Kill All the Lawyers

Thirty-Two

"You spanked a naked woman?" Victoria couldn't believe this was happening again.

"Not in the way you mean," Steve replied. "It wasn't a Story of O deal."

"She rubbed her breasts in your face?"

"Technically, only one breast."

"And you did absolutely nothing to invite the attention?"

"Not a thing, Counselor."

"Your mere presence provokes women to fling off their bath towels and squash their breasts in your face?"

"One woman, one breast," he specified, as if a court reporter were taking it all down.

They were in Steve's Mustang, the radio tuned to the sports talk station. Steve turned up the volume, intending to cut off her questioning, she figured. Victoria listened a moment as a caller complained in grave tones that the University of Miami's touted new wide receiver might, in fact, run the forty-yard dash a tenth of a second too slowly.

She punched a button, turning off the radio. "You were crazy to sneak around in Kreeger's bedroom."

"I was hunting for evidence and I found it."

"You mean the naked pictures? Or the naked woman?"

"I'm gonna nail Kreeger for sexual battery. Amanda was a minor. Extended statute of limitations, relaxed rules of evidence. I can get him, Vic!"

"And how will you persuade her to cooperate? Shower with her next time?"

"All I have to do is convince her that she didn't kill her mother."

"That's all?"

"And that Kreeger's not protecting her. She's protecting him."

"And how exactly will you do this?"

"I'm working on it."

He cut across two lanes and headed up Brickell Avenue, instead of taking I-95 to the Miami Beach fly-over.

"Where are we going?" Victoria asked.

"I've got a settlement conference. You can take the car."

"What settlement conference? There's nothing on the calendar."

"Sachs versus Biscayne Supermarkets. The butt-sticking case."

"They're willing to settle, even with an intervening tortfeasor?"

"No one says 'intervening tortfeasor' as sexily as you. In fact, no one else says it at all."

Something wasn't ringing true, she thought as they drove through the canyon of high-rises, home to Miami's cliff-dwelling lawyers and bankers. "So what's the offer?"

"Nothing yet. But I'll have mucho dinero by noon."

So unlike Biscayne Supermarkets, Victoria thought. They fought every slip and fall, no matter how long the banana peel had been rotting on the floor. And this case had even trickier liability problems. Harry Sachs, one of Steve's "repeat customers," as Cece called him, had used the supermarket's rest room and ended up stuck to the toilet seat, which had been coated with Krazy Glue by a prankster. Paramedics used a blowtorch to melt the glue, and the seat peeled off, along with a semicircle of Sachs' butt skin.

"I'm surprised you're getting any offer."

"You know how persuasive I am, Vic. Rolly Ogletree will write me a check before lunch."

Funny, Victoria thought. She'd seen Rolly at motion calendar last week and he'd talked about a fishing trip he had planned for this week. Costa Rica. But she kept quiet. Why would Steve lie about something like that?

He pulled the car to a stop in front of the State Trust Building, a high-rise at Calle Ocho and Brickell. "Wish me luck." He leaned over and kissed her. As he opened the car door, ready to hop out, she said: "Where's your file?"

"You know me, Vic. I don't need no stinking files."

"Uh-huh."

"I keep everything right here," he said, pointing to his head.

He was lying about the Sachs case, she decided. Lying about a conference with Rolly Ogletree. For someone who twisted the truth so often, he wasn't very good at it.

"Good luck, Steve."

Victoria came around to the driver's side, taking her time, watching Steve bound up the steps of the State Trust Building. Sure, that was where Ogletree amp; Castillo, P.A., maintained its office, defending an array of tight-fisted insurance companies. But something was wrong. She pulled out into traffic heading toward the bridge that would take her downtown, and then across the MacArthur Causeway to Miami Beach. But on impulse, she hung a right onto Brickell Key Drive and parked against the curb.

Okay, Victoria, what are you doing? Surveillance on your boyfriend?

It seemed ridiculous. But with Steve interrogating a naked woman-twice-then his ham-fisted lie just now, what was he up to? Then she saw him in the rearview mirror. Hurrying across Brickell, crossing to the west side of the street.

Superquick settlement conference, partner.

She watched as he turned north, heading toward the bridge. When he disappeared from sight, she got out of the car and doubled-timed it back to the intersection, a task not so simple in her velvet-toed pumps with the two-inch heels. She stayed on the east side of the street, keeping Steve in sight, staying half a block behind him. It only took a minute. Steve crossed the intersection at Seventh Street, and then ducked into the archway of one of the oldest buildings on Brickell.

