Solomon versus Lord

Nineteen
PROVING LOVE

Heading into Les Mannequins the next morning, Steve vowed to be on his best behavior with Victoria. After all, he had a huge favor to ask.

“Will you marry me? Or at least pretend to?”

Steve knew he desperately needed her help. A lousy report from Kranchick combined with Zinkavich's vicious attacks, and he'd have no chance in court. He'd promised Kranchick that she'd meet his fiancee tomorrow night. So he had to pop the question-on bent knee, if necessary-and teach Victoria the one lawyer skill she so clearly lacked: lying with a straight face.

He left Bobby in the waiting room, where he could spot for Cece on the bench press, the only way to keep her from disappearing for an afternoon at the gym. Opening the door to his office, he instantly sensed that something was wrong.

It was too bright, for one thing, sunlight blasting through the windows. Then there was the smell of ammonia. And all the papers on his desk were stacked in neat piles next to a vase of fresh violets.

Violets?

He shot a look at Victoria, who was sitting at her desk, reading a stack of appellate cases. “What the hell happened in here?”

“I tidied up,” Victoria said.

“Like Sherman tidied up Georgia. Why's it so bright?”

“I cleaned the windows.”

“Big mistake. Dirty windows are nature's way of keeping us cool.”

She continued reading, using a yellow marker to highlight the key points of an appellate opinion. As if the law ever won a case.

He went to his lobster tank, crumbled a stale bagel, and began tossing pieces into the water. He was stalling, trying to figure just how to ask Victoria to be his fiancee-for-a-day. He could predict her first reaction.

“I won't do that. It's unethical.”

Despite his best efforts at corrupting her, Victoria stubbornly clung to her rigid standards. Just yesterday, he'd been interviewing a potential client, a guy who wanted to sue Budweiser for false advertising. The guy drank the beer but still couldn't pick up women in bars. Steve thought the case had potential, but Victoria vetoed it.

“You ready to prep for the bail hearing?” she asked, without looking up from her photocopies.

“Sure, sure, we'll prep all you want.”

He knew that Katrina Barksdale was sitting unhappily in the Women's Detention Center, which lacked the basics of her Gables Estates home. No Jacuzzi, no pool deck, no monthly pest control. They needed to convince Judge Alvin Schwartz, an eighty-one-year-old misanthrope, to allow her to return home, pending trial. Not an easy task in a capital case, but possible.

“Under State v. Arthur, we have a chance,” Victoria said.

“Yeah.”

“It's the state's burden to deny bail.”

“I know.”

She glanced up at him. “How do you get along with Judge Schwartz?”

“He hates me.”

“Oh.”

“But he's senile and sometimes forgets.”

“Great.”

“He's fond of young women lawyers in miniskirts.”

“Forget it.”

Steve walked to the window and stared across the alley, squinting against the glare.

“Are you okay?” she asked. “You seem a little distant.”

“There's something I need to ask you.”

C'mon, say it. Tell her you need her help. Tell her that losing Bobby would be worse than losing one of your limbs.

“Did you Shepardize Arthur?” he asked, meekly.

“Of course. It's still the law.”

He looked at her as she continued thumbing through her appellate cases. With no court appearances today, she was dressed down. Black capri pants, a man's white shirt-Bigby's, Steve figured-tied at the waist, scuffed flats. No makeup, and it looked as if she hadn't bothered to run a brush through her hair. To Steve, she was sexy in a natural and wholly unintentional way. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe if he didn't have these feelings for her, it would be easier to ask for her help. He could wheedle, plead, beg, grovel. But now he just couldn't. Groveling would have to wait.

“How do you want to handle the hearing?” she asked.

“You take the law, I'll take the facts.”

“The facts being that Charles was kinky, Katrina went along for the sake of the marriage, and the death was an unfortunate accident?”

“Yeah.” Through the open window, he watched a garbage truck hoisting the Dumpster. “We also stress the theme of our case.”

“Which is…?”

“I have no idea. But whatever it is, we need to pound the theme into the public consciousness starting at the bail hearing. We need to write the headline in the Herald with it.”

She wrinkled her forehead. “The headline's ‘Widow Freed on Bail.' Or not.”

“Only if some assistant city editor writes it,” Steve said. “Our job's to write it for them. With our theme. So what's the thematic content of the Barksdale marriage? What's the glue that held those two together?”

“The state will say it's money.”

“Exactly. But what do we say?”

“Love.”

