Kill All the Lawyers

Nineteen

Ten minutes later, Steve was settling into a brown leather chair in Dr. William Kreeger's home office. The floor was Dade County pine, the stucco walls painted a grayish-green color Steve didn't care for. He once read that shrinks used earth colors to calm their troubled patients. But no beige walls, no corn plant in the corner, no gurgling fish tank with parrotfish and lionfish frolicking through coral caves.

The only personal items were several framed photos on a credenza. Kreeger on a power boat, a big-ass sport fisherman in the fifty-foot range. Best Steve could tell, there were no bodies floating in the water. Then there were a couple of grainy shots taken from videotape: Kreeger on CNN, opining why husbands kill their wives or mothers kill their children, or maybe even why clients kill their lawyers.

"Did you see Amanda on your way in?" Kreeger sat in his own leather chair.

"All of her." Steve looked toward the wood-slatted windows. Now he was sure Kreeger had been watching them, had planned the whole thing.

"She's a remarkable young woman," Kreeger said.

"Tell me about her."

"We're here to talk about you, Solomon. Not her."

"Hey, you brought it up."

"All I'll say is this: When I was in prison, Amanda was the only one who wrote me, the only one who cared. And when I got out, she was waiting for me."

"Seems a little young to be one of those wackos who fall for murderers."

"You have much to learn, Solomon. And so little time to learn it." He used a handheld sharpener to grind a fine point on a pencil, then continued. "Now, what should we discuss first? Your violent temper or your sleazy ethics?"

"That's sweet, Kreeger. You lecturing on ethics is like the Donner Party talking about table manners."

"I detect antagonism in your voice. Still having difficulty controlling your anger?"

"Aw, shit."

Kreeger crossed his legs and balanced a leather-bound notebook on his knee. An open leather briefcase, the old-fashioned doctor-bag variety, was at his feet. A rattan table with a green marble ashtray sat between the two men, and a paddle fan whirred silently overhead. They had barely started, and already Steve felt like bolting. If the bastard asked if he'd ever wanted to kill his father and sleep with his mother. . well, there'd be a second assault-and-battery charge in his file.

"Tell me about your childhood," Kreeger instructed, his voice clinical and distant. "Were you a happy child?"

"Screw you, Kreeger."

"Did you have a good relationship with your father?"

"And the horse your rode in on."

Kreeger scribbled something in his notebook.

"Let me guess," Steve said. " 'Patient is obstreperous, uncooperative, manifests antisocial tendencies.' "

"Let's get something straight, Solomon. You're not my patient. I'm not here to treat you. I'm here to teach you how to manage your anger. It's up to you whether you take my advice. My report to the court will state whether your penchant for violence is under control or whether you should be incarcerated as a danger to the community. Understand?"

"Yeah."

"Splendid. Now, you still want to fuck with me?"

Steve took a breath and tried to relax. This wasn't going the way he had planned. He'd intended to be cooperative, maybe drop a comment or two about Nancy Lamm, maybe something about Jim Beshears, see if Kreeger brought up Oscar De la Fuente.

"Okay, Doc. Let's get this over with."

Kreeger reached into the open briefcase. He pulled out a photograph and slid it across the rattan table. "When you look at that, how do you feel?"

Steve picked up the photo and laughed. It was black-and-white and grainy, but there he was, in his U.M. baseball uniform, bareheaded. He'd already tossed his cap to the ground. His arms were thrown out to the sides, frozen in an awkward position as if he were attempting to fly. His face was contorted into an expression that seemed to be equal parts anguish and anger. A vein in his throat stood out, thick as a copperhead. He was screaming at an umpire, whose face was just inches from his own.

"Championship game of the College World Series," Steve said. "Bottom of the ninth. Two outs. I was on third, the potential tying run, and I got picked off. At least, the ump said I did, but I got in under the tag." He shook his head. "How do you think I felt?"

Kreeger scribbled something on his pad. "You tell me."

"Angry. Cheated. Humiliated. Angry."

"You already said that."

"I was really angry, but I didn't hit anyone. Write that down."

"What about this?"

Kreeger slid a photocopied newspaper clipping toward Steve, who immediately recognized the story from the Miami Herald. The headline read: "Judge Quits Bench, Dodges Indictment." A photo-a prizewinning photo, as it turned out-showed Herbert T. Solomon, in shirtsleeves, carrying a cardboard box down the steps of the Criminal Justice Building. Clearly visible in the box were miniature scales of justice, tilted to one side, the chains tangled. The look on Herbert's face: abject shame.

