Trial and Error

Fifteen

Victoria was having second thoughts about her outfit. Usually, she went for a subdued and professional look. Classy and conservative.

Not St. John Conservative. More like Calvin Klein Conservative. Something in muted tweed, a one-button jacket over a knee-length skirt.

But today was different. Today she was up against the craftiest opponent she would ever face-her lover and partner.

Victoria had filed a motion to disqualify Steve as defense counsel. He was, after all, a witness to the crime. Further, it was unseemly, if not downright unethical, that the prosecutor and defense lawyer were law partners and lovers.

Stapled to Victoria’s motion was a twenty-two-page well-reasoned brief, citing several dozen cases as precedent. There was no question, no gray area, no room for debate. Steve would have to step aside.

As usual, Steve the Shark filed no written response to the motion. He would rely on his verbal skills, his ability to tap-dance around land mines.

In ten minutes, they would argue the motion before Judge Gridley, and Victoria was confident that before the morning was over, Steve would be tossed from the courtroom like an obnoxious drunk from a tavern.

At the moment, her only worries were sartorial.

She walked into Judge Gridley’s chambers wearing a fiery orange tank top covered by a blue Ellen Tracy shirt jacket. The Armani skirt matched the top, and her Hermes portfolio bag matched the jacket.

Radiant orange and brilliant blue. University of Florida colors. All because State v. Nash had fallen into the division of Judge Erwin Gridley, Bull Gator Emeritus, one of the biggest and baddest reptiles in the state.

She had resorted to the cheap ploy only after watching Steve get dressed earlier that morning. Blue blazer, orange shirt, and that stupid tie crawling with alligators. Shameless. So she had no choice. After he’d left the house for an early hearing, she’d carefully chosen her own outfit.

As she entered chambers, Judge Gridley was nowhere to be seen. The walls displayed the usual plaques and photos; the credenza held an assortment of footballs, helmets, jerseys, and the latest national championship replica trophy. A stuffed alligator head, showing a toothy smile, sat on His Honor’s desk.

Steve was already seated at the conference table, displaying his own snarky grin. “You look like a highway barricade,” he said in greeting.

“And you’re a complete phony. A Miami grad wearing Gator colors.”

Judge Gridley rumbled in, shed his black robe, revealing orange-and-blue suspenders. Bulky, bald, and trifocaled, he plopped into his high-back chair.

Steve immediately began humming “We Are the Boys from Old Florida.”

“What the heck are you two lovebirds doing on opposite sides of the table?” the judge asked in his Panhandle accent.

“Motion to disqualify Mr. Solomon as defense counsel,” Victoria said. She told the judge about her appointment as special prosecutor, her relationship with Steve, and his presence at the crime scene. She cited three appellate court cases in support of her position, and spoke with the confidence of a lawyer who is both factually prepared and legally correct.

As she laid out her argument, the judge fiddled with a flatbed railroad car. Not a real one, a Lionel model. Gridley’s obsession with his alma mater was nearly matched by his love of model trains. A three-inch O-gauge track ran from the desk, around the conference table, and back to his desk again. Lawyers took care not to place their pleadings on the tracks in order to avoid derailments.

Victoria finished her argument, and leaned back in her chair. Judge Gridley turned to Steve. “Ms. Lord’s got more horsepower than the Sunset Limited. I’m inclined to toss you off the train unless you can get me to switch tracks, Counselor.”

“A defendant is entitled to counsel of his choice,” Steve began. “I’ve been retained by Gerald Nash. Obviously, this situation is delicate because the prosecutor is both my law partner and…”

He paused, apparently searching for a word.

And what, smooth talker?

“Playmate,” he concluded.

Victoria bristled. “I’m no one’s playmate, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon and I live together. Currently.”

“If y’all are shacked up, Mr. Solomon, how you gonna try a case against each other?”

“Precisely, Your Honor,” Victoria said. “The only question is, whom shall Your Honor require to withdraw?”

“Yes, whom?” Steve echoed in his smart-aleck tone.

