Solomon versus Lord

Seven
TWO BEAGLES IN THE BARN

A white cockatoo named Mr. Ruffles sat on the limb of a plastic tree, swiveling its head left and right, one blue-rimmed eye locked on Victoria. The fluffy bird, its feathers the color of sugar, resembled some dazzling sweet confection, she thought, a coconut cake maybe. The bird had a curved beak the color of blue curacao and intelligent, liquid eyes. On its head, a flaring sulfur crest added a punctuation mark, like a sapphire brooch on a gown.

“Hello there, fellow,” Judge Gridley said. “What's your name?”

“Feed me, dickwad,” Mr. Ruffles said.

Scowling, the judge turned to Steve. “Counsel, control your bird.”

Steve signaled Marvin the Maven in the front row. “My associate may be able to help.”

Marvin toddled through the swinging gate, opened a small deli bag, and began feeding the bird a prune Danish, one nibble at a time.

Victoria quickly decided that her job was to keep Solomon from turning the courtroom into a zoo and herself into a laughingstock. The judge had sent the jurors back into their little room to bitch and moan in private while the lawyers argued whether a cockatoo could testify, or at least talk a bit.

“Birds represent love in mythology,” Steve began.

Victoria felt Pincher's eyes on her back, heard his pen scratching on his notepad. “What's love got to do with anything?” she demanded.

“A revealing question,” Steve shot back, “considering the unfortunate choice you've made in your personal life.”

“That's totally improper. Your Honor, defense counsel should be admonished for the ad hominem attack.”

“Settle down, both of you.” Judge Gridley tossed aside Lou's Sure Picks, a betting tip sheet. “Mr. Solomon, just what the heck are you saying?”

“Every bird must be heard,” Steve said. “It's in the Constitution.”

“Where?” Victoria demanded.

“It was implied when the Founding Fathers chose the bald eagle as the symbol of the country.”

“That's ridiculous. In the history of the Republic, no bird has borne witness in a court of law.”

“Ms. Lord overlooks The Case of the Perjured Parrot.”

“Don't think I know that precedent,” the judge said.

“One of the early Perry Masons,” Steve said. “A parrot named Casanova witnessed a murder.”

“Your Honor, this is ludicrous,” Victoria said. “A bird can't swear to tell the truth.”

“Tell the truth!” Mr. Ruffles said, spitting crumbs of prune Danish.

“Shut up!” Victoria said. Startled, the bird hopped from its tree to Steve's shoulder.

“Your Honor, Ms. Lord is harassing my bird,” Steve said.

The judge's gavel cracked like a rifle shot. “C'mon up here, both of you.”

As she approached the bench, Victoria felt her pulse racing. But just look at Solomon. A bird on his shoulder, a shit-eating smirk on his face. The judge was going to ream them both, and the idiot didn't even seem to care.

“Y'all want to have your dinner tonight in the stockade?” the judge asked.

“Certainly not, Your Honor,” she said respectfully.

“Chipped beef on toast again?” Steve inquired.

“My outburst was provoked by Mr. Solomon, Your Honor. And his friend, Ruffles.”

“Mister Ruffles,” protested Mr. Ruffles, flapping his wings.

“Ms. Lord doesn't understand creative lawyering,” Steve said.

“Mr. Solomon doesn't understand ethics.”

Judge Gridley exhaled a long sigh. “When I checked my calendar this morning, it said, ‘State versus Pedrosa,' not ‘Solomon versus Lord.'” He leaned back in his leather chair. “You two remind me of a couple beagles I have on my farm outside Ocala. One male, one female, always yapping and nipping, raising general hell. Tried keeping those two apart, but they'd just yowl. See, they couldn't stand each other, but couldn't stand to be apart. They just loved the fight.”

“Loved the fight!” Mr. Ruffles said.

“Then one day, it all stopped.”

“Did the female kill the male?” Victoria asked, hopefully.

The judge cleaned his trifocals on the sleeve of his black robe. “I came out to the barn and found the male humping the bitch, just pumping away on a bale of straw.”

“Humping the bitch,” Mr. Ruffles said.

“If that's the court's order,” Steve said, “we have no choice but to comply.”

“You see what I have to put up with.” Victoria felt her face redden.

“After that, those two dogs stayed as close as hog jowls and black-eyed peas,” the judge said. “Now, I'm not gonna referee you. Y'all want to rut around, find your own barn on your own time.”

“Six o'clock works for me,” Steve said.

He's a juvenile delinquent, Victoria thought. A spoiled brat. She turned her back on him.

“As for the pending issue,” the judge continued, “no dad-gum animal's gonna testify in my courtroom. I'm warning you both. Any attempt to elicit information from the bird will be considered a contempt of court.”

Victoria felt herself exhale. Ye-ssss! Solomon wanted to give her trial tips? Here's a tip for you. Don't mess with Victoria Lord.