"Dad on the worst day of his life. What about it?"

"How does that picture make you feel?"

"It hurts. A lot. Happy now?"

"Let's analyze your pain. Which was greater? Pulling a bonehead play and losing the championship? Or seeing your father disgraced?"

"That's easy. Watching Dad go down was way worse."

"Why do you suppose you hurt so much, when the disgrace wasn't your own?"

"Because I love my father. Is that concept a little tough for you to understand, Kreeger?"

"And if he were guilty, if your father had taken those bribes, would you still love him?"

"Sure. But Dad was innocent. He was falsely accused."

"Then why didn't the Honorable Judge Solomon fight the charges?"

"Maybe he was afraid of a bad call from the umpire, too."

"Fair enough. He'd lost his faith in the system. Like father, like son-of-a-gun."

"What are you getting at, Kreeger?"

Again Kreeger reached into his briefcase. Another photo. A police mug shot. The woman was in her thirties. Round, pasty face. The tattoo of a snake peeked out of her tank top. Greasy ringlets of hair seemed to be glued to her forehead. And the eyes, glassy and staring into some distant universe.

How long ago must it have been, Steve wondered, that she was a pretty, well-mannered girl living in an upscale house on Pine Tree Drive? With a posse of girlfriends that elicited remarkable electrochemical reactions in a fifth grader named Steve Solomon.

"My sister Janice. What's she have to do with this?"

"Your sister the thief. The drug abuser. The abusive mother."

"All of the above."

"Do you love her, too, Solomon?"

"I'm not doing this, Kreeger." Steve got up and walked to the windows. With an index finger, he lifted one of the wooden shades. Clear view of the pool, the hot tub, and the chaise lounge, now empty. Not a nude young woman in sight.

"I'm afraid you don't have a choice. You kidnapped your nephew from your sister, didn't you?"

"I rescued Bobby."

"You hit a man, crushed his skull with a stick of some kind. What was it?"

"A piece of oak. A shepherd's staff."

"Not quite as heavy as a gaff, I would think."

Ah, so there it was, Steve thought. The boat in the Keys. Beshears overboard. De la Fuente at the wheel. Okay, now we're getting somewhere. "We talking about my hitting a guy named Thigpen or you hitting a guy named Beshears?"

"You'd agree there is some similarity. Except, of course, I was trying to rescue poor Jim Beshears."

"Funny. I didn't kill Thigpen. But you killed Beshears."

"Tell me about Thigpen, and I'll tell you about Beshears. Nancy, too."

Steve didn't know whether to believe him, but there was very little to lose. "Janice kept Bobby in a dog cage, fed him gruel. She would have sold him for half a dozen rocks of crack. I got him out of there, and I had to hit somebody to do it."

Remembering a snowy night in the Panhandle. A commune where Janice and her brain-dead friends grew marijuana in the summer and ingested all manner of illicit substances the rest of the year. Remembering swinging the staff, fracturing a man's skull, and carrying Bobby to safety. Bringing him home, the boy's first real home.

"Your turn," Steve said. "Did you push Beshears overboard? Did you intend to bash him with the gaff?"

"Police report said it was an accident."

"That's it, Kreeger? That's all you have to say?"

"Jim Beshears was an oaf and a boor and insanely jealous of me. He ruined a perfectly fine fishing trip with his incessant pestering."

"Sounds like he deserved to be killed."

"Draw your own conclusions, Solomon."

"You're boasting, aren't you? Letting me know what you're capable of."

"We should go fishing sometime, you and I, Solomon."

Steve laughed; he couldn't help himself. "Why? So you could use me for chum?"

Kreeger gestured toward the photos on the credenza. The big sport fisherman tied up at a dock, then another shot, the boat powering through a channel, a mangrove island visible in the background, and a third photo, a closeup of Kreeger at the helm. "I love my boat. Brings me peace in times of trouble. You know its name?"

Steve shook his head. He hated cutesy boat names. Once, in a divorce, he got the wife her husband's boat, which she promptly renamed Ex on the Beach.

"Psycho Therapy," Kreeger said. "Two words. You like it?"

"It fits."

"So anytime you want, call me. We'll take the boat down to Elliot Key."

"Not without a Coast Guard escort."

"With your history of violence, I should be afraid of you, not the other way around. Hypothetical question: Would you kill Janice to save your nephew?"

"What!"

"If your sister posed a threat to young Robert, would you kill her to save him?"

