Trial and Error

Twenty-four

Victoria stood at the kitchen counter, uncorking a bottle of Chardonnay. Usually, she didn’t touch wine until dinner. Steve didn’t know if this was a good sign or a bad sign.

“Hey, Vic.” He went for the welcome home hug, but she turned away.

Bad sign.

She poured herself a glass of wine. Didn’t return his hello. Didn’t offer him a glass. It was okay. He preferred beer.

“Vic, I want to talk to you about the case. I think we should be looking for those guys who jumped me today.”

“We?”

“You. The state. You have all the resources. Those two guys hold the key to the case.”

She took a sip, a big enough sip to be called a gulp. “Not to my case.”

“Don’t you want to find the truth?”

“Here’s the truth: Your client committed a felony. Someone got killed in the course of the crime. Felony murder. Case closed.”

“Why are you putting blinders on? You’re a law enforcement official, at least temporarily.”

“You want it to become permanent, Steve?”

“Ouch.”

“Just what is it you want from me, other than making me look bad in front of Judge Gridley?”

“Two guys snatched me off the street. I want to file a complaint.”

“Right. Your alleged kidnapping.”

“Alleged?”

“Those stunts you pull, Steve, who knows? You want to file a complaint, go downtown tomorrow and see someone in Intake.”

“The least you could do is run the plates for me. I got a partial.”

“The car’s probably stolen.”

“There could still be a lead. Where’d they steal it? Were there any witnesses? You just never know until you look into things.”

“Not my job, Steve.”

“S-3-J-1. Black Lincoln. That’s all I got. Hillsborough County.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But there’s a puzzle that-”

“We’re on opposite sides.”

“Only technically.”

“Right. And you don’t care about technicalities. Like the ethical canons. The codes of conduct. The statutes and procedures everyone else follows. You have no respect for the majesty of the law. The beauty of the law. The law itself.”

“Okay, I can see you’re a little upset….”

“You’re as bad as your clients. Worse, maybe. You’re too undisciplined to be a lawyer. Maybe too undisciplined to be a criminal. You should have taken up another profession. Anarchist might suit you.”

“Did you say, ‘Antichrist’?”

Her cheeks colored to a high fever. “Dammit, Steve. You knew I wasn’t withholding evidence. Why did you say those things in court?”

“I was making a record for appeal.”

“A false record.”

“That’s called ‘lawyering.’”

“It’s called ‘lying’!”

“A fine distinction, to be sure.”

“You love it, don’t you?”

“Love what?”

“Being Steve-the-Shark.”

“It’s my job, Vic. When I’m in court, there’s gonna be blood in the water.”

“Not if you play by the rules.”

“A shark that can’t bite is nothing but a mermaid.”

“Are you calling me weak? C’mon, hit me with your best shot, tough guy. I’ll play it straight and still beat you.”

Steve opened the refrigerator door and hid behind it, like ducking into a doorway in a thunderstorm.

“You know what your problem is, Steve? You’re immature. You’re irresponsible.”

“That’s two problems.”

“You’re a child.”

“And your problem is, you think the law is written in stone.”

“It is, dammit! That’s what makes it the law!”

Steve decided to wait it out. He grabbed a Morimoto Ale in the 22-ounce bottle. It could be a long wait.

“You can’t go around making up your own code of conduct,” she informed him.

“Sure you can. That’s what America is all about.”

“Right. Solomon’s Laws.” Her voice churned with derision. “What’s the first one, the one you told me when your damn bird crapped on my sleeve?”

“‘When the law doesn’t work, work the law.’”

“Right. You boasted about it. Well, that’s not me. I don’t lie. I don’t break the rules. And I don’t accuