"The quarterback?" Bobby said. "He stunk."
"So did A. J. Feely, and he's not a member of the tribe."
"So what's with Mr. Jones, anyway? Why's he letting off Jews and blacks?"
The blacks and the Jews.
Something came back to Steve, something from the day he'd deposed Pinky Luber. The slippery bastard was complaining about the jury in the first Willie Mays trial, the last case he lost.
"They must have come straight from an ACLU meeting. All shvartzers from Liberty City and Yids from Aventura."
It didn't mean anything then, but it did now. Something else Luber said that day, too.
"You can't trust juries."
Now Steve knew exactly what Luber and Jones were doing. "Bobby, what's the most important part of trial?"
"Jury selection. You always say so."
"Reggie Jones is helping Pinky Luber stack the jury. Knocking off blacks and Jews, the most defense-oriented jurors. The blacks he leaves on are all establishment guys. The defense lawyer has no choice but to accept them. Otherwise, he'll have an all-white panel, and God knows what'll go on in the jury room."
Jones' conduct was illegal, of course, a deprivation of the defendant's constitutional rights. But why was he doing it? No way the young deputy clerk came up with this scheme on his own. This had Pinky's sweaty palms all over it. But so far, it didn't seem to involve Steve's father.
There had to be something more. Something Dad was doing. Otherwise, what's he afraid of?
Steve fast-forwarded the tape to the beginning of voir dire. He'd seen it once, but this time he wouldn't take his eyes off his father. He'd study his old man, watch every gesture, listen to every word. Part of him hoped that his father had been unaware of the conspiracy taking place right under his gavel. But another part, coming from a dark place of repressed anger and alienation, yearned for something altogether different. Part of Steve wanted proof that he was right and his father wrong. Proof that the Honorable Herbert T. Solomon was considerably less than he held himself out to be and his son was considerably more.
Forty
The sliding door to the balcony was open and the night breeze, moist and smelling of brine, swirled the drapes. Somewhere in the room, a mosquito buzzed.
On the pool deck below the window, a sheriff's deputy leaned against a palm tree. Another deputy sat on a chair outside her door. Victoria's personal bodyguards, courtesy of Sheriff Rask.
Victoria's feet ached and her head throbbed. Her black Prada pumps had been a half size too small when she bought them, and after a day waltzing back and forth in the courtroom, she felt like a victim of Chinese foot binding. The headache came from sitting at the defense table with her shoulders scrunched.
If Steve were here, he'd rub my shoulders. And my feet.
But she was alone in her suite at the Pier House, the sole soldier in a War Room filled with files, books, and the remains of room service conch chowder and Caesar salad. The adjoining suite was dark and quiet, her mother out to dinner with Uncle Grif. It was past midnight. Where were they? Parked at the beach in Uncle Grif's Bentley, listening to Barry White sing "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe" and French kissing in the moonlight. The thought made her cringe.
She was angry at both of them. Uncle Grif should be here, helping her prepare for court. Her mother should be here, just for emotional support. Instead, they were…
God, why does it bother me so much? They're entitled to their lives, aren't they?
She sipped a glass of Cabernet and tried to concentrate on the witness files spread in front of her. Tomorrow, the state would start moving the pieces on the chessboard. Six people on the boat, three exit stage left, one dives into the water, leaving the defendant and victim alone for the last cruise of the Force Majeure. The "death cruise," Waddle called it. A phrase he'd added to "greed and corruption, bribery and murder."
She knew the state's order of proof for its circumstantial case. Clive Fowles would set the scene-the cocktail party on the deck-then Leicester Robinson would describe an apparent argument between Griffin and Stubbs.
Victoria had not yet decided how aggressively to handle Robinson. She could object if Waddle tried to elicit his impressions of what was going on.
"Now, Mr. Robinson, would you say that the defendant appeared belligerent with Mr. Stubbs?"
"Objection. Leading and calls for a conclusion."
But you don't object to everything that's objectionable.
"Don't make the jury think you're hiding something."
Steve again. He'd know what to do, just like he'd know how to rub the kinks out of her neck. She missed him.
No, dammit. I don't need Steve. I don't need anyone.
Feeling like a gladiator. A sole practitioner of the art of legal warfare. She surveyed the files spread across the conference table. An uneasy feeling spread over her. She always prided herself on trial prep. Unlike Steve, she believed you won cases in research and investigation, organization and preparation. Master the details. Color code the exhibits. Cross-index the depos. Know the file forward and backward. Steve the Slasher was a big-picture guy. Give him a rough idea of the facts and he'd wing it in court. That's why they made a good team, he always told her. Their skills were so disparate that they made each other better.
"You two put the sin in synergy," a prosecutor once raged at them.
Not that I can't do this alone.
But right now, she could have used Steve's improvisational skills, especially since her preparation had been lacking. With everything going on-her mother's unexplained reappearance, Junior's advances, the break-in of her room, the split with Steve-she hadn't been operating on all cylinders.
Victoria heard the door open in the adjoining room, and in a moment, her mother peeked through the connecting door. "Princess, you're still up?"
"I'll be working most of the night." She tried to see around the door. "Are you alone?"
Irene came into the room. "Grif went straight to bed, if that's what you're asking. Poor man's so uptight he wouldn't be any use to me, anyway."
"Bummer. The guy's on trial for his life, and you're upset you're not going to get off tonight."
"You have it backwards. I thought giving Grif a little release would be good for him." Irene walked over and eased into a chair at the worktable. Her flowery silk chiffon dress was low-cut and form-fitting. How many women her age could get away with that? For a reason Victoria couldn't quite understand, the thought of her mother's youthfulness irritated her.
"Pour me a glass of wine, Princess. And maybe another one for you."
"Serve yourself. I've already had my limit."
"You seem so tense, dear."
"Really? I guess trying a murder case will do that."
Irene unhooked the ankle straps and kicked off her metallic-gold wedge espadrilles. "Does this damn humidity make your feet swell? It does mine."
"Next time you go in for repairs, have your ankles liposuctioned."
"Have I done something wrong, Princess?"
"You mean lately?"
"Oh, Jesus, you have become so tiresome. How long since you've gotten laid?"
"I don't remember you being so crude."
"Nor you so much a prude. On second thought, yes, I do." Irene got up and closed the balcony door. "It's like a steam bath in here. What's the A/C set at?"