"If I say yes, you'll tell Judge Schwartz I'm a homicidal maniac, a danger to the community. At least the community of worthless junkies."

"I can tell the judge anything I want. This is just between you and me. Now, there's such a thing as justifiable homicide, isn't there?"

"Yeah. Self-defense. Defense of others."

"So who could blame you if you resorted to deadly force to protect an innocent child? What difference should it make if the person is your sister?"

"What's Janice have to do with anything? She-" Steve stopped. Suddenly, it became clear. "You're not talking about me. You're talking about you."

Kreeger smoothed out a fold in his silk guayabera, then laced his fingers together on his stomach. "How so?"

"That bit about the umpire and me. And my father quitting the bench. You're the one who doesn't trust judges or the legal system."

"Keep going, Solomon. It's always rewarding to a teacher when a slow child gets the hang of things."

"All your questions about whether I would kill Janice to protect Bobby. You're saying you killed Nancy Lamm because she was a threat to someone. And you're implying that I would do the same thing."

"We all would kill to protect someone we love. You and I are in the mainstream there, but it goes deeper than that. We're a lot closer than you'd like to admit."

"You still stuck on that blood-brothers shit?"

"Where's your sister now?"

"Prison. She's got another eighteen months. But if I know Janice, she'll beat up an inmate or attack a guard and get more time."

"Nope. She's out."

"What are you talking about?"

"She's detoxed and rehabbed and ready for civilian life."

"You're shitting me."

"I examined her myself for the Corrections Department. Volunteered my services. Janice was quite credible when addressing the commissioners."

"You helped her get out. Why?"

Kreeger smiled. "To see how far you'll go to protect someone you love. Did I mention that your sister's goal is to start over? What did she call it? 'Form a new family unit. Me and my boy.' Not very grammatical, but extremely moving."

"I don't believe this. You helped her so she can come after Bobby."

"Is there anything as powerful as a mother's love?"

"You son-of-a-bitch. You killed Nancy Lamm. You killed Jim Beshears. And you want me to kill my sister to prove I'm just like you. Well, you're nuts! I'm not like you, Kreeger."

"We'll see about that, won't we? And why do you keep bringing up poor Jim Beshears? Is it because you've been looking high and low for that boat captain?"

So he does know!

But if Kreeger was concerned, he didn't show it. A bemused smile played at his lips. "Find Senor De la Fuente yet, Solomon?"

"As a matter of fact, I have. He's signed one hell of an affidavit. Maybe you'll get a chance to see it."

"You'll give it to the State Attorney, I suppose. No statute of limitations on murder. Get him to indict me, that your plan?"

Kreeger slid open a desk drawer, and Steve caught his breath. If he came out with a gun, Steve would fly across the desk. Like sliding into third headfirst.

"If anything happens to me, my office is under strict instructions to deliver that affidavit to Ray Pincher."

"Strict instructions, are they?" Kreeger laughed heartily, like coins ka-chinging out of a slot machine. A second later, he pulled an emery board from the drawer and began filing his nails. "So how is the good captain? I haven't seen him in a long time."

"Retired. Living a quiet life. But he's got a great memory."

Kreeger showed Steve a patient smile. "I'm sure he's retired. And I'm sure it's quite quiet. The 'great memory' bit, not too convincing. Last time I saw Oscar, he wasn't doing that well."

Steve felt a chill, even though it was warm in the small office. Suddenly, he knew exactly where Kreeger was headed.

"Oscar had quite a drinking problem, you know," Kreeger continued. "And when he drank, he talked nonsense. Kept telling tales about these two med students who'd had a fight on his boat and one of them ended up dead. A fight! Oscar must have been drunk that day."

"You say you saw him?"

"Floating facedown. Must have slipped hopping from the rail to his dock. Could happen to anyone."

"And I'll bet he had a dent in his skull, too."

"That'll happen if you hit a concrete dock on the way into the drink."

So there it was, Kreeger delivering a message. Threaten me and I'll kill you. Just like he killed Beshears, Lamm, and De la Fuente. Steve felt his jaw muscles tighten. Yeah, Psycho Therapy was the perfect name for this freak's boat.

"Three bodies in the water," Steve said, shaking his head.

"Is there a better place to die?"

"Meaning what?"

"I've never really believed in ashes to ashes and dust to dust. We all crawled from the swamp, so how fitting to return to a watery grave. From the swamp to the sea, Solomon. That's our journey. From the swamp to the sea."