Solomon versus Lord

Forty
NO HUGS, NO KISSES, NO ERRORS

On a quiet Sunday night-Victoria wouldn't return his calls and Bobby was reading the encyclopedia-Steve sat at the kitchen table, snacking on red peppers and goat cheese and drinking Grolsch, the Dutch beer. He turned on the laptop and started Googling.

First, he plugged “Replengren” into the search window, and bingo, a hundred references popped up. A synthetic hormone manufactured in Germany, Replengren regenerated damaged brain cells in rats, but not without side effects, including impaired motor skills. The FDA was considering whether to approve the drug for testing on humans, but so far, no decision had been made.

Holy shit.

Would Kranchick jump the gun with an experimental drug?

He put her name into the search engine and came up with a dozen monographs and research papers she'd written over the years. He'd found these earlier when he did his original homework, coming up with her article “Unlocking Your Inner Rain Man.” But this time, he was looking for something specific. Using the FIND function, he searched everything she'd written for the word “Replengren.”

Nothing. She'd never mentioned the drug.

He set about reading Kranchick's papers anyway. He skipped the highly technical studies with charts of acid secretions and diagrams of brain electrical activity. He skimmed the ones speculating on the cause of autism, everything from measles in pregnant women to food additives and PCBs. He spent more time-a two-beer read-on a savant syndrome piece in which Kranchick predicted that transcranial magnetic stimulation would soon produce startling mental feats in both autistic and nonautistic persons.

What he read twice, highlighting with a yellow marker after printing it out-just as Victoria would have done-was the oldest and least technical of all the articles. It was an opinion piece in a medical journal from Kranchick's first year of residency at a Baltimore hospital. He'd read it before but it had meant little then. Now, viewed in the context of Replengren, it took on new meaning. In the article, Kranchick criticized a hospital's decision to fire a researcher who'd purposely induced psychotic episodes in schizophrenics by giving them amphetamines.

“Didn't Edward Jenner inject smallpox into an eight-year-old boy in order to come up with a vaccine?” she wrote. “Didn't Walter Reed allow infected mosquitos to attack Cuban workers in order to discover the cause of yellow fever? Didn't Louis Pasteur test his rabies vaccine on children even before he tried it on animals?”

Steve felt his heartbeat quicken. What was the question he'd just asked himself?

Would Kranchick jump the gun with an experimental drug?

Some questions are too easy. Why not ask: Is Pincher a prick? Is Zinkavich a ton of truffled pork? He skipped to the last paragraph of Kranchick's article.

“Advances in medicine require courage, vision, and the uncompromising ability to go where others fear to tread. The greater good demands no less.”

The greater good.

Steve wanted to ask Kranchick who gave her the right to play God. But that could wait. He had his trial strategy to consider and another Grolsch to drink. How could he prove that Kranchick was giving an unapproved drug to the patients at Rockland? The handwritten note Cadillac snatched from the wastebasket wasn't admissible. And how would he even tell Victoria about it? He could imagine their conversation.

She: “Dammit, Solomon. What you've done is unethical and illegal.”

He: “But we learned the truth. When the law doesn't work…”

She: “Live with it! You can't decide what laws to follow and what to ignore. Who gave you the right to play God?”

He: “Touche.”

Even after polishing off another Grolsch, he didn't know what to do.

By Monday, the cold front had pushed out to sea, and the morning was sunny and warm. Parked under the portico at Brickell Townhouse, listening to Bob Marley ask, “Is this love?” Steve waited for Victoria. He figured he had not seen her in thirty-two hours, nineteen minutes, and forty-six seconds. Roughly.

This morning they would begin selecting a jury in the Barksdale trial, and sometime after dark, they would start taking testimony in Bobby's case. He was up to his ass in Pinchers and Finks. But at the moment, all he could think about was Victoria.

Thirty-two hours and twenty minutes ago-make it twenty-one-she had climbed out of the straw, leaving him alone and forlorn. He had dialed her number three times on Sunday; she never picked up, never returned his calls.

She's pretending it didn't happen. Well, he could do the same.

But it wouldn't work. Their lovemaking was playing on an endless loop in what was left of his brain.

A moment later, she came flying out the lobby door in full trial uniform: double-breasted charcoal suit and a simple strand of pearls. Looking serious. Businesslike. And beautiful. She good-morninged the doorman, tossed her briefcase into the backseat, and hopped in. “Sorry I'm late.”

No “Good morning, sweetheart.” No peck on the cheek. Not even a smile.

“No problem,” he said.

Sooner or later, she'd have to confront it. He felt like shouting: “I told you how I feel. Now you tell me.”

In sullen silence, he drove up Twelfth Avenue toward the Justice Building. This was how it was going to be. No hugs, no kisses, no errors. So much he wanted to say, but the atmosphere was all wrong. The harsh sunlight of day had replaced the flaming torches, the Cuban love songs, the swirling snow. Besides, hadn't he already laid it all out? He'd said he loved her. What else could he do?

“Who's going to handle voir dire?” she asked. A professional tone, one partner to another.

“You do the talking. I'll watch the jurors, take notes.”

“Really?”

“You're friendlier. They'll like you more. Hell, they'll fall in love with you.”

Love, he thought. He had love on the brain.

The air horn sounded on the drawbridge at the Miami River. Dammit, they'd be stuck a good five minutes. He wouldn't add it to his laws, but it's a good idea not to be late to court the first day of a murder trial. He pulled to a stop, third car in line.

“So?” he said.

“So?”

He couldn't help himself. He couldn't not ask. “What's the deal? Is this gonna be another ‘it never happened'?”

She stayed quiet. A white egret high-stepped its way up the ascending bridge. On the radio, Jimmy Cliff boasted he could see clearly now.

“It happened,” she said finally.

He waited for her to continue, but she didn't. The egret kept going uphill. Jimmy Cliff claimed it was a bright sunshiny day, but it sure didn't feel that way to Steve. “I'm a little on edge here, trying to figure just where I stand.”

The bridge had gotten too steep. The egret took off and circled over the river, where a freighter loaded with minivans moved ponderously toward the open ocean.

“I can't think about you right now,” she said.

“That's a little cold, isn't it?”

“We have a murder case to try all day, then Bobby's case tonight, then we do it all over again tomorrow. Bruce is breathing down my neck about seating charts for the reception, and he's ordered an avocado tree ice sculpture without asking me. Jackie hates her dress, my period's due tomorrow, and you, Steve Solomon, want me to bat my eyes and tell you how the earth moved, and it's never been that way before, and oh, my God, let's sail off to some island together.”

“Did it? The earth move, I mean.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“First you blast me because I didn't express my feelings. Now I've put my balls on the chopping block, and what do you do?”

“I'm tabling you.”

“Table Bigby and the ice sculpture. Talk to me, dammit.”

“Not until both cases are over. When everything's finished, we'll talk.” The barrier arm on the bridge was lifting. “Now, let's go win a murder trial.”