“Now, git on back to your places and let's hang the ham in the smokehouse,” the judge said, then gestured for the bailiff to bring in the jury.

On the way to her table, Victoria smiled at Pincher, letting him know she'd won the motion. He nodded his appreciation. Then she felt Steve alongside her.

“Another trial tip, Lord,” he whispered. “In law and in life, sometimes you have to wing it.”

“Thanks a bunch,” she said.

“I have to wing it right now. You know why?”

“I don't care.”

“My client's guilty.”

She stopped short. “What?”

“He imports illegal birds, snakes, big cats. Sells them to zoos and collectors.”

Now she was confused. “You want to plead him out?”

“No way. Pedrosa gives people work, and the animals are healthy and happy.”

“What he does is a crime.”

“A victimless crime,” Steve said. “Pedrosa came to this country with nothing. He's put two kids through college. He's good people.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“So you can dismiss the case and spare yourself embarrassment.”

“Forget it.”

“Then I'm not responsible for what happens.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You're going to be a fine lawyer someday, Lord. But not until you find your heart.”

Victoria felt dizzy as she sat down, as if she had plunged through the rabbit hole and just kept falling. Hoping to stem the vertigo, she tried focusing on the sign above the judge's head. We Who Labor Here Seek Only Truth.

Sure. Solomon seeks to beat her brains in, the judge to beat the point spread, and the jurors to beat the traffic home.

Amancio Pedrosa swore to tell the truth and Steve started asking questions.

“What's your occupation, sir?”

“I run an animal shelter for poor, injured creatures,” Pedrosa said.

And Fidel Castro runs Club Med, Victoria thought.

“So you have birds on your property?” Steve asked.

Pedrosa's eyes welled with tears. “Flamingos with broken legs. Pelicans with fishhooks in their beaks. Egrets that swallow beer-can tabs.”

The jurors seemed stricken, Victoria thought. Could they be buying this shit?

“Do you recognize the bird sitting on my shoulder?”

“Looks like a Brazilian white cockatoo with a sulfur crest,” Pedrosa said.

“Cockatoo!” Mr. Ruffles said, as Steve hand-fed him another prune Danish.

“Did you smuggle this bird into the country?”

“No, sir.”

“Then how do you explain how Wildlife Officers found the bird on your property?”

“Hurricane Brenda,” Pedrosa said. “You remember? The storm came up the coast from South America.”

“So the hurricane blew our feathered friend north and deposited him on your property,” Steve said.

No one laughed, no one screamed, and Solomon's pants didn't catch fire.

Just wait till cross-examination. I'll show you a hurricane.

“That's about it,” Pedrosa said. “One day just after the storm, I saw that bird perched in a gumbo-limbo tree.”

“Gumbo-limbo,” Mr. Ruffles said.

“The same day, the Wildlife people showed up and arrested me.”

“For saving this bird's life, you were arrested,” Steve said sadly. He gave Mr. Ruffles a nudge, and the bird flapped his wings and hopped to Pedrosa's shoulder.

Victoria leapt to her feet. “Your Honor, let the record reflect that the bird has just landed on the defendant, Amancio Pedrosa.”

“Objection,” Steve said. “It's irrelevant where Mr. Ruffles sits.”

The bird was nuzzling Pedrosa's neck. Victoria felt her excitement rise.

You think I can't wing it? Just watch, Solomon.

“It's highly relevant, Your Honor,” she said. “It proves that Mr. Ruffles knows Mr. Pedrosa. Just look at them. They're practically cuddling.”

“It's a case of mistaken identity,” Steve said. “By zoological malfeasance and misleading suggestion, the state has planted false evidence.”

Solomon's babbling, Victoria thought. He's scared. She had him right where she wanted him.

Hoisted on his own gumbo-limbo.

“Ms. Lord has employed trickery to dupe this innocent bird,” Steve railed. “To Mr. Ruffles, all people look alike.”

“Then why,” Victoria retorted, “of all the people in the courtroom, did Mr. Ruffles choose Mr. Pedrosa? There's only one reason. Because it's Mr. Pedrosa's bird!”

Mr. Ruffles said: “Mr. Pedrosa's bird.”

“Objection!” Steve yelled. “Ms. Lord has tainted these proceedings with prejudice.”

“Mr. Pedrosa's bird,” Mr. Ruffles repeated.

“Stifle that bird,” the judge demanded, then turned to Victoria. “Ms. Lord, you think I was born tired and raised lazy?”

“No, sir.”

“Then why did you elicit testimony from that flea-bitten bird?”

She felt the first sharp dagger of panic.

The judge's order. Have I violated the judge's order?

Next to her, Pincher cleared his throat with the sound of a truck dumping gravel. She could feel Solomon's presence, gliding into the well of the courtroom, circling like a hungry shark.

“It's Mr. Solomon's fault,” she said. “He planned this. I don't know how exactly, but I know he did.”

