Solomon versus Lord

Thirty-one
MY PARTNER

“What happened to your face, Solomon?” Ray Pincher asked. “Your secretary beat you up?”

Steve put on his best Jack Nicholson: “Your wife got excited and crossed her legs a little too quick.”

Pincher scowled, but his crew-two female prosecutors and Delvin Farnsworth, the homicide detective-snickered.

“Hated that movie,” Pincher said. “Evil prevailed. ‘It's Chinatown, Jake.' What kind of crap is that?”

“What do you have for us, Ray?” Steve wasn't being paid enough to listen to Pincher's movie reviews.

“I'm getting there,” Pincher said.

Victoria and Steve were sitting on one side of a long rectangular table in Pincher's conference room. There was a nice view from the windows, if you like concrete expressway trestles fifty feet high.

Pincher was wearing a jet black vested suit with a lavender shirt, lavender tie, and lavender kerchief in his pocket. Way too much lavender for Steve's taste. “Solomon is usually a formidable opponent,” Pincher said, turning to the detective. “Reprehensible, but formidable. Lately, though, he's been off his game.”

“We drove over here for this?” Steve said.

“Maybe it's because this case is out of his league,” Pincher continued serenely.

That again, Steve thought. Why had a discovery session turned adversarial before it had even begun?

Sitting next to Pincher, Farnsworth scratched his mustache with a knuckle. Taking notes-or doodling, Steve couldn't tell which-were the two prosecutors, Gloria Mendez and Miranda Cooper. Steve knew both women as competent but skittish in the courtroom. Neither one would give you a decent plea deal, terrified of being upbraided by their boss. Like most young ASAs, they'd made a Faustian bargain. If they could put up with their egomaniacal boss for a few years, laugh at his jokes, remind him of his brilliance, Pincher would pave the way to a deep-carpet firm downtown.

Steve had never been able to make those kind of compromises. He remembered being only eight or nine when his father starting calling him “Olaf,” but never told him why. Years later, in English class at Beach High, Steve read the e.e. cummings poem “i sing of Olaf glad and big.” And there he was, in iambic tetrameter: “There is some shit I will not eat.”

It would make a good law, he decided, mindful that Olaf spoke the defiant words while red-hot bayonets were jammed up his ass.

“Solomon completely misread his client,” Pincher continued. “Like a sloppy base runner, he gets picked off. That right, Last Out?”

“Let's just get this over with,” Steve said, in no mood for Pincher's bullshit.

“My guess, he's preoccupied by his own squabble over in kiddie court.”

The son-of-a-bitch. Goading me about Bobby.

“Why don't we just stick to this case?” Victoria said.

“How is that nephew of yours, Solomon?” Pincher asked, ignoring her.

Steve wouldn't take the bait. “Bobby's fine. Thank you for asking.”

“Kid's a little weird. But then, with Solomon's family tree, what can you expect?”

Steve felt a hand gripping his forearm. Victoria, urging him to remain calm. He showed her a tight smile he hoped was reassuring, but she looked alarmed.

“Maybe it's genetic,” Pincher continued. “Some damaged Solomon gene. I guess they'll figure it out over at Rockland.”

Steve felt a hot wave rush over his body, as if he'd just opened the door to a blast furnace. He strained to keep his voice steady. “Unlike these ass wipes of yours, Pincher, I don't have to pretend you're smart or funny or even halfway human. So cut the crap. Give us what you've got.”

Pincher pretended not to hear him. Or not to care. “The kid's mother-that'd be Solomon's sister-exchanges sexual favors for intoxicating substances. What do they call that, Del?”

“A coke whore,” Farnsworth said.

“Indeed,” Pincher agreed. “A harlot so low as to treat her own child worse than barnyard swine. Oh, suffer the little children.”

Steve felt beads of sweat on his forehead. He wondered how long it would take him to leap across the conference table and latch on to Pincher's neck. How much time would he have before Farnsworth clubbed him with a gun butt?