“Mr. Solomon must withdraw. He was present at the crime scene and apprehended Gerald Nash,” Victoria said. “He’s a witness.”

Steve loosened the knot on his alligator tie. “A witness to an uncontradicted fact. My nephew saw Mr. Nash. So did Wade Grisby. So did the cops.”

“Irrelevant, Your Honor. Mr. Solomon can’t be both a witness and defense counsel.”

“Bogus argument, Judge. We’ll stipulate to my client’s presence at the scene.”

“Don’t call my arguments bogus,” Victoria snapped.

“Bogus, bogus. Hocus-pocus.”

You can’t taunt me into losing my cool. Not anymore.

“Your Honor,” Victoria said, calmly, “the case of State versus Linsenmeyer settled this issue. I’ve prepared a brief on the point.”

“Lemme see it.” Gridley grabbed his long-billed engineer’s hat and yelled, “All a-b-b-b-board!” He hit a switch on a console, and a model train started chugging from his desk to the conference table. A classic engine, the Florida East Coast Railway Warbonnet, a scale model of the diesel that a half century ago transported the Gator football team to Jacksonville for the annual game against Georgia.

The train pulled to a stop in front of Victoria, who placed her memorandum on a flatbed car. The whistle tooted, white smoke billowed from a tiny stack, and the train clickety-clacked to the end of the table, where it passed through a tunnel.

“You got a countermemo?” the judge asked Steve as the train emerged from the tunnel and made a slow turn in his direction.

“No, sir. I rely on common sense, the Common Law, and Your Honor’s own uncommon wisdom.” Now he was humming the fight song, “The Orange and the Blue.”

The Warbonnet sped past Steve, tooting twice, spewing a trickle of smoke.

When the train pulled to a stop, the judge grabbed the document, scanned it, and said, “Ms. Lord is right on the law. I’m sorry, Mr. Solomon, but without some contrary precedent, the conductor’s gonna have to toss you off the train somewhere around Ocala.”

“Judge, just because I didn’t brief the point doesn’t mean I don’t have precedent. I’d cite the case of Florida State versus Clemson.”

What case? What damn case is that?

“Also Florida State versus Auburn.”

What the hell is Steve talking about?

The judge cocked his head and murmured a soft “Hmmm.” He picked up a miniature brush and dusted off a freight car. “Bobby and Tommy and Terry. Hadn’t thought of that.”

Bobby and Tommy and Terry?

“When those sumbitches play,” the judge continued, “you got father against sons. You get it, Ms. Lord?”

“Not exactly, Your Honor.”

“Bobby Bowden coaches those dog-ass Seminoles, known in these parts as the Criminoles. His son Tommy coaches Clemson and son Terry used to coach Auburn. If a father and son can coach against each other, why the heck can’t you two oppose each other in court?” Judicial wisdom glittered in His Honor’s eye.

“But a football game isn’t a murder trial,” Victoria protested.

“Damn right. Football’s bigger. This courthouse sees hundreds of murder trials a year. But something like Florida State versus Clemson…well, that only happens once a year.”

Victoria was floundering. She didn’t know how to respond. There didn’t seem to be case law to refute the notion that college football is more important than felony murder. On the other side of the table, Steve kept quiet, not even trying to suppress that infuriating grin.

“But let me ask you this,” the judge mused. “You two aren’t gonna be playing footsie under the table, are you?”

“Certainly not,” Victoria said.

“Not till after court,” Steve said.

“Y’all argue when you’re on the same side of the table. I don’t see much chance of collusion, so I’m inclined to let you have a go at each other. State’s motion to disqualify is hereby denied.”

Oh, no. This judge clearly played football too long without a helmet.

“But, Your Honor,” Victoria said, “lawyers have to go for the kill. Crush the opposition. When you’re in a relationship, how can you be expected to-”

“That train’s left the station.” The judge hit a switch and the train’s whistle tooted. “You two are gonna try this case. Now git, both of you. Go home and figure it out.”

“Figure what out?” Victoria said, bewildered.

“How to litigate by day and copulate by night,” the judge replied, hitting the whistle for one long, last toot.