Solomon versus Lord

Forty-eight
MOJITO MAKER

“Go, go, go,” Victoria said. “We have an hour to get to Juvie Court.”

“I want to talk to the press.”

“No way. We'll be late.”

She dragged Steve down the corridor. They sidestepped Ray Pincher, who was telling the reporters of his sage and courageous decision to dismiss all charges against Katrina Barksdale.

“Just one little sound bite,” Steve pleaded.

“No time.”

They shoved their way through the wolf pack of reporters and photographers and hustled to the parking lot.

“You were great today,” she said, as they got into his car.

“You, too. Getting Pincher to dismiss. I wouldn't have thought of it.”

“And I wouldn't have thought of turning the case into a Perry Mason novel. I've learned a lot from you.”

“Ditto.” He smiled, forgiving her, she supposed, for taking over at the end.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the bungalow on Kumquat Avenue, where Steve tossed Bobby into the shower, then hastily dressed him in a navy sport coat, gray wool slacks, a white shirt, and a striped tie.

By the time they all piled into the old Caddy, the little preppie's shirttail was out, his glasses were smudged, and his hair was mussed. He sat in the backseat, knees pulled up under his chin, rocking back and forth, looking like the class weirdo genius being carted off to jail for blowing up the science lab.

Steve tuned the radio to the all-news station but punched another button when he heard Pincher saluting himself for uncovering the truth about the death of Charles Barksdale. On the reggae station, Desmond Dekker amp; the Aces were singing “Israelites,” promising a calm after the storm.

Victoria glanced at Bobby and started to worry. He lay on his back, his feet pressed against a window, as if trying to break out of the car. “Maybe we should rethink our strategy for tonight,” she said, cryptically.

Translation: I'm scared to death to put Bobby on the witness stand.

“Not your call, cupcake.”

“Tell me you didn't just call me ‘cupcake.'”

“Don't make some feminist thing out of it. I'm starving, and I'm thinking about the Fink's Krispy Kremes.”

She wondered why he couldn't see the danger of having Bobby testify. He knew Bobby always spoke the unvarnished truth. And surely Solomon, of all people, knew that the truth sometimes needs a fresh coat of paint.

“What we're planning could backfire,” she said.

“You distract Zinkavich, and I'll go after a couple of glazed crullers.”

He's reverted to Irritating Habit Number 396: Ignoring what I say when he doesn't want to deal with it.

She searched for a way to say it was too risky to call Bobby without the boy picking up on it. “Maybe we should reorder our witnesses.”

From the backseat, Bobby said: “I'm not scared to talk to the judge.”

So much for subterfuge.

“Of course you're not, kiddo,” Steve said. “You'll do great.” He turned to Victoria. “Bobby testifies. Subject closed.”

“You've been telling me to go with my gut, and my gut tells me-”

“Closed.”

“Petitioner calls Robert Solomon,” Victoria said.

“Objection,” Zinkavich said. “The testimony will be tainted by the boy's affinity with his uncle. Not to mention his history of hallucinations.”

“We think Your Honor should be the judge of Bobby's competence, not Mr. Zinkavich,” Victoria said.

“Does the kid even understand the oath?” Zinkavich asked.

“Do you, Fink?” Steve growled, under his breath.

“I heard that, Mr. Solomon,” said Judge Althea Rolle, wagging a finger. The judge wore fuchsia robes, a frilly lace rabat at the neck. Her dark eyes were blazing at Steve. “Do you know what we do in Juvie Court when someone acts up?”

“No, ma'am.”

“We give them a time-out and they go sit in the corner.”

“I apologize to the Court, ma'am.”

Meaning, Victoria understood, that he didn't apologize to Zinkavich.

“Now, as for the child's testimony, Ms. Lord, do you really want to do that?”

When a judge asks a leading question, you best head the direction you're being led, Victoria knew. And she agreed with the judge. You never knew when Bobby was going to slip into a screaming fit or burst out that “President Clinton of the USA” can be rearranged to spell, “TO COPULATE HE FINDS INTERNS.”

“We believe there can be no better witness than the one most directly affected by this proceeding,” Victoria answered. She didn't believe it, but sometimes you do what your client wants, especially when your client is a know-it-all lawyer.

“Here's how it's gonna be,” Judge Rolle said. “I'll talk to the boy alone in my chambers. Counsel will sit in the anteroom and listen on the speakers. No coaching from Mr. Solomon and no cross-exam from Mr. Zinkavich. Now, skedaddle, all of you.”

Steve paced in front of a set of bookshelves, claustrophobic in the small anteroom. Victoria sat rigidly at a worktable, fingers clutching a pen, poised to take notes. Zinkavich slumped in a cushioned chair, his love handles overflowing the armrests.

“Would you like something to drink?” Judge Rolle asked, her voice tinny over the speaker.

“Nope. Uncle Steve made me a papaya smoothie for the ride over.” Bobby's voice was high and nervous.

“Sounds healthy.”

“Makes me poop,” Bobby said.

“Uh-huh.”

“Sometimes we get the papayas from the fruit stand on Red Road.”

“They have wonderful produce,” the judge said.

“Sometimes Uncle Steve just steals them from a neighbor's trees.”

“I see.”

Yikes. Steve stopped pacing. If he were a smoker, he would light up about now.

“Do you do spend a lot of time with your uncle?” the judge asked.

