“A fine distinction, to be sure.”
“You love it, don’t you?”
“Love what?”
“Being Steve-the-Shark.”
“It’s my job, Vic. When I’m in court, there’s gonna be blood in the water.”
“Not if you play by the rules.”
“A shark that can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.”
“Are you calling me weak? C’mon, hit me with your best shot, tough guy. I’ll play it straight and still beat you.”
Steve opened the refrigerator door and hid behind it, like ducking into a doorway in a thunderstorm.
“You know what your problem is, Steve? You’re immature. You’re irresponsible.”
“That’s two problems.”
“You’re a child.”
“And your problem is, you think the law is written in stone.”
“It is, dammit! That’s what makes it the law!”
Steve decided to wait it out. He grabbed a Morimoto Ale in the 22-ounce bottle. It could be a long wait.
“You can’t go around making up your own code of conduct,” she informed him.
“Sure you can. That’s what America is all about.”
“Right. Solomon’s Laws.” Her voice churned with derision. “What’s the first one, the one you told me when your damn bird crapped on my sleeve?”
“‘When the law doesn’t work, work the law.’”
“Right. You boasted about it. Well, that’s not me. I don’t lie. I don’t break the rules. And I don’t accuse opposing counsel of acts I know to be untrue.”
Steve took a long pull on the ale. It tasted of roasted buckwheat. He wondered if she was finished.
“And another thing,” she said.
Nope.
“Do you remember that stupid pickup line you used on me that day?” she demanded. “The day we met?”
Steve shook his head. How the hell could he remember that? And how could she remember everything he’d ever said or done that was asinine or embarrassing, or both? On that day of infamy, they were ensconced in facing holding cells. He’d flirted with her, but how could she expect him to remember what he’d said?
“You said you’d like to mentor me,” Victoria reminded him.
Ah, that.
“It was the best of lines,” Steve said.
“It was the worst of lines. I hate that sexist banter. And that day, I hated you. I haven’t been so furious since, not until today.”
Steve had said something else in the holding cells, something he remembered well.
“Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow.”
He’d passed it off as a wisecrack. But it wasn’t. From the moment he’d seen her enter the courtroom that day he’d felt something for her.
You had me, Vic. You had me from “Get lost.”
“You are so damned infuriating,” she said now.
“I thought that’s what you liked about me.”
“No, I love you in spite of it. But I know that when I go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, you’ll still be infuriating. And frankly, Steve, I’m tired of it.”
She sighed and leaned against the counter. The kitchen was silent except for the whir of the refrigerator.
Steve drank a hefty portion of the ale and waited. She seemed to be finished. He waited another few seconds. Then he spoke softly:
“Do you know what you just said? That you love me. And I love you, too. I have since the day that bird crapped on your sleeve and you started crying. So I’m sorry. I got carried away today. I was way over the top. It won’t happen again. With you, I mean. Other lawyers are fair game.”
He moved toward her, pausing long enough to let her close the distance and meet him halfway for a makeup hug. She didn’t move.
“Just give me a little room right now, Steve.”
“Okay, if that’s what you want, I’ll…”
But she was already out the door.
SOLOMON’S LAWS
8. When the woman you love is angry, it’s best to give her space, time, and copious quantities of wine.
Twenty-five
Steve kept out of Victoria’s sight for the next two hours. He gathered up ball and glove and took Bobby into the backyard, where he taught him the basics of the curveball. Then, back in the kitchen, he basted some yellowtail snapper filets in a lemon pepper sauce. Next, he tossed a salad with all of Victoria’s favorite ingredients, including toasted pine nuts, which he thought tasted like tree bark.
Back outside, he undertook the manly duties of firing up the hibachi without burning down the bottlebrush tree, then grilled the fish and covered it with fresh salsa he’d made in the blender. Finally, he tossed a tablecloth over the redwood picnic table and poured ample quantities of Chardonnay for his lover, partner, and opposing counsel.
Victoria was unusually silent as they ate dinner. Steve didn’t push it, didn’t force the conversation. He was giving her a little time, a little space, and a lot of wine.
After they polished off the flan Steve had picked up at a bakery on Coral Way, Bobby headed inside to soak his elbow in a tub of ice because that’s what Sandy Koufax, the best Jewish pitcher of all time, did after every game.
Steve figured that the wine might have softened up Victoria, and he was ready to make nice, but she slipped into the house without so much as a “See you later.” Moments later, he found her down the hall, stringing yellow crime-scene tape across the door to the study.
“What’s going on?” he asked. “You doing War of the Roses?”
“I’m moving into the study for the duration of the trial.”
“Moving? Meaning you’re working in here?”
“Working. Thinking. Sleeping. The room is strictly off-limits to you.”
“Whatever you say.” He didn’t mean to sound petulant, but that’s the way it came out.
“The bedroom is yours, Steve. You can keep your files there, and I won’t touch them.”
“What files?”
“It’s customary for lawyers to bring their work home during trials.”
“Really? Why wasn’t I informed?”
“Should you choose to behave like a real trial lawyer, rest assured I won’t peek at your work product.”
“You’ve already seen my work product.”
Not even a smile. She just ducked under the crosshatched tape and entered the study. Steve stayed in the hall, an unhappy looky-loo. “Have I been dismissed?”
“I have work to do.” She began unpacking her trial bag, laying out folders on the desk. Color-coded, alphabetically arranged, neatly labeled.
The term “anal retentive” came to Steve’s mind, but he kept quiet.
A moment later, Bobby, his arm in an icy sling, slipped under the tape and went to Victoria’s side.
“Hey!” Steve protested. “How come Bobby’s allowed in there?”
“Don’t be childish, Steve,” she berated him. “Bobby, you can help me if you want.”
“Cool.” The boy opened a folder. “Can I see the autopsy photos?”
“No,” Victoria and Steve said in unison.
But Bobby was already thumbing through the eight-by-ten glossies. “Whoa! Totally janked.”
“Put that down, kiddo,” Steve said from the doorway.
“Bobby, listen to your uncle,” Victoria said.
“Okay, but I won’t tell you what ship the dead guy was on in the Navy.”
That stopped both of them. The naval records had been classified.
“What are you talking about, Bobby?” Steve said.
“Autopsy photo B-18. The word Missouri is tattooed on the guy’s arm.”
“Yeah, so maybe he likes Mizzou.”
“Not the university. It’s says ‘Big Mo’ under the tattoo. That’s the USS Missouri, the old battleship. Its last mission was in Desert Storm in 1991.”
Steve pushed his way through the yellow tape, like fending off a cobweb. “Keep talking, kiddo. I’m betting you know what the Missouri did in the war.”