The Deep Blue Alibi

Fifty-two

The corridor leading to the courtroom was out-ofdoors, really a fourth-floor catwalk. Waiting to be called to testify, carrying his suit coat over an arm, rivulets of sweat ran down Steve's face into his neck brace. The tropical heat seemed to roll waves of pain through his skull.

The door to the courtroom banged opened and Leicester Robinson barreled out. Muttering profanities, his face set in a snarl. Head down, he nearly plowed into Steve on his way to the elevator.

This is good. This is very good.

Victoria must have skinned him and hung up the pelt, Steve thought. She was a better lawyer than he'd been at the same age. Part of Victoria's effectiveness was that she didn't know how good she was. That tiniest bit of insecurity kept her ego under control. Her need to be liked-an affliction he did not share-made her more…well, likable.

There were other differences, Steve thought. He had street smarts, she had real smarts. He wielded a broadsword, she struck with a rapier.

Maybe that's why we're so good together. Maybe when this is over, we'll be a team again. And maybe we'll share the bedroom as well as the courtroom.

As Steve was thinking of all the possible "maybes," the bailiff poked his head out of the courtroom door and made like the town crier: "Mr. So-lo-mon! Stephen So-lo-mon!"

"That would be me," Steve said.

Steve promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

He'd heard the oath administered thousands of times, but taking it yourself was different. As a lawyer, you weren't supposed to blatantly lie. But you could straddle that fuzzy fine line between light and shadow. You could tap dance with a top hat and cane, distracting and entertaining. "Razzle dazzle 'em," as lawyer Billy Flynn sings. You could shade meanings and color the truth. But when you're a witness, you're bound by…

The whole truth.

An acknowledgment that there were different levels of truth.

And nothing but the truth.

Indicating it's possible to tell the truth in the main, but fudge a bit around the edges. As he sat down, Steve still didn't know just what level of truth he was going to dispense.

Victoria's face was flushed as she stood and approached the witness box. "Please state your name and occupation for the record."

"Steve Solomon. Trial lawyer."

"Attorney" always sounding pretentious to him.

"What's your relationship to the defendant Harold Griffin?"

"I represented him until he fired me. Or maybe you fired me. It was hard to tell."

We were naked at the time, but no need to tease the jurors with that tidbit.

"Why were your services terminated?"

"I accused Mr. Griffin's son, Junior, of committing the murder. Mr. Griffin didn't like it. Neither did you. And by the way, I was wrong."

"Why did you accuse Mr. Griffin's son?"

"Do we have to go into that?" Steve pleaded. "It's embarrassing."

"Please."

"It had to do with you. I was jealous of Junior Griffin."

Waddle spoke up. "Your Honor, is this a murder trial or couples counseling?"

"I'll tie it up," Victoria said.

"Do it quickly," Judge Feathers advised.

"Mr. Solomon, did there come a time when you were run off a bridge in an incident with a motorcycle?"

"Did there come a time. ." One of those expressions lawyers carry in their satchels: "Isn't it true that. .?" "Drawing your attention to the night of. ." "What do you mean my bill's too high?"

"Yes," Steve said. "My old Caddy convertible drowned."

"Did the police determine who was responsible for the attack?"

"A man named Chester Lee Conklin. Goes by 'Conchy.' "

"Did there come a time when you encountered Mr. Conklin again?"

"Yesterday. He was shooting a rifle at me. And at Clive Fowles."

Several jurors stirred. Testimony about shootings will do that.

"Why would Chester Conklin have tried to kill you?"

"Objection! Calls for a conclusion." Waddle needed to make some noise just to disrupt the flow. "And as far as I can see, Mr. Conklin is irrelevant to these proceedings."

"He became relevant," Victoria said, "the moment Leicester Robinson admitted that Conklin was his employee and the defendant Harold Griffin was a business rival."

"Overruled for now," the judge said.

"Mr. Conklin," Steve said, "did not want Clive Fowles to tell me who really killed Ben Stubbs."

"Objection and move to strike," Waddle said. "That's guess-timony, not testimony. Your Honor, I don't know how they do it up in Miami, but I've never tried a case where the defendant's lawyer takes the witness stand and-"

"Ex-lawyer," Victoria said.