“Like 24/7,” Bobby said. “Except when he, you know…”

“When he goes out on dates?”

“Uncle Steve doesn't go on dates. He just has chicks come over, hang out in his bedroom, then split.”

“Oh, shit,” Steve groaned.

“Do any women ever spend the night?”

“If they've had too many mojitos,” Bobby said.

“So I guess your uncle makes more than papaya smoothies,” the judge said, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

“I make the mojitos.” Bobby said it proudly. “The secret's squeezing fresh guarapo. Sugarcane juice. But not too much, because the rum is already sweet. And the mint leaves gotta be fresh.”

Zinkavich said: “We reap what we sow, Solomon.”

“Aw, shut up,” Steve said.

Over the speaker, the judge said: “Does it bother you when women sleep over?”

“No way,” Bobby said. “Sometimes I get to see bare boobs in the morning.”

Steve's throat felt constricted. He doubted he could swallow, wondered if he could even take a breath. He was pretty sure he heard the judge's pen scratching across a notepad.

“And Sofia makes huevos rancheros,” the boy continued. “But Lexy and Rexy don't really cook. They're models, and they eat like a slice of grapefruit and a thimble of yogurt.”

“Models,” the judge said, disapproval in her voice. “Does your uncle see either Lexy or Rexy now?”

“Not anymore,” Bobby said.

Steve felt relieved enough to exhale.

“Used to be, he'd do them both at once.”

“Oh, shi-i-i-i-i-t!” Steve wailed.

“They're twins,” Bobby explained, helpfully.

Steve whimpered and Zinkavich barked a laugh.

“Quiet, both of you!” Victoria flashed an angry look.

Steve said: “That stuff's ancient history, Vic. Six months ago, at least.”

“Please. I'm trying to listen,” she said.

Bobby was saying something, and they'd missed part of it.

“… been a while since Uncle Steve got any trim.”

“Trim?”

“You know. Some play. Booty in the bone shack.”

“So, no more booty?”

“Lexy, Rexy, Sofia, Gina. They haven't come over since Uncle Steve fell totally in love with Victoria.”

“Ms. Lord? His ex-fiancee?”

“Oh, that wasn't real.”

“Excuse me?” the judge said, puzzled.

“Being engaged. That was just pretending.”

“Whatever for?”

“Uncle Steve didn't want to lose me, and he thought Victoria made him seem more mature.”

“I see.”

“Not that he wouldn't like to marry her for real.”

In the anteroom, Zinkavich laughed so hard, spittle dribbled from the corner of his mouth.

“So now only Ms. Lord comes to the house?” Judge Rolle asked.

“Just to work, not to do Uncle Steve. She's gonna marry this other guy, and Uncle Steve is totally bummed.”

God, this was humiliating, Steve thought. Why had no one ever invented a pill that could make you invisible?

“This isn't a court case, it's a soap opera,” Zinkavich said.

The judge said: “Tell me about your homeschooling.”

Yes, tell her, Steve thought. They'd rehearsed this.

“I'm reading the Aeneid in Latin. Virgil's pretty cool.”

Perfect. Way to go, kiddo.

“And The Iliad in Greek. The battle scenes are totally awesome. Better than that stupid movie Troy.”

“That's very impressive,” the judge said. “Did your uncle give you those books?”

“Yep, plus the fiftieth anniversary edition of Playboy.”

Aargh. One step forward, two steps back, Steve thought.

“I thought Stella Stevens was really hot. But she didn't show any cooch.”

In the anteroom, Steve banged his head against the bookshelves, knocking a dusty volume of Corpus Juris Secundum to the floor. Over the speaker, Judge Rolle seemed to sigh, then said: “Tell me what you do for fun, Bobby.”

“I play Little League, but I suck bad. Uncle Steve says it doesn't matter, but some kids are mean to me. Once I dropped a fly ball, and one of the dads yells, ‘Get that spaz out of there.'”

“That must have hurt your feelings.”

“Then I let a ball roll between my legs, and the same guy yells I should be in the Special Olympics.”

“Oh, my,” the judge said.

“Uncle Steve told the guy to quit talking smack, but he wouldn't. He was, like, humongous, with a fat head, and Uncle Steve yells at him: ‘Hey, big mouth, what position did you play, backstop?' And everybody starts laughing, so the guy comes after my uncle, who starts running backwards, and the guy can't catch him. Uncle Steve's saying, ‘You're so ugly your first name should be Damn,' and the guy keeps chasing and Uncle Steve keeps backpedaling and says, “If your ass had eyes, you still couldn't see shit.' And the game's stopped because they're on the field and the big guy's swinging at Uncle Steve but missing, and finally the guy stops, out of breath, all red-faced, and bends over and hurls chunks. Right on first base.”

“Must have been quite an experience,” the judge breathed.

“Later, Uncle Steve told me some people say nasty things because they're stupid and some because they're mean, and not to let it bother me, because I'm special in a good way.”

“I think your uncle's right,” the judge said.

“And he said if you're really mad at somebody, beat them with your brains, not your fists.”

“You really like your uncle Steve, don't you, Bobby?”

“He's awesome,” the boy said.

“How about Victoria?”

“I wish she was my mom.”

There was a long pause. Steve wished he could see the judge's face, wanted to know what she was thinking. He glanced at Victoria. She blinked several times, her eyelashes flicking away tears like silver drops of dew.