The Deep Blue Alibi

Fifty-one

She was all alone.

Oh, the courtroom was filled. Reporters in the front row, a still photographer alongside. There were the regulars, retirees who cruise the building looking for cheap entertainment. A few local lawyers occupied the back pews, waiting for their own cases, grousing about handling D amp;Ds-drunk and disorderlies-instead of a juicy murder trial. There were unkempt old-timers, leathery as lizards, who wandered inside just for the air-conditioning. The jurors were stuffed into their box like eggs in a carton, their expressions ranging from bored to bemused to bitchy: "Prove your case, and entertain me while you're doing it, lady."

Alongside Victoria at the defense table sat Hal Griffin, not nearly as tan or hearty as when the trial began. Judge Feathers swiveled in his high-back chair, his clerk huddled over her desk below the bench. A paunchy, sleepy bailiff stood just inside the door, the courtroom's Medicare-eligible centurion. Sheriff Rask, placid as ever, sat directly behind the prosecution table.

But I'm all alone.

One gladiator. A hundred lions.

Steve would know that feeling. It was part of their bond, the trial lawyer's steaming brew of terror and exhilaration.

"Never let them see your fear."

One of his first lessons. Closely followed by: "Act like you own the courtroom."

Leading up to: "Make the jury comfortable and your opponent squirm."

I'll try, she thought, knowing it would be easier with Steve by her side. But he was outside, pacing in the corridor. With the witness rule in effect, he was barred from the courtroom while another witness testified. And right now Leicester Robinson was striding toward the witness stand. He wore pleated black pants and a silk coral shirt open at the neck. His mustache was neatly trimmed, his twisted dreadlocks short and tidy. Wire-rimmed glasses gave him a scholarly appearance, but his broad shoulders and thick, callused hands did not fit the image of the history professor he had nearly become. No, this was a working man. Educated and articulate, but a man comfortable with heavy machinery and dirty boots.

At breakfast, Griffin had reacted with disbelief when Victoria told him about Fowles and Robinson.

"Clive would never betray me," Griffin had said, shaking his head. "And Robinson? That would take some cajones."

Victoria didn't think the tenth-generation grandson of pirates and salvors lacked the balls. Or the brains. Or the "duality of evil." The phrase Robinson used to describe the ship captain in Conrad's Secret Sharer.

Now, as Robinson paused in front of the clerk's table, Judge Feathers instructed: "Just take your seat on the witness stand, sir. You're still under oath."

Victoria stood and smoothed the skirt of her Philippe Adec suit. A color so dark, the saleswoman had called it "anthracite." Fitting for the gravity of the day's proceedings. And the difficulty of the task, turning coal into diamonds.

She scanned the courtroom. Junior was missing from his usual spot behind the defense table. Sheriff Rask caught her eye and winked. His second wink of the morning. Earlier, when she was draining a cup of coffee from a machine in the lobby, the sheriff had strolled over and good-morninged her.

"Good luck with Robinson today." He winked and walked off whistling "Son of a Son of a Sailor."

Now Victoria walked to the far end of the jury box. She didn't want to be in the jurors' range of vision. Let them concentrate on Robinson, who sat waiting, staring at her.

Sometimes, with an adverse witness, you start slowly and softly. Nonthreatening. A neutral tone, a pleasant demeanor, a sunny path strewn with rose petals, concealing the sharpened bamboo in the pit below. Steve likened cross-examination to lulling a pitcher to sleep by taking a short lead off first, then stealing second with a furious, unexpected burst of speed. But early this morning, he'd said that Robinson would know what they were after.

"He just doesn't know how much we know. Act confident. Hold a folder stuffed with papers, as if we have the specs on the barges. Keep the questions short. Don't give him time to think between answers."

"Do you own a Cigarette Top Gun Thirty-eight, Mr. Robinson?" she asked.

"Not personally," he answered.

"In a corporate name, then. Does your Bahamian corporation own the boat?"

"It does."

"And what's the reason you hide your ownership of that boat?"

"Objection. Argumentative." Waddle couldn't know where she was headed but wanted to block the path getting there.

"Overruled," the judge said.

"I didn't hide anything, Ms. Lord. The lawyers titled the boat that way for tax purposes."

"Where's that boat today?"

"It was stolen from a marina yesterday. I've been told it was involved in an accident in the Gulf."

An accident. Sounds better than "My hired killer got his ass blown up."

"Did you report the boat stolen?"

"To tell you the truth, Ms. Lord. ."

A witness is almost always lying when he says: "To tell you the truth. ."

". . I didn't know the boat was gone until the Coast Guard told me it had sunk."

"Do you know a man named Chester Lee Conklin, also known as Conchy Conklin?"

"Apparently, he's the one who stole my boat."

"A stranger, then?"

"I didn't say that, ma'am. He's a welder, used to work for me."

"Used to?"

"Conklin was unreliable. I fired him a few weeks ago."

"Then what was he doing in Jacksonville less than two weeks ago?"

The question seemed to surprise him. Robinson wouldn't know about the traffic ticket, wouldn't know

they could place Conklin near the shipyard.

"Did you hear the question, sir?" the judge asked.

"You'll have to ask Mr. Conklin what he was doing in Jacksonville," the witness replied.

"Come now, Mr. Robinson," Victoria said. "Surely, the Coast Guard also told you that Mr. Conklin's body was found in the wreckage of your boat."