“Love,” Steve avowed, “is a many-splendored defense. What is love? And how do we prove it?”

“Love is a rational, synergistic coupling of two people with mutual interests and similar values.”

“A little clinical for my tastes.” Was that how it was with Bigby and her? A rational, synergistic coupling? That sounded like fun.

“So what's your definition?”

“Two people who just have to be together,” he replied without hesitation. “Two people who are not complete when they're apart. They're lovers and best friends, too. There's lust and laughter, and they can't imagine being with anyone else.”

“So Steve Solomon believes in romantic love?”

“In theory. I've never really had anything like that.”

“And you think Katrina and Charles did?”

“I doubt it, but I'm a lawyer. Give me a thread and I'll tie you a rope.”

“Then let me show you something.” She bounded from her chair, crouched down, and opened one of the cardboard boxes under her desk. Sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking like a college coed studying for finals, she pulled out a handful of eight-by-ten glossies. “The Barksdales at play.”

Steve settled into a catcher's position next to her and started going through the photos. Hand in hand at charity events, Charles in a tux, Katrina in a designer dress, dripping with jewels. Society page shots from various galas. Smiling faces, Charles with his arm around Katrina, what appeared to be genuine warmth in their eyes.

Victoria grabbed more photos from the box. They must have been in love with their own images. St. Tropez, Monaco, waterfront restaurants, boat decks. Charles was still a handsome man with a head of gray hair, and Katrina a born model, doing the toe-point to flatter her legs, a Paris Hilton tilt of the head to accentuate her jawline.

“These are fine, but they're all posed,” Steve said. “I could show you some smiling photos of O. J. and Nicole Simpson. Or Scott and Laci Peterson. Or Hillary and Bill Clinton.”

“Hillary hasn't killed Bill.”

“Yet,” Steve said.

“Look at this.” She pulled a greeting card out of the box and handed it to him. On the cover was a Winslow Homer print of a Caribbean beach. “It's dated the day before Charlie died.”

He opened the card and read the handwritten note:

Dearest Katrina, No one could have been so good as you have been, from the very first day till now. Your Charlie

“I like the ‘Dearest,'” Victoria said. “Kind of quaint and Victorian.”

“Okay, he still loved her. How do we prove she loved him?”

“When I saw them, Kat always seemed very affectionate toward Charlie. Very caring.”

“What else? Give me examples.”

“She was always buying him gifts. Watches, cuff links, clothing.”

“Keep going. I like it.”

Victoria thought it over a moment. “Maybe three months ago, we went to a surprise birthday party Kat threw for Charlie.”

“We,” he thought. Meaning Bigby and her. Another reminder she was about to marry the stiff, about to make third-person plural a permanent part of her life.

“The cake was shaped like one of his office towers,” she continued.

“Cute. Unless the candles were sticks of dynamite.”

“At sunset, we all went out on their boat. Music's playing, we're having drinks, eating stone crabs.”

“Even Bigby the Vegan?”

“Bruce only ate the salad. That guy we met, Manko, anchored the boat in Hurricane Harbor off Key Biscayne. And just before the sun went down, the clouds were streaked with crimson, the bay's smooth as silk. I mean, how romantic can you get?”

Steve knew she was talking about Katrina and Charles, but his mind worked up the unfortunate image of Bigby and Victoria on deck. Haloed by the setting sun, serenaded by the band, Bigby kissing her. A slug slithering across a rose.

“Then this little plane flies over with one of those advertising banners behind it, like at the beach.”

“‘Use Coppertone,'” Steve said.

“This one said, ‘Katrina Loves Charles.' She had it made just for the party. It was really touching. Some people even had tears in their eyes.”

“We'll make the jury cry, too. And the media will eat it up.”

“So you like it?”

“You nailed it. Our theme. ‘Katrina loves Charles.'”

“Isn't that a little simplistic?”

“Themes have to be simplistic. Otherwise, the morons don't get it.”

“Jurors aren't morons.”

“I'm talking about the judges.”

Still sitting on the floor, she pulled out her index cards and started scribbling notes. Steve gazed down at her. Without makeup, there was a sprinkling of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Every new discovery seemed to fascinate him.

“What?” she asked, catching him staring.

His addled brain immediately told him he had three choices. He could say, “Just thinking about the rules of evidence.” He could say, “You're incredibly beautiful and wonderfully talented, so don't be a fool and marry Bigby.” But he said: “Victoria, I have a really big favor to ask.”