Kill All the Lawyers

Sixteen

Harry Carraway, a young Miami Beach cop, was riding his Segway down Ocean Drive, looking like a complete dork in his safari shorts and shades.

"Morning, Steve," he called out, above the hum of the machine.

"Dirty Harry," Steve called back. "Catch any jaywalkers?"

"No, sir. You walk any felons today?"

"Day ain't over yet."

The cop waved, gave the Segway some juice, and buzzed down the street.

The bicycles were bad enough, Steve thought, the Beach cops pedaling up and down Lincoln Road in their tight shirts and canvas shorts, flirting with sunburned coeds. But the sissified Segways were just too much. Cops should be straddling Harleys or driving big ugly Crown Vics.

Steve hopped into the Mustang and headed to the Criminal Justice Building.

Alone.

Victoria had jumped ship. Not that he couldn't handle this himself. But he never would have left her alone if the situation were reversed. Of course, it never would be reversed. Victoria would never have to step into a courtroom to enter a plea to a crime. But that aside, he wondered, what's going on here? Approaching the civic center, listening to "Incommunicado," Jimmy Buffet singing about driving solo on a road with a hole in it, Steve asked himself yet again: Just what the hell is going on?

"What's cooking, Cadillac?" Steve said as he crossed the courthouse patio.

"Baby backs, oxtail soup, ham croquettes," answered Cadillac Johnson, an elderly black man with a thick chest and a salt-and-pepper Afro.

Steve stopped at the counter of the Sweet Potato Pie, a trailer permanently parked on the patio. Cadillac, former blues musician, former client, current owner emeritus of the Pie-he was officially retired- slid a cup of chicory coffee across the counter to Steve. "You want me to save you a slab of ribs, Counselor?"

"Nah. I've become a vegan."

"Sure. And I've become a Republican." Cadillac poured a cup of coffee for himself. "You hear Dr. Bill on the radio this morning?"

Steve shrugged. "I listen to Mad Dog Mandich talk football and Jimmy B sing about tequila."

"The doc was talking about you."

"I know all about it. Solomon the Shyster. Steve the Snake."

"Not anymore. Today he said you had psychological issues you needed to deal with, but underneath, you were a good person."

"You're kidding."

"If I'm lying, I'm dying."

Five minutes later, Steve walked along the fourth-floor corridor, sidestepping cops and probation officers, court clerks and bail bondsmen, girlfriends and mothers of the presumably innocent hordes who were being led in shackles from the jail tunnel to the holding cells.

"Hey, boychik! Hold your horses!"

Marvin the Maven Mendelsohn toddled up. A small, tidy man around eighty, Marvin had a neatly trimmed mustache and a gleaming bald head. His black eyeglasses were too large for his narrow face, and his powder blue polyester leisure suit must have been all the rage in the 1970s. "What's your hurry, Stevie? They can't start your arraignment without you."

"You still reading the dockets, Marvin?"

The little man shrugged. "State versus Solomon. Assault and battery. In front of that alter kocker Schwartz."

At eight A.M. each day, Marvin the Maven could be found thumbing through the printouts attached to the clipboard outside each courtroom. As unofficial leader of the Courthouse Gang, a group of retirees who preferred trials to television, Marvin chose which cases to observe.

"So where's Ms. Lord?" Marvin asked.

"Don't need her," Steve said.

"What mishegoss! Of course you need her."

"I've got a plea all worked out."

"You gotta know, a man who represents himself has a shmendrick for a client."

"And a shlemiel for a lawyer?"

"Exactly."

As they neared the door to Judge Schwartz's courtroom, Marvin said: "So did you hear Dr. Bill today?"

"Apparently, I'm the only one in town who doesn't listen to the guy."

"He was saying nice things about you. That you have a lovely girlfriend. And in his experience, a man must have some good qualities if a fine, upstanding woman sees something in him."

"He's talking about himself, Marvin."

"I don't get it."

"He's sending a message that the two of us are alike somehow."

Steve headed into the courtroom, Marvin in tow. Inside, it was "shoot-around time," Steve's term for the chaos of a motion calendar. Lawyers and cops, clerks and clients drifting all over the courtroom, defendants filling the jury box, everyone talking at once. A basketball team's shooting practice, a dozen balls launched toward the rim at the same time. Presiding over the disorder was the Honorable Alvin Elias Schwartz, the only person in the courthouse older than Marvin the Maven.