“Corruption and carnality run in Solomon's family,” Pincher prattled on. “I have always thought of the courthouse as a holy place, but Solomon's own father was a money-changer in the temple.”

An image formed in Steve's mind. He was picking up Ray Pincher, throwing him through a window, watching his body explode like a crushed melon on the flagstone courtyard nine stories below.

“There is some shit I will not eat,” Steve said, so quietly only Victoria heard it.

He's going to do something really stupid, Victoria knew. She could hear Steve's breath quicken, could sense his muscles tighten.

“As for the weird kid,” Pincher said, “the state's gonna put him in a fishbowl…”

“There is some shit…” Steve's voice, barely a whisper.

“… stick needles in his brain, and figure out what fucked him up, the Solomon gene or the coke whore's abuse.”

“… I will not eat!”

Steve launched himself across the table and was instantly aware of a strange sensation. Like a steer roped by a cowboy, he was yanked to a sudden stop. He seemed to be suspended in air for a split second, then tumbled back into his chair. Bewildered, he looked down and saw Victoria's hand snagging his belt in a white-knuckled grip. She'd been playing tennis since age four and could crack walnuts in her fist.

“You want to let go?” he said.

“Not yet.”

“I was just stretching my legs.”

“Stretch them again, Solomon, and I'll tear your pants off.”

“Promises, promises.”

She laughed. Then so did he. Adrenaline draining, heart rate slowing, he relaxed. She released her grip, and Steve laced his fingers behind his head and leaned back. “Sugar Ray, you're the biggest, baddest lion in the jungle, so you don't have to piss all over the room to mark your territory. Now, I don't know what you're after today, but I figure you'll get around to telling us in your own slippery-ass way. Until then, I'm gonna take a little nap. Victoria, wake me when it's over.”

He tilted his chair back and closed his eyes.

He trusts me, Victoria thought. He trusts me not just to keep him from committing an assault, but to go mano a mano with the State Attorney.

“If you have exhibits for us, Mr. Pincher,” she said, “I'd appreciate them now. But if all you're going to do is insult my partner, I'll file a motion for sanctions.”

“Keep your training bra on,” Pincher replied.

Her head snapped back as if hit by a quick jab. “Is that a comment on the size of my breasts?”

“It's a comment on your lack of experience.”

“Funny, because it reminds me of a sexist remark I heard you make to Jack Zinkavich about Gloria. What was it? ‘I'd like to eat my lunch off that Cuban butt.'”

Victoria thought she heard Gloria Mendez suck in a breath. Next to her, Miranda Cooper shifted uncomfortably in her chair. Farnsworth clapped a hand over his face, stifling a grin. Pincher opened his mouth as if to say something. Apparently he couldn't think of anything.

“Sure you got that right, Victoria?” Steve asked, opening an eye. “You sure Pincher didn't tell Gloria he'd like to eat his lunch off Zinkavich's butt?”

“Steve, stay out of this,” she ordered.

“Yes, ma'am.”

“This isn't a joke. Mr. Pincher just committed a violation of federal law. If Gloria wanted to, she could file a complaint with the EEOC and the Ethics Commission, and so could I. So, Mr. Pincher, I advise you to continue your misogynist remarks at your own peril.”

“Woweee,” Steve yelled, pounding a drumbeat on the table. “Sugar Ray, you can beat the crap out of me all you want. But my partner's tougher than you are. She'll cut off your balls and wear them as earrings.”

My partner, Victoria thought. That's what Solomon just called her. My partner.

My partner, Steve thought. That's what she'd called him.

“If all you're going to do is insult my partner…”

After lashing him to his chair, she had leapt to his defense. Protecting him. Instead of him protecting her. But then, wasn't the lioness more ferocious than the lion?

“All right,” Pincher said, recovering his ability to speak. “You two have had your fun.” He nodded to Miranda Cooper, who opened a box, pulled out a dozen glossy photos, and slid them across the table.

