorders with astounding mental feats. The boy could spend an hour sitting cross-legged on the sofa, rocking back and forth, lost in his own world, then suddenly erupt in a fit of crying. Five minutes later, he would recite lengthy passages from The Aeneid.
In Latin.
And then Greek.
The doctor tossed around bewildering phrases like “frontotemporal dementia” and “paradoxical functional facilitation” and “arrested neuronal firing.” One phrase that Steve understood quite clearly was “five thousand dollars a month”-the cost of a private tutor and therapist.
So the more Steve thought about the Barksdale case, the more it took on mythic proportions. Sure, the money and the publicity would be great, but the real quest was for Bobby. The Barksdale case could be his ticket to a better life.
But how to get the client?
Because he did not run with the caviar-and-canape crowd, Steve knew he needed an introduction to the widow. And quickly. Figuring he had five minutes before he had to plant his ass at the defense table in the Pedrosa trial, there was time for one phone call. On the move in the dimly lit corridor, he dialed his office on a cell phone.
“Hola. Stephen Solomon and Associates,” answered Cecilia Santiago, even though there were no associates.
“Cece, you know who Charles Barksdale is?”
“Dead rich white guy. It's on the news.”
“Who do we know who might know his wife, Katrina Barksdale?”
“Her maid?”
Cece wasn't the best secretary, but she worked cheap. A bodybuilder with a temper, she was grateful to Steve for keeping her out of jail a year earlier when she beat up her cheating boyfriend.
“You still go to clubs on the Beach?” Steve asked.
“Paranoia last night, Gangbang the night before.”
“Katrina's supposed to be a big-time partier. You ever run into her?”
“You kidding? They don't let me in the VIP rooms.”
A whiny voice came from behind him in the corridor. “Oh, Mr. Solomon…”
Steve turned, saw a human blob moving toward him. “Shit! Call you later.”
Jack Zinkavich lumbered down the corridor. In his early forties, Zinkavich had a huge, shapeless torso and his suit coat bunched at his fleshy hips, as if covering a gun belt with two six-shooters. His skin was oyster gray, and he wore his spit-colored hair in a buzz cut that made his square head resemble a concrete block. Zinkavich worked for the Division of Family Services in Pincher's office and was, if possible, even more humorless than his boss. He ate alone in the cafeteria each day and was known as “Zink the Fink” for constantly welshing in settlement negotiations. In what Steve considered a lousy stroke of luck, Zinkavich represented the state in Bobby's guardianship case.
What Steve had thought would be a slam-dunk case-I'm the uncle; I love Bobby; of course he belongs with me-had turned instantly vicious. At the first hearing, Zinkavich called Steve an “untrained, unfit, undomesticated caregiver” and suggested that Bobby be made a ward of the state. Steve was baffled why a routine proceeding was becoming a balls-to-the-wall street fight.
Zinkavich huffed to a stop. “Is it true you were imprisoned again this morning?”
“‘Imprisoned' is a little strong. More like sent to the blackboard to clean erasers.”
“Won't look good in the guardianship case.” Zinkavich seemed happy as a hangman tying his knots.
“It's got nothing to do with Bobby.”
“It reflects on your fitness as a parent. I'll have to bring it up with the judge.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
“I see a disturbing pattern here,” Zinkavich said. “Your sister's a convicted felon, you're in and out of jail, your father's a disbarred lawyer-”
“He wasn't disbarred. He resigned.”
“Whatever. My point is, your entire family seems spectacularly unfit to care for a special-needs child.”
“That's bullshit, Fink, and you know it.” Steve cursed himself for his own recklessness. With the guardianship hearing coming up, getting thrown in the can today hadn't been smart.