The jurors seemed to perk up at that bit of news. No one was snoring or staring at the clock.

"Sorry, it was just a figure of speech. I don't know what he was doing there."

"Was he checking on your barge at Southern Ship-works?"

Robinson blinked. Maybe he didn't bend at the waist as if he'd been gut-punched, but his eyes flicked twice.

So far, Steve had been right. He'd studied the satellite photos. He'd cobbled together all the bits and pieces from Griffin and Fowles and handed her this shiny new toy. But Victoria still needed to wrap the toy in colorful paper and tie it up with a pretty ribbon.

"Ms. Lord, as I told you in my office, after Mr. Griffin was charged with murder, I had no choice but to cancel the barge order."

"I wonder if 'cancel' is the right word," Victoria said. "Didn't you simply change the order?"

Robinson studied her, as if asking: "Just how much do you know?" She opened a folder and angled it so that he could see the four-inch-high letters: "SOUTHERN SHIPWORKS." Inside was the Sak's catalog with this season's resort-wear. Rayon halter dresses seemed to be making a comeback.

"Certain changes were made, that's true," Robinson said, carefully.

Victoria picked up the poster board she'd had made at 8 a.m. A blowup of the satellite photos showing a barge under construction. The flat steel deck was piled high with those giant children's blocks. At least that's what they looked like from low-earth orbit. "Is this the barge you've commissioned?"

Another pause. She could tell from his expression he was looking for a safe passage. A way to navigate the channel between perjury and conspiracy to commit murder.

"It's hard to tell, but yes, that could be mine."

Victoria strolled past the jury box, holding up the poster. "What's that on deck, Mr. Robinson? It doesn't look like heavy machinery or construction equipment."

"Prefabricated steel pods."

"Hundreds of them, right?"

"Five hundred fifty, ma'am."

"When you've cornered the witness, keep the questions simple. Force 'Yes' and 'No,' and pick up your pace."

Thank you, Steve.

"Each one about four hundred to five hundred square feet?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"With conduits for plumbing and electricity and ventilation?"

"Yes, ma'am."

"But no cranes or Mud Cats. No pile drivers or heavy drills?"

"That's correct, ma'am."

"Because this isn't a work barge, is it?"

"No, it's not."

"What is it, then?"

"Well, it's a multi-purpose craft, really."

A fine line of perspiration was visible on Robinson's forehead. She'd made witnesses sweat before, and it was always a thrill. Steve boasted he'd once cross-examined a witness into heart palpitations, firing questions even as paramedics wheeled the man from the courtroom.

"Multipurpose?" A raised eyebrow, a sarcastic tone, idiosyncrasies she'd picked up from Steve. "Would those purposes be gambling and vacationing?"

"You could say that, yes."

She raised her voice. "You say it, Mr. Robinson. Those steel pods are prefab hotel rooms. You're building a floating hotel and casino, aren't you?"

"What if I am?" Robinson shot back. "I'm a businessman. I'm not doing anything illegal."

"And if he gets feisty, kick him in the nuts."

"Nothing illegal," she repeated, "unless you conspired to frame Harold Griffin for murder so you could steal his idea at a fraction of the cost."

Waddle jerked to his feet. "Objection! Counsel's testifying." Like all prosecutors, he hated surprises, and now he looked as if he'd just walked into a plate-glass window.

"Sustained," the judge ruled. "Ms. Lord, please frame your accusations as questions."

Victoria circled in front of the jury box, moving closer to the witness. "If my client built Oceania over the reef, your barge hotel would be barred from the area under maritime safely laws, correct, Mr. Robinson?"

"The immediate area, yes."

"You needed access to that reef. If Oceania were built, your barge hotel would be dead in the water, correct?"

"I'm sure it would affect business somewhat, but who is to say how much?"

"And a luxury hotel and casino like Oceania would really take the luster off your floating Wal-Mart, wouldn't it?"

"That's a matter of opinion."

"Your opinion was that you had to stop Griffin from building Oceania."

"No." Robinson glared at her. "Our projects were completely different."

"Just so the jury understands," she continued, "you were hired by Hal Griffin to do the barge work required in the construction of Oceania. But without informing Mr. Griffin, you began surreptitiously planning a competing project?"

"Like I said, I'm a businessman, Ms. Lord."

Victoria paused, which gave the judge time to leap in. "Anything further, Counselor?"

Victoria had run out of steam. She had established motive. Now Steve would have to link Robinson to Fowles and Stubbs actual shooting. She was ready to sit down, but realized she'd also violated one of Steve's numerous rules for cross-examination.

"Always end strong."

"Just one more thing, Your Honor." She turned back to the witness. "Mr. Robinson, that speedboat of yours. What did you name it?"

She hoped the newspaper photographer was clicking away. Robinson's face burned with all the anger he'd been bottling up.

"The Satisfaction," Robinson said.

"You a Rolling Stones fan?"

That sarcasm again. I hate it when Steve does it, but sometimes I can't help myself.

"It was the name of one of Henry Morgan's ships," Robinson said through gritted teeth.

"Morgan the Terrible?" Feigning surprise.

"Some called him that."

"Didn't he sink ships and burn villages? Plunder, pillage, and rape?"

"You have to understand history, Ms. Lord. In those days-"

"History or not, wasn't Morgan the Terrible a pirate?"

"He had letters of reprisal from the Crown. He would have considered himself a privateer."

"Right," she said, smiling demurely. "And you consider yourself a businessman."