Steve and Victoria looked at the first photo. A man and a woman on the flying bridge of a huge yacht. The woman was sprawled in the captain's chair, the man standing between her spread legs, both naked. A long-lens shot, the teak steering wheel gleaming in the sun, the woman's dark hair sailing in the wind. Frozen in mid-hump. The woman's face was clearly visible. Katrina Barksdale. The man's back was to the camera. The crack of his ass was in perfect focus.

“What's the jury gonna think when we show them this?” Pincher asked.

“Probably gonna wonder who's driving the boat,” Steve said.

The next shot showed the man's face. Chet Manko, no surprise there. His eyes were closed, his hands cupped under Katrina's ass. Then a tutorial of kama sutra positions-Katrina riding Manko cowgirl; him bending her over the rail doggie style; lying on the deck in the good old missionary position. The last photo showed Katrina with a mouth full of Manko.

“Enjoying the show, Solomon?” Pincher asked.

“What's the big deal? They're not breaking any laws, except maybe the ban on offshore drilling.”

“What's that you were saying at the bail hearing? ‘Katrina loves Charles'? You'll eat those words, Solomon.”

“So she was screwing around,” Steve said. “That doesn't mean she killed her husband. Hell, he's the one with the motive for murder, not her.”

Pincher turned to Farnsworth. “Del, you know what Solomon's thinking right now?”

Farnsworth gestured at a photo that showcased Katrina's shapely ass. “Probably wondering how he can get a piece of that.”

“He wants to know how we got the pictures and what else we got.”

Steve said: “I figure Charles Barksdale hired a peep, and the peep hired a boat.”

“Bingo.”

“I also figure he bugged the phones and the bedrooms.”

“And what do you think we've got on the tapes?”

Victoria said: “It doesn't matter. All tapes are inadmissible if Katrina didn't know she was being recorded.”

“Admissible in the Miami Herald,” Pincher said. “Your motion to suppress will be heard the day before jury selection. Maybe the judge will keep out the tapes, maybe he won't. Either way, they'll damn sure be on page one of the paper.”

“I assume you have transcripts for us,” Victoria said.

“Better than that.” Pincher nodded to Gloria Mendez, who opened a briefcase and pulled out a portable tape recorder.

“Tape A-twelve,” Gloria said. “Barksdale master bedroom suite, eleven-oh-three P.M., two weeks before the murder.”

“Alleged murder,” Victoria corrected her.

Gloria punched the PLAY button. For several seconds, the only sound was Sade singing “Smooth Operator.” Then a sleepy woman's voice: “Wish Charlie would stay away longer.”

A man grunted. “Uh.”

“You don't know what it's like. He makes my skin crawl.”

Katrina Barksdale's voice. No doubt about it.

“Uh-huh.” The man graduating to two syllables.

“He thinks he's so smart. All his books. All his poems.”

“Poetry's for fags.” The man again. Blue-collar Boston in voice. Chet Manko.

“Sometimes I wish he'd just disappear,” Katrina said.

“You want Mr. B gone, he's gone.”

There was a four-second pause.

“Smo-oo-th operator.”

“Bad idea, Chet. If we break up, cops snoop around, you might get nervous and cut a deal.”

“You dumping me?”

“I saw it on TV. Dateline, 60 Minutes, one of those. The wife's boyfriend nailed her for the murder they did together.”

“Why you dumping me?”

“I'm not, Chet. I'm just saying two people is one too many for a murder.”

“Smo-oo-th operator.”

Silence again, and Gloria Mendez hit the STOP button.

Victoria said: “That's your case? Chet Manko offers to kill Charlie and Katrina says ‘no.'”

“Don't be too hasty, Victoria,” Steve said. “I think they got her.”

“You do?” Incredulous.

“Yeah, it's a crime to play ‘Smooth Operator' while having sex.”

“You two aren't that dense,” Pincher said. “Manko says he'll kill her husband. She says never mind, she'll do it herself.”

“She does not,” Victoria said.

“It's implied when she says, ‘Two people is one too many for a murder.'”

“Typical Pincher case.” Steve shook his head. “Conjecture piled on inference topped by innuendo.”