Judge Schwartz was propped on two pillows, either because his hemorrhoids were flaring up or because, at five foot three, he couldn't see over the bench. Known as King of the Curmudgeons when he was younger, his disposition had gotten even worse with age. He now had the title of "senior judge," meaning he was somewhere between Medicare and the mortuary. No longer permitted to preside over trials because of lousy hearing, a weak bladder, and chronic flatulence, he nonetheless handled bail hearings, motions, and arraignments.

At the moment, Judge Schwartz was peering through his trifocals at a teenager in baggy, low-slung pants. Skinny and round-shouldered, the kid had the vacant, openmouthed look of the terminally stupid. From what Steve could gather, the kid had just pleaded guilty to possession of marijuana and was getting probation.

"You're getting a second chance, you understand that, Jose?" Judge Schwartz said.

"My name's Freddy, Judge," the kid said. "You know, short for Fernando."

"Hernando? Like the county? I own thirty acres up by Weeki Wachee."

"Fer-nando!" the kid repeated.

"I don't give a flying fandango what your name is, Jose. You come back here for spitting on the sidewalk, I'm sending you straight to Raiford, where some big bucks are gonna use your candy ass for a pinata. You comprende?"

"Viejo comemierda," the kid muttered.

Either the judge didn't hear him or didn't know he'd just been called a shit-eater, because he started absentmindedly thumbing through his stack of files.

Steve worked his way to the front row of the gallery and took a seat on the aisle. It took a moment to realize he was sitting next to Dr. Bill Kreeger.

"What the hell …?"

"Good day, Steve."

"What are you doing here?"

"Surely you know that I testify on occasion. I'm considered quite an effective witness."

"Pathological liars usually are."

It couldn't be a coincidence, Steve thought. First, Kreeger popped up at Joe's. Then he started saying nice things about Steve on the air. Now he showed up in court, looking spiffy in a dark suit and burgundy tie. What was the bastard up to?

"And how's the gorgeous Ms. Lord?"

"Fine. How's your niece? Amanda, right?"

"Lovely young thing, isn't she?"

"Woman," Steve said. "Lovely young woman. Only psychopaths see people as things."

"It's only an expression, Solomon. I assure you that no one in the world appreciates Amanda's qualities the way I do. She has an intelligence and understanding far beyond her years."

"What did you say her last name was?"

"I didn't."

"And just how is she your niece?"

"Too many questions, Solomon. Don't you know that curiosity killed the cat burglar?"

"State of Florida versus Stephen Solomon!" the clerk sang out.

Steve popped up and headed through the swinging gate into the well of the courtroom.

"Is the state prepared to proceed?" Judge Schwartz asked.

"The People are ready and holding steady, Your Honor."

The voice came from the back of the courtroom. Bouncing on his toes, a trim African-American man in a double-breasted pin-striped suit strutted toward the bench. Silver cuff links shaped like miniature handcuffs clinked as he walked. The man was in his mid-forties and still looked like he could fight middleweight, as he did in Golden Gloves when growing up in Liberty City.

What the hell? Pincher only showed up for cases that could get him face time on television.

Dumbfounded, Steve whispered to Pincher: "Sugar Ray, what's going on?"

"A special case that time won't erase."

"What the hell's so special about it?" Steve hissed at the prosecutor. "Are you backing out of the plea?"

"Relax, Solomon." Pincher turned his politician smile on the judge. "Your Honor, we've reached an agreement, but nothing vehement."

"You mean a plea deal?"

"Which now I'll reveal."

"Stop that damned bebop and get to the point."

Pincher gave a courteous bow to the judge, as if he'd just been complimented on the cut of his suit. "Your Honor, the state is prepared to dismiss the felony charges, and Mr. Solomon will plead nolo to simple assault with adjudication to be withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy."

Steve let out a breath. Okay, that was exactly what he'd agreed to with one of Pincher's deputies. But why was the boss here? What was so damn special about the case?

"Mr. Solomon?" The judge seemed to focus on Steve for the first time. "Aren't you that lawyer I throw in the clink every now and then?"

"I plead nolo to that, too, Your Honor."

"Okay, then. Let's put the stuffing in this turkey."

The judge started running through the plea protocol. Did Steve understand the charges against him? Did he know he had the right to a trial? Was he entering the plea freely and voluntarily?