The First Presbyterian Church.

Well, at least there wouldn't be a rendevous with a naked woman. But what was he doing there? Steve never even attended synagogue. Why the old church? She jaywalked, dodging traffic, and approached the sturdy building, a four-story Mediterranean Revival structure of stucco and keystone with a copper roof.

She entered through one of the archways, pausing before opening the heavy door to the sanctuary.

What if Steve sees me? How do I explain what I'm doing here? But then, what's he doing here?

She took a breath and walked inside, entering the cool darkness of the vestibule. The place smelled of old wood and wet stones. She took cautious steps, careful to make no sound. The light, a golden hue, filtered into the sanctuary through stained-glass windows. Simple oak pews, walls of bare plaster, a ceiling of acoustical tiles. A spare, clean Protestant look to the place.

Two elderly women sat in a back pew. Then she saw Steve. He sat in a pew at the aisle, one elbow propped on the side rail, his chin in his hand.

Thinking? Praying? Repenting?

At the very least, seeking solitude. Why couldn't he have told her? She had thought Steve lacked the capacity for quiet introspection. But maybe this was where he came for meditation and spiritual guidance. Not making a big deal out of it, just searching for peace in his own way. A flood of warm feelings swept over her. This was, after all, the man she loved. Surely she must have sensed this part of Steve's personality, even though he kept it hidden. She fought the urge to rush down the aisle and throw her arms around him.

No, he deserved this quiet time. She turned and left the sanctuary, wondering if perhaps a house with a yard might be perfectly fine for them after all.

Steve looked at his watch. He was on time, which meant that opposing counsel was late. It gave him time to think. Had Victoria seemed suspicious? God, how he hated to lie to her. Maybe that was why he'd told a half-truth. This was a settlement conference. But it had nothing to do with Harry Sachs and his sticky butt. This was far more personal. Steve had promised Irene Lord that he would get her out of a jam-save her condo from foreclosure-without Victoria ever knowing.

The legal task seemed impossible. Mortgage foreclosures had damn little wiggle room.

"Has the mortgagor paid the mortgagee?"

"No."

"Judgment for mortgagee."

Irene was five months in arrears, and the bank had demanded acceleration of the loan, meaning the entire balance-more than four hundred thousand dollars- was now due. No way Steve could allow the case to go to court.

He heard the clicking of leather heels on the tile, turned, and saw Harding Collins moving toward him. Tanned. Tall and trim, with a fine head of gray hair that had been expensively cut. A charcoal suit that shouted Brooks Brothers, and a white shirt with tasteful blue stripes. If Collins weren't a real bank lawyer, he could play one on TV.

"You must be Solomon."

"Sit down, Collins." Steve slid over to give the man room.

"Why on earth did you insist on meeting here?" Collins said.

"I like historic buildings. The wood in here came from the first Presbyterian church in Miami, the one where William Jennings Bryan taught Sunday school."

"I'm very well aware of that."

"Right. Because you're a deacon."

"Not here, of course." A hint of condescension. No, Harding Collins wouldn't attend what amounted to an inner-city church.

"I'm deacon at Riviera Presbyterian. On Sunset Drive."

A Suburban Presbyterian.

Steve considered himself a City Jew, though he had so little faith, he doubted he was entitled to the title. Basically, he'd come up with his own concept of Unintelligent Design, his belief that if a divine entity created humankind, He (or, heaven help us, She) was either dim-witted or a sadist.

Not knowing much about Presbyterians, Steve had enlisted Bobby and Cece for research and investigation. Cece came up with some dirt on Collins, and Bobby announced that "Presbyterian" could be rearranged to spell "Best in Prayer."

"My secretary caught a talk you gave at your church last week," Steve said.

Collins smiled, softened a bit. "Your secretary's a Presbyterian?"

"More like a parolee. But she liked your speech. Something about sympathy and service."

"Gifts of the deacons. Next week, I'm speaking about redemption. Feel free to attend."

"Actually, I play for another team."

"All are welcome," Collins said with a pinched ecumenical smile. "Now, what can I do for you?"

"First Dade Bank has sued to foreclose the condo of my client, Irene Lord. One of your junior associates filed the papers. Unfortunately, Irene's in a bit of financial trouble and could use a break."

"I've heard all the sob stories, Solomon. The family breadwinner died. The kid's in the hospital. The roof blew off and there's no insurance."

"Yeah, a bunch of whiners out there."

"I represent the bank. My obligation is to the shareholders, not the poor slobs who take on too much debt."

