Here it comes, Victoria thought. Wrapping it all up in a pretty package. But would the judge buy it?
“When Charles scrambled the line of the Plath poem, he had thousands of choices,” Steve said, “but he picked phrases that revealed how he felt about his wife, and what he planned to do. ‘Hide a few contretemps.' That's Katrina, keeping her affair secret. ‘Defer a competent wish.' That's Charles, wanting revenge, but not being able to live to see it. And ‘Cement a spit-fed whore.' That's the biggie. That's Charles sending her to a prison cell, or a tomb, take your pick. That's him framing her for his murder, a murder that never happened.”
“Excellent story. The film rights will be worth a bundle. But what's all this got to do with Mr. Pincher and the autopsy report?”
“When Sugar Ray sees the first draft of the autopsy report, he gets a real jolt,” Steve answered. “Charles was dying of stomach cancer. No way that's gonna make it into the final draft.”
Pincher fixed Steve with a toxic glare.
“Why delete it?” the judge said. “She's still guilty of murder if she strangled him, no matter how sick he was.”
“Because-”
“Wait. I figured out Murder on the Orient Express. I can get this.” The judge took off his glasses, wiped them on his robe, and put them back on. “Give me a clue. Did Charles ever tell Katrina he had cancer?”
“Nope,” Steve said. “He died without her knowing.”
“Then I've got it! The autopsy would give Katrina a defense. She'd come into court and say she knew Charles was dying all along. Why bump him off if all she had to do was wait a bit and collect her inheritance?”
“Exactly,” Steve said. “Sugar Ray assumed she'd lie, and he'd have no way to disprove it.”
“I've heard enough,” the judge said. “The state will furnish the defense with the original tape recording of the autopsy dictation. I warn you, Mr. Pincher, if Mr. Solomon is correct, I'll make a full report to the Ethics Commission. And the Attorney General's Office.”
“This is outrageous!” Pincher said. “We'll appeal.”
Victoria cleared her throat and said: “It may not be necessary to produce the tape.”
Steve gave her a sharp look but said nothing. She was confident he wouldn't stop her. He'd told her several times about his Sonny Corleone rule: Never contradict your partner in front of the opposition.
“Now you don't want the tape?” the judge asked. “Why, Ms. Lord?”
“Because Mr. Pincher is an honorable man. He will do the honorable thing.”
“How's that?” the judge asked, bewildered.
“Yeah, this I gotta hear,” Steve said.
“Mr. Pincher never would have tampered with the evidence had he believed Katrina Barksdale was innocent,” Victoria said. “He thought he was just…”
“Adding basil to the bruschetta,” the judge said.
“Exactly. Now that Mr. Pincher knows the truth, he can dismiss the case, and there'll be no need for anyone to hear the tape.”
Pincher scratched at his chin. “Intriguing suggestion, Counselor.”
He's doing the cost-benefit analysis of dumping the case, she thought. And Steve was giving her a sideways glance. He wouldn't do this, she knew. A total advocate, a total warrior, he'd go for the win in front of the jury. She thought there was a safer way to get the same result.
“Wait a second,” the judge said. “You can't end a legal thriller by settling a case!”
“It would be best, Your Honor,” Victoria said.
“There goes the movie sale,” the judge said, sadly.
“I'll need an explanation for the press,” Pincher said.
“We have no objection to your taking credit for clearing an innocent woman,” Victoria told him.
“Hang on,” Steve said. “We should get the credit.”
“Steve, the client comes first.”
“Since when?”
“Mr. Pincher, give it any spin you want,” Victoria said, ignoring Steve, “as long as you dismiss the case against Katrina Barksdale.”
“Who made you senior partner?” Steve said. Violating his Sonny Corleone rule.
“I could say that my office has uncovered new evidence,” Pincher mused. “Evidence missed by overworked detectives and overlooked by defense counsel.”
“Screw that,” Steve said. “I didn't overlook anything.”
“Quiet, Steve,” Victoria said. “Doing justice is credit enough.”
“They teach that in the Ivy League?”
“I diligently pursued every lead until justice was done,” Pincher continued, rehearsing his statement to the press.
“Make up your minds, then,” the judge said. “Are we going back to trial or not?”
Pincher proclaimed formally: “Judge Thornberry, let's call in the court reporter. The state has an announcement to make.”
Forty-eight
MOJITO MAKER
“Go, go, go,” Victoria said. “We have an hour to get to Juvie Court.”
“I want to talk to the press.”
“No way. We'll be late.”
She dragged Steve down the corridor. They sidestepped Ray Pincher, who was telling the reporters of his sage and courageous decision to dismiss all charges against Katrina Barksdale.
“Just one little sound bite,” Steve pleaded.
“No time.”
They shoved their way through the wolf pack of reporters and photographers and hustled to the parking lot.
“You were great today,” she said, as they got into his car.
“You, too. Getting Pincher to dismiss. I wouldn't have thought of it.”
“And I wouldn't have thought of turning the case into a Perry Mason novel. I've learned a lot from you.”
“Ditto.” He smiled, forgiving her, she supposed, for taking over at the end.
Twenty minutes later, they were in the bungalow on Kumquat Avenue, where Steve tossed Bobby into the shower, then hastily dressed him in a navy sport coat, gray wool slacks, a white shirt, and a striped tie.
By the time they all piled into the old Caddy, the little preppie's shirttail was out, his glasses were smudged, and his hair was mussed. He sat in the backseat, knees pulled up under his chin, rocking back and forth, looking like the class weirdo genius being carted off to jail for blowing up the science lab.
Steve tuned the radio to the all-news station but punched another button when he heard Pincher saluting himself for uncovering the truth about the death of Charles Barksdale. On the reggae station, Desmond Dekker amp; the Aces were singing “Israelites,” promising a calm after the storm.
Victoria glanced at Bobby and started to worry. He lay on his back, his feet pressed against a window, as if trying to break out of the car. “Maybe we should rethink our strategy for tonight,” she said, cryptically.
Translation: I'm scared to death to put Bobby on the witness stand.
“Not your call, cupcake.”
“Tell me you didn't just call me ‘cupcake.'”
“Don't make some feminist thing out of it. I'm starving, and I'm thinking about the Fink's Krispy Kremes.”
She wondered why he couldn't see the danger of having Bobby testify. He knew Bobby always spoke the unvarnished truth. And surely Solomon, of all people, knew that the truth sometimes needs a fresh coat of paint.
“What we're planning could backfire,” she said.
“You distract Zinkavich, and I'll go after a couple of glazed crullers.”
He's reverted to Irritating Habit Number 396: Ignoring what I say when he doesn't want to deal with it.
She searched for a way to say it was too risky to call Bobby without the boy picking up on it. “Maybe we should reorder our witnesses.”
From the backseat, Bobby said: “I'm not scared to talk to the judge.”
So much for subterfuge.
“Of course you're not, kiddo,” Steve said. “You'll do great.” He turned to Victoria. “Bobby testifies. Subject closed.”
“You've been telling me to go with my gut, and my gut tells me-”
“Closed.”
“Petitioner calls Robert Solomon,” Victoria said.
“Objection,” Zinkavich said. “The testimony will be tainted by the boy's affinity with his uncle. Not to mention his history of hallucinations.”