Steve gave all the right answers, and in less than three minutes, the judge had checked off the boxes on his form and signed the order Pincher handed to him. Judge Schwartz leaned close to the document, showing the courtroom the crown of his bald head as he read: "The Court finds that the defendant is alert and intelligent and understands the consequences of his plea, which is accepted for all purposes. Adjudication of guilt is withheld pending completion of anger-management therapy under the auspices of William Kreeger, MD, board-certified psychiatrist."

What!? Did the judge say what I think he said?

"Dr. Kreeger will file a written report with the Court at the conclusion of said therapy."

Yes. He definitely said it. But that's nuts. There must be some mistake.

"At which time, charges will either be dismissed and all records expunged, or in the event of the failure to satisfactorily complete said therapy, the defendant shall be sentenced in accordance with his plea of nolo contendere."

"Hold on, Judge!" Steve shouted, loud enough for the old buzzard to hear. "Kreeger's a convicted felon."

"Not anymore," Pincher shot back. "His rights have been restored. Dr. Kreeger received commendations from the Corrections Department for his work with violent offenders, and the DPR restored his medical license. He's a model of rehabilitation."

"He's a model nutcase," Steve said.

"You heard my ruling," the judge rasped. "Now stop your bellyaching and go get your anger managed."

The judge hammered his gavel. "Clerk, call the next case."

"No fucking way," Steve said.

"What'd you say?" the judge demanded.

"No fun this way, Your Honor."

"It's not supposed to be fun. You're a criminal, aren't you?"

"No, sir. I'm a defense lawyer."

"Same difference. You're accused of assaulting one. ." The judge licked his index finger and thumbed through the court file. "Arnold Freskin, an employee of the great State of Florida." Judge Schwartz used his feet to pedal his chair away from his desk and toward the flagpole a few feet away. He grasped the edge of the state flag and pulled it taut. "What do you see, Mr. Solomon?"

"I see the state seal, Your Honor. A Native American woman is scattering flowers on the ground."

"Damn right. These days the squaw would be raking in chips at the casino." The judge dropped the flag and rolled back to his desk. "My point, Mr. Solomon, is that you offended the dignity of the great State of Florida, and Mr. Pincher has magnanimously decided to cut you a break."

"Yes, sir, but-"

"No 'but.' I just disposed of this baked turd of a case."

"I'm being set up, Judge. By Mr. Pincher and Dr. Kreeger."

"You're talking in riddles, Mr. Solomon. I called the next case, and by God, I'm going to hear the next case."

The clerk called out: "City of Miami Beach versus Weingarten Delicatessen. Violation of Kosher Food Ordinance."

Pincher grabbed Steve's elbow and whispered: "Just chill. See Bill. Ain't nothing but a fire drill."

"You sold me out, Sugar Ray." Steve turned to the judge. "Your Honor, I move to withdraw my plea."

"Are you still here?" Judge Schwartz was scowling. "I'm going to charge you rent, Counselor."

Steve felt a presence beside him. Kreeger had come through the swinging gate. "Your Honor, Mr. Solomon's recalcitrance is a normal manifestation of his behavioral type. I'm sure he'll do fine with therapy."

"Like I give a rat's tuches," the judge said. "Where's that butcher who's selling trayf as kosher?"

"Judge, there's a motion pending," Steve insisted. "I've moved to withdraw my plea. I want to go to trial."

"Motion denied. It's time to clear my calendar, Mr. Solomon, and not the one with the Playboy bunnies on it."

"Your Honor, I have an absolute right to-"

Bang! The judge smacked the gavel so hard, Steve could feel his teeth reverberate. "I'm driving the Studebaker, Mr. Solomon, and you're the greasy speck of a horsefly on my windshield."

Steve had no intention of giving up or backing down. "Judge, I once represented Kreeger in a case. State Attorney Pincher prosecuted for the state. They've cooked this up. If Kreeger doesn't clear me, you'll sentence me to jail. Can't you see it, Judge? It's a conspiracy."

Judge Schwartz turned his bleary gaze on Kreeger, and for a moment Steve thought maybe he'd made an impression.

"Let's hear from the headshrinker," the judge said. "Doc, what do you say about these accusations?"

"Nothing to be alarmed about, Your Honor," Kreeger replied in his soothing baritone. "While I'm working on Mr. Solomon's anger, I'll check out that paranoia, too."

SOLOMON'S LAWS

6. A creative lawyer considers a judge's order a mere suggestion.