But that's not what Steve was thinking. He was thinking about the four-second pause between Manko's offer to kill Charlie and Katrina's semi-rejection of the idea. He put himself in the jury box. He'd expect an innocent woman to say: “No way, Chet.” And you'd hear the anger in her voice. But the pause made it appear she'd been calmly thinking it over, finally replying, essentially: “I don't trust you, Chet. If I'm going to kill my husband, I'll do it myself.”

Steve the Juror thought that Katrina was a woman who may have considered killing her husband. But Steve the Lawyer still trusted his gut. He didn't think Katrina possessed the kind of evil required to do the job. Sure, she might be shallow and greedy and unfaithful, but a killer? It was a huge leap, and he wasn't making it. Not yet, anyway.

“You've got too many dots to connect, Sugar Ray,” Steve said.

“There's stuff you don't know. After he finds out his wife's screwing around, Barksdale goes to his lawyer, tells him to draft divorce papers.”

Miranda Cooper handed over a legal document captioned: “Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”

Steve was caught off guard. He'd known about Manko, so the hump-a-rama photos didn't surprise him. But Katrina had never said anything about a divorce.

“There was no divorce petition filed,” he said.

“Didn't say there was,” Pincher said. “Del, fill him in. It's obvious his client hasn't.”

Farnsworth sat up straighter. “Barksdale tells Katrina he knows about Manko and he wants out of the marriage. This is not good news for the lady. Under the prenup, she'll get squat. But if Charlie dies while they're married, she gets a third of his estate.”

“That's what we call motive.” Pincher's tone was condescending.

“She begs forgiveness,” Farnsworth said. “Swears she still loves him. Give her another chance, she'll dump Manko. She lures Barksdale into bed for his favorite kind of kink. Then she kills him.”

“In case you're still thinking accident,” Pincher added, “take a look at the report from our human-factors expert.”

Miranda Cooper pulled out another document.

“It'd be virtually impossible for someone to accidentally strangle in that contraption,” Pincher said. “All Barksdale had to do was lean forward to relieve the pressure. But he couldn't do that if she's holding him down.”

“So what's your deal?” Victoria said.

“What makes you think I'm offering?” Pincher said.

“Your orientation lecture to new prosecutors. ‘Never lay out your case for the defense, unless you're pushing a plea.'”

“Quite right.” Pincher turned to Gloria and Miranda. “I hope you two paid attention the way Ms. Lord did.” He took his lavender handkerchief out of his jacket pocket, shook it out, refolded it, slid it back. “Plead to second degree. Twelve-year sentence, out in nine.”

Steve put on his poker face. They'd have to talk to their client before responding.

“I remember something else you said in that lecture,” Victoria said. “‘You're trial lawyers, not plea bargainers. So try your winners and plead out your losers. Never offer a plea unless your case has a hole in it.'”

“Top of your class, Ms. Lord,” Pincher said.

“You're afraid of losing. I don't know why yet, but we'll figure it out. Until we do, you can take your plea and shove it.”

Whoa, Steve thought. When did she become a cowboy?

Ray Pincher raised an eyebrow and cocked his head, as if trying to determine if his hearing had failed him. “Solomon, perhaps you should tell your neophyte partner that she might be outsmarting herself here.”

“I don't tell her anything, Sugar Ray. She's got better instincts than I do.”

Hang tough. Never contradict your partner in front of the enemy.

“I'll hold the offer open until tomorrow at noon.” Then, as unruffled as his lavender shirt, Pincher stood and with a mortician's smile said: “I'll escort you out.”

Steve and Victoria gathered the discovery documents and walked out of the conference room, with Pincher leading the way to the elevator. Halfway down the institutional corridor of metal walls and industrial carpeting, the State Attorney gestured toward a closed door. “Before you leave, Solomon, there's someone who wants to see you.”

A nameplate on the door read:

John B. Zinkavich, Esq.

Division of Family Services

“You got any other doors?” Steve said. “Maybe one with a new car behind it? Or a trip to Acapulco?”