Solomon versus Lord

Twenty-one
COFFEE KLATCH

On the steps of the optimistically named Justice Building, a custodian scraped up a melting vanilla cake with chicken wings popping out of the icing. The cake was the culinary handiwork of a Haitian santero, hired by a defendant's family to cast a spell and sweeten a judge's disposition.

Inside the building, at eight-twenty A.M., Steve had just cleared the metal detector and was in desperate need of a cup of coffee when he heard a foghorn behind him. “Oh, Mr. So-lo-mon.”

He stopped and turned. Jack Zinkavich was waddling toward him.

“Your witness lists are late,” Zinkavich said.

“Sorry, been a little busy.”

“And your exhibit list? Pretrial stips. Statement of the case.”

“Almost done.”

Meaning Steve was almost done thinking about them. Complying with deadlines wasn't his strong suit.

“We need to agree on a trial date,” Zinkavich persisted.

“Soon as the Barksdale case is over.”

“Not acceptable. Every day Robert is with you is an invitation to disaster.”

Steve wrestled his temper under control. He'd promised his father he'd play nice, even though he doubted that Zinkavich was on the level. His old man had a more sanguine view of human nature.

As for Zinkavich, sure he had a shitty childhood and sure he'd been saved by the system, an event as rare as snow in Miami. But unlike his old man, Steve didn't think that Zinkavich had turned into the Galahad of Juvenile Court. To Steve, he was just one of Pincher's flunkies, a careerist with a mean streak. Still, since nothing else was working, he'd try a new and unfamiliar strategy: kissing ass.

Steve said: “We got off on the wrong foot, Jack. Okay if I call you Jack?”

“No.”

“I just want to apologize. I said some inappropriate things, and I never should have grabbed you.”

“Uh-huh.”

“I have a great deal of respect for you, Mr. Zinkavich.”

“Sure you do.”

“I mean it. I know your background. Losing your mother like that. Being in foster care. So I know how you must feel about children at risk.”

“Are you patronizing me, Mr. Solomon?”

“No, I'm just trying to relate to what you went through and-”

“Leave my personal life out of this.”

“All I'm saying-”

“You condescending piece of shit.”

“Aw, jeez.”

“You think you can hide your violent streak under this phony veneer?”

“I don't have a violent streak. I'm actually quite cowardly.”

“You're a menace. I know what you did that night in the commune, and I've got the evidence.”

Oh, shit.

Was it true? Did Zinkavich have the guy he'd clobbered? Or was the bastard bluffing?

“You're not just going to lose your nephew,” Zinkavich bulldozed on. “You're going to prison.”

He took off down the corridor, leaving Steve standing there. Alone and alarmed.

The Courthouse Gang was holding up the cafeteria line, pinching bagels, sniffing Danishes, kibitzing about their aches and pains. Marvin the Maven in a navy blue double-breasted blazer, Cadillac Johnson in a bright dashiki, and Teresa Torano in a dark tweed suit with a simple strand of pearls.

“C'mon, Marvin,” Steve said from the back of the line. “Keep moving.”

Steve couldn't be late for court. He tried to focus on the upcoming bail hearing, but Zinkavich's threat still rattled around in his brain.

“You're not just going to lose your nephew. You're going to prison.”

Just what evidence did Zinkavich have? There wasn't even time to think about it. He needed a jolt of caffeine to jump-start his brain so he could race upstairs to the courtroom. But here he was, trapped behind his pals, who had nowhere to go and lots of time to get there.

“What's your hurry, boychik?” Marvin said.

“Bail hearing in ten minutes. Victoria's waiting for me.”

“So, you shtupping her or what?” Marvin's voice carried across the cafeteria.

“Hey, none of that. It's all business.”

“She shot you down, that it, Steverino?”

“Marvin, you know me. I'll never bribe a cop, lie to a judge, or sleep with my partner.”

“Three lies in one sentence. That a record, Cadillac?”

“Not for Steve.” Cadillac Johnson mixed half a cup of decaf with half a cup of regular, then poured nondairy creamer on top and added four Equals. Taking his sweet time.

“I believe our Stephen,” Teresa Torano said.

“Thank you, Teresa,” Steve said. “My first client and last friend.”

“You'll never sleep with Ms. Lord, hasta que ella diga que si. Until she says yes.”

Marvin coughed a laugh and exchanged high fives with Cadillac, or as high as their arthritis permitted.

“C'mon, guys, she's engaged,” Steve protested.

“Since when do legal technicalities bother you?” Marvin shot back.

Steve checked his watch. In eight minutes, either his ass would be planted in front of Judge Alvin Schwartz or he'd be in contempt for tardiness.

“Have you seen the way he looks at her?” Marvin asked his cronies. “He's got it bad.”

“Reminds me of this lady in K.C.” Cadillac slurped coffee. “Tore out my heart, fed it to the catfish.” He sang: “Kansas City woman. Oh-h-h, what you done to me…”

Marvin was at the register, fishing change from a pocket.

Steve called out: “Put it all on my tab.”

“Por Dios!” Teresa said.

Cadillac clutched his chest. “My pacemaker's gonna blow a fuse.”

“The big macher,” Marvin said. “If I'd known he was paying, I'd have got a bagel.”

“Please hurry up,” Steve said. “I'm trying to get an innocent woman out on bail.”

“I have seen your client, and she is not so innocent,” Teresa said.

“A real paskudnyak,” Marvin agreed.

“What are you talking about?” Steve said.

“Too much decolletage, very declasse,” Teresa said primly.

Teresa had learned English as a child at Havana's pre-Castro, upper-crust Ruston Academy. When she spoke, Steve could visualize neat feminine handwriting with even spaces between each word. “C'mon, Teresa. Just because you don't like Mrs. Barksdale's taste in clothes doesn't mean she killed her husband.”

“Now, Charles Barksdale,” Teresa said. “Very classy.”

“You knew him?”

“Not really. But I heard him speak at a seminar he sponsored. ‘Women Poets, Tortured Souls.' He seemed to be a most sensitive man.”

“Especially when wearing a leather penis pouch,” Steve said.

“Personally, I think the puta killed him,” Teresa Torano said.