"What about practicing what you preach? Charity, sympathy, gifts of the deacons."

"Religion is one thing, the practice of law is another. You, of all people, must know that."

"Why me of all people?"

"I asked around about you, Solomon. You give sharks a bad name."

"My rules are simple. I don't lie to opposing lawyers or stab them in the back. Head-on, I'll kick you in the cojones."

"From where I sit, you're a low-rent lawyer with bargain-basement scruples."

"Actually, I'm a no-rent lawyer, but I catch your meaning."

"My answer's the same to you as to anyone else," Collins continued. "No negotiation. Pay up or hit the pavement." His tone had changed. From principled humanitarian to icy defense lawyer in the blink of a time sheet. "So, unless you have a legal defense to the foreclosure…"

"Now that you mention it, there's a problem with the papers the bank had Irene sign," Steve said. "The disclosures about the adjustable rates aren't in boldface. Violates the Banking Act."

"Nice try, Solomon. But every borrower initials the rates clause. That proves actual notice that the rates may go up. And just so you know, we've been hit with lots of consumer lawsuits. I haven't lost one yet, and frankly, I was up against lawyers a helluva lot better than you."

"Different," Steve said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"You were up against lawyers different than me. Not better."

Collins laughed as heartily as a poker player who filled an inside straight on the river. "If that's your best shot, I really have to be going-"

"Got one more. I sent my secretary over to the Justice Building the other day. You've had seven parking tickets in the last year."

"I've also jaywalked quite a few times and I might have failed to put out the garbage cans on pickup day." Collins got to his feet.

"Three of the tickets were issued within one block of the Shangri-La Motel on Seventy-ninth Street. You know the neighborhood, Collins? The one the cops call 'Hooker Heaven.' As for the motel, it's what, thirty bucks for thirty minutes?"

Collins sank back into the pew. He shot looks left and right, as if the saints might be eavesdropping.

"Can't blame you for not parking that Mercedes convertible in the motel lot," Steve continued. "But you ought to feed the meters."

"What is it you want, Solomon?" His voice still in even-keeled lawyerly mode.

"The bank gives my client a grace period of eighteen months. Stay all principal and interest during that time. Then she'll resume payments without penalty."

"And if I don't agree?"

Cool and aloof, as if representing someone else. But then, didn't they call Presbyterians the "frozen chosen"?

"Maybe you didn't notice, but the Shangri-La Motel has that camera above the front desk," Steve said. "When you pay for the room, they take excellent digital video. A two-shot of the guy paying and whatever debutante is standing next to him."

Collins' suntan seemed to fade one shade. "You son of a bitch. It's sleazy bastards like you who give the profession a bad name."

"And I suppose foreclosing mortgages is doing God's work?"

"Bastard," Collins repeated.

"Maybe you'd like one of those videos for your talk about redemption."

Collins stayed quiet for a long moment. No more curses. The savvy lawyer seemed to be tallying up the odds. One measly condo mortgage against his life getting sucked down the drain.

I would never, ever follow through on the threat, but you don't know that, do you, Collins?

The bank lawyer barely registered a blip on Steve's personal chart of bad guys. Sure, Collins was a hypocrite. But that ranked pretty far down on Steve's sliding scale of sins. Collins' church work seemed real, and apparently was deeply felt. Maybe his way of repenting for his personal flaws.

So who am I to judge this man?

Florida Bar. Chamber of Commerce. Presbyterian church. Wife and kids and a house in Snapper Creek. In earlier times, Steve thought, Collins would have been called a pillar of the community. Steve wouldn't turn the pillar to salt; the guy simply didn't deserve it.

But I will bluff him till the hookers come home. C'mon, Collins. I'm not robbing the bank. I'm just asking for time.

Collins let out a soft hiss. "It will take a day or so to draw up the papers," he said. Then without a "Good day" or "Screw you," Collins shot one look toward the altar, stood, and walked out.

Steve sat alone, watching dust motes float in the light of the stained-glass windows. He was not particularly pleased with himself. Though it was cool in the sanctuary, he felt his shirt sticking to the pew. He wanted to splash cold water on his face.

Years ago, he had asked his father what the profession was all about.

"Lawyerin's like playing poker with ideas," Herbert Solomon had drawled.

It sounded both romantic and exciting. Like telling a kid that being a cowboy was about riding horses, leaving out all the shit-shoveling. Lawyering, Steve concluded, was more demolition derby than Texas Hold 'Em, and there was at least as much shitshoveling as at the rodeo.