“Ouch! Jesus, Ileana.”
“Disculpe, senora.” Ileana dropped her orangewood stick. “Lo siento.”
“You know how sensitive my cuticles are.”
Victoria had come today not only for the pedicure but to seek her mother’s counsel. The problem, as always, was to get The Queen to focus on someone other than herself. If self-absorption were an Olympic sport, Irene Lord would win the gold.
Ileana was rounding the corners of Irene’s little toe with a grit board when Victoria finally pleaded, “Mother, I need your full attention, and I really need your help.”
Irene raised her plucked eyebrows-dyed to match her hair-and smiled tolerantly. “Of course. What’s a mother for?”
It took Victoria fifteen minutes to describe the conflicts of interest, both professional and personal, plaguing her. Then, as Ileana finished up with a delicious calf massage, The Queen weighed in. “You’re in a lose-lose situation. If you win the case, you’ll lose Steve.”
“Why?”
“Men are fragile creatures with tender egos, dear. Let’s say you’re having dinner. If you mention that your man is losing his hair, he’ll never get it up that night.”
“Steve’s not losing his hair. Or his erection.”
“Not yet. But if you beat him in court, what then?”
“Steve’s ego is fine. He never hogs the spotlight when we try cases together. He always gives me credit when we win.”
“Sure, when you’re on the same side.”
“What about when I beat him in tennis? He just laughs it off.”
“Because tennis is your game. You were the college player. He’s just a hacker. But the courtroom belongs to him. It’s his identity. It’s where he keeps his cojones.”
Victoria thought about it while Ileana massaged her mother’s toes, pulling each one as if milking a cow. It wasn’t fair. Prosecuting a high-profile murder case was a huge opportunity. And just why was her mother so concerned about Steve, anyway?
“Why are you worried about my losing Steve when you dislike him so much?” she asked.
“My feelings for Stephen are quite irrelevant. You love him. And he adores you.”
“So you’re actually thinking of me?”
“What’s so unusual about that?”
That’s when Victoria decided. It was simple, really. Her mother was dishing out advice from a prior generation. Maybe the generation before that. The Queen was stuck in a time warp of her own mother’s making. Women nowadays didn’t have to defer to their mates. They no longer had to be subservient. Or worry about hurting delicate feelings.
“Mother, I am not going to back off.”
Irene exhaled a breath that stopped just short of a sigh. “As long as you know the risk.”
“There might be another way.”
“How?”
Victoria slipped a foot into a terry cloth sandal. “I have to get back to the office, Mother.”
“What’s your hurry?”
“I have a motion and a brief to write. Something that will catch Steve by total surprise.”
“Tell me, dear. I love surprises.”
“I’m not going to beat Steve at trial. I’m going to beat him now, before we ever get to the courtroom.”
Fifteen
Victoria was having second thoughts about her outfit. Usually, she went for a subdued and professional look. Classy and conservative.
Not St. John Conservative. More like Calvin Klein Conservative. Something in muted tweed, a one-button jacket over a knee-length skirt.
But today was different. Today she was up against the craftiest opponent she would ever face-her lover and partner.
Victoria had filed a motion to disqualify Steve as defense counsel. He was, after all, a witness to the crime. Further, it was unseemly, if not downright unethical, that the prosecutor and defense lawyer were law partners and lovers.
Stapled to Victoria’s motion was a twenty-two-page well-reasoned brief, citing several dozen cases as precedent. There was no question, no gray area, no room for debate. Steve would have to step aside.
As usual, Steve the Shark filed no written response to the motion. He would rely on his verbal skills, his ability to tap-dance around land mines.
In ten minutes, they would argue the motion before Judge Gridley, and Victoria was confident that before the morning was over, Steve would be tossed from the courtroom like an obnoxious drunk from a tavern.
At the moment, her only worries were sartorial.
She walked into Judge Gridley’s chambers wearing a fiery orange tank top covered by a blue Ellen Tracy shirt jacket. The Armani skirt matched the top, and her Hermes portfolio bag matched the jacket.
Radiant orange and brilliant blue. University of Florida colors. All because State v. Nash had fallen into the division of Judge Erwin Gridley, Bull Gator Emeritus, one of the biggest and baddest reptiles in the state.
She had resorted to the cheap ploy only after watching Steve get dressed earlier that morning. Blue blazer, orange shirt, and that stupid tie crawling with alligators. Shameless. So she had no choice. After he’d left the house for an early hearing, she’d carefully chosen her own outfit.
As she entered chambers, Judge Gridley was nowhere to be seen. The walls displayed the usual plaques and photos; the credenza held an assortment of footballs, helmets, jerseys, and the latest national championship replica trophy. A stuffed alligator head, showing a toothy smile, sat on His Honor’s desk.
Steve was already seated at the conference table, displaying his own snarky grin. “You look like a highway barricade,” he said in greeting.
“And you’re a complete phony. A Miami grad wearing Gator colors.”
Judge Gridley rumbled in, shed his black robe, revealing orange-and-blue suspenders. Bulky, bald, and trifocaled, he plopped into his high-back chair.
Steve immediately began humming “We Are the Boys from Old Florida.”
“What the heck are you two lovebirds doing on opposite sides of the table?” the judge asked in his Panhandle accent.
“Motion to disqualify Mr. Solomon as defense counsel,” Victoria said. She told the judge about her appointment as special prosecutor, her relationship with Steve, and his presence at the crime scene. She cited three appellate court cases in support of her position, and spoke with the confidence of a lawyer who is both factually prepared and legally correct.
As she laid out her argument, the judge fiddled with a flatbed railroad car. Not a real one, a Lionel model. Gridley’s obsession with his alma mater was nearly matched by his love of model trains. A three-inch O-gauge track ran from the desk, around the conference table, and back to his desk again. Lawyers took care not to place their pleadings on the tracks in order to avoid derailments.
Victoria finished her argument, and leaned back in her chair. Judge Gridley turned to Steve. “Ms. Lord’s got more horsepower than the Sunset Limited. I’m inclined to toss you off the train unless you can get me to switch tracks, Counselor.”
“A defendant is entitled to counsel of his choice,” Steve began. “I’ve been retained by Gerald Nash. Obviously, this situation is delicate because the prosecutor is both my law partner and…”
He paused, apparently searching for a word.
And what, smooth talker?
“Playmate,” he concluded.
Victoria bristled. “I’m no one’s playmate, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon and I live together. Currently.”
“If y’all are shacked up, Mr. Solomon, how you gonna try a case against each other?”
“Precisely, Your Honor,” Victoria said. “The only question is, whom shall Your Honor require to withdraw?”