“That doesn't cut it, Judge,” Steve said. “Ms. Lord has shamefully induced Mr. Ruffles to incriminate the defendant. I reluctantly move for a mistrial.”

The word “mistrial” sent a shiver of fear through her. She groped for the right response, not daring to risk a glance at Pincher.

“But Pedrosa's guilty! Solomon told me so.” The words just poured out. “That's why he's winging it. Solomon's diabolical, unbalanced, dangerous. He should be locked up along with his guilty client.”

The courtroom was hushed. Everyone was staring at her. Victoria looked down. She was pointing her scissors at Solomon, her hand shaking.

“Bailiff, disarm counsel,” the judge said, gravely.

Elwood Reed hitched up his belt, walked purposefully to the prosecution table, and took the scissors from Victoria.

“Mistrial granted,” Judge Gridley said. He turned to the jurors and thanked them for their service, explaining that their duties were over, and isn't it wonderful to live in a country where the rule of law prevails?

Victoria slumped into her chair, dazed. She was vaguely aware of Pedrosa hugging Steve Solomon at the defense table. There was a flapping of wings. The damned bird was celebrating, too. Next to her, Pincher stirred uncomfortably.

“I'm sorry, sir.” Her voice was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves.

“Some lawyers aren't cut out for the courtroom,” Pincher told her. “Maybe you can be a back-office scrivener somewhere, but trial work's not for you.”

She must have been shaking her head, because he said, “Do you understand?”

“No, sir.”

“Do I need Donald Trump to deliver the news? You're fired.”

Pincher got up and left her there, alone. A loser. A leper in a colony of one.

Her throat felt constricted, and her heart, which had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, seemed to stop. The courtroom became unbearably hot, the lights excruciatingly bright. Footsteps of departing spectators echoed like thunderclaps, whispers cackled like derisive laughter.

She tried to compose herself, knowing her cheeks were crimson, her makeup melting. And then it came. The first salty tear.

At the defense table, Steve looked at Victoria sitting alone and forlorn. Only another trial lawyer could understand what she was going through, her blood pooling on the courtroom floor. Steve had lost cases-though perhaps none so spectacularly-and he knew the shame. He'd heard Pincher fire her. The prick hadn't even waited until they were back in the office.

And now what?

Oh, jeez, she's crying.

Steve felt an emotion that seldom wormed itself into his consciousness: guilt. He hadn't meant to get her fired. He wanted to tell her that the only lawyers who never get humiliated in court are those too chickenshit to venture there. He wanted to tell her that she had more potential than any young lawyer he knew. She was a gladiator who'd gone down swinging her sword. Nothing to be ashamed of, not her fault her boss was a jerk.

Steve watched Victoria unstrap her expensive Italian shoes and toss them into a plastic bag, slipping on white Nikes for the trek to the parking lot. The Warrior Princess stripped of her armor. He told himself that someday she'd look back and realize it was for the best. Why should she waste her time with Sugar Ray Pincher? He'd do nothing but stunt her growth. She should be in private practice. Like him.

An idea was forming.

He could groom her, teach her all his tricks.

We could handle the Barksdale case together.

He wondered just how furious she was. Would she even listen to his offer? Would she help him-help them-land Katrina Barksdale as a client? He gathered up Mr. Ruffles and walked to the prosecution table.

“I'm sorry,” he said.

“No you're not.”

“I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity.”

“I hate you, you know.”

“I hate you,” Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.

“What are you going to do now?” Steve asked.

“I don't know.”

“Maybe I can help.”

“You've done quite enough.”

“I have a proposition for you.”

“Shit!” she screamed.

“Don't say that till you hear me out,” he said.

“Dammit! Your bird.”

Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.

“They say it's good luck,” Steve said.

GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH By Joan Fleischman

Herald Staff Writer

The Miami-Dade Grand Jury will hear evidence Monday in the strangulation death of construction magnate and philanthropist Charles Barksdale, 60. County Coroner Wu-Chi Yang reportedly will tell the Grand Jury that Barksdale died from “erotic asphyxia,” death from cutting off the air supply during sex. The issue before the Grand Jury is whether there is probable cause that the death resulted from a homicide, rather than an accident. Dr. Yang would not comment on these reports, and all proceedings before the Grand Jury are confidential. The sole suspect in the inquiry is Barksdale's widow, Katrina Barksdale, 33, who reportedly was with her husband in the bedroom of their luxurious bayfront home when the incident occurred last Wednesday night. The couple had been married four years. Barksdale was best known for his waterfront condominium projects and as a sponsor of book fairs and poetry seminars. Asked for a comment, State Attorney Raymond Pincher said, “We will present the Grand Jury with evidence that Mrs. Barksdale had ample motive, opportunity, and means to commit this heinous crime, and that she did so with premeditation and malice aforethought.” The State Attorney then added, “Not that I'm prejudging her.”