"Whatever. The lawyer takes the stand and opines on who killed the decedent."

"The State Attorney has a point." The judge turned to his bailiff. "Take the jury out for a spell. We're gonna figure this out without mucking up the record."

After the jurors had filed into their little room, Judge Feathers asked Victoria, "Just what is it you're trying to elicit from your partner?"

"Ex-partner," Victoria corrected. "Your Honor, may I voir dire Mr. Solomon in the absence of the jury?"

"Be my guest."

"Mr. Solomon, did Clive Fowles tell you who killed Ben Stubbs?"

"He did."

"I knew it," Waddle said. "There's hearsay coming round the bend."

"Keep your britches on, Dick," the judge said. "Just because I'm hearing it doesn't mean the jury will. Keep going, Ms. Lord."

"What did Clive Fowles tell you?"

"He worked for a third party, someone he wouldn't name. The third party wanted Stubbs to sink Oceania by writing a negative environmental report. Fowles' job was to convince Stubbs to go along. And to kill him if he didn't."

So far, all true.

"And what did Mr. Fowles do in response to these instructions?"

"He sneaked onto the Force Majeure, and when Stubbs refused to do what he was told, Fowles did what he'd been ordered to do."

Sort of the truth.

"Could you be more specific, Mr. Solomon?"

Steve took a deep breath. There was nowhere to run. Telling the literal truth-that Stubbs had been shot accidentally-would get Griffin off the hook, if the jury ever heard the testimony. But the truth wouldn't nail Robinson. "Fowles said he shot Stubbs with the spear-gun. He killed the man, just as he'd been instructed."

Now, that didn't hurt, did it? Actually, yes it did. "Besides saying he killed Mr. Stubbs," Victoria said, "what else did Mr. Fowles do?"

"He wrote a confession and signed it."

"Where and when did this happen?"

"Yesterday. On Fowles' World War Two chariot."

"His what?" the judge asked.

"A two-man underwater craft that looks like a torpedo with seats. You ride it in scuba gear. We were on the ocean floor at the time."

"The ocean floor?" Waddle laughed. "Sounds like the witness has a case of nitrogen narcosis."

"And how did Mr. Fowles write this confession underwater?" The judge was intrigued.

"On a magnetic slate. The kind divers use."

Waddle cleared his throat. "Best evidence rule, Judge. Where's this alleged written confession?"

"Lost at sea," Steve said. "I dropped the slate when Fowles rammed Conklin's boat and they were both killed."

"Jesus on the cross." Judge Feathers let out a low whistle.

"Your Honor, I move to bar all of Mr. Solomon's testimony," Waddle announced. "The alleged confession is a hundred percent hearsay, pure and simple."

"State Attorney's right," the judge said. "Ms. Lord, if you had that slate, I'd be inclined to let Mr. Solomon authenticate it and get it into evidence. But without it…"

"Thank you," Waddle smirked. "Now may we bring the jury back in and try this case according to the rules?"

Just then, the courtroom door opened, and a tall, handsome, suntanned man barged in. Junior Griffin wore flip-flops, chinos, and a muscle tee, and his long blond hair was wet and slicked back. To Steve, he looked like one of those men's cologne commercials.

But what's he holding?

"Hope I'm not too late." Junior was waving a mesh bag. Inside the bag was the magnetic slate.

Steve couldn't believe it.

I'm supposed to be the hero. Not Junior Friggin' Griffin!

"It was only in eighty feet of water," Junior said, nearing the bench. "But the Coast Guard coordinates were a little off. It took me five dives. No tanks, of course."

The court reporter, a young woman in open-toed sandals and a short skirt, was gaping at Junior as if he were a butterscotch sundae. "Could I get your name for the record?" she asked.

"Harold Griffin, Jr."

"And your phone number?" she continued.

"Let's see what you've got there, young man," Judge Feathers said.

Junior opened the bag and handed the slate to the judge. The message was still there: "I killed Stubbs." With Clive A. Fowles' signature.

"Mr. Solomon, is this the written confession you were talking about?" the judge asked.

"It is."

"And you saw Mr. Fowles sign this?"

"I did."

"All right, then. Let's bring in the jury. I believe Ms. Lord has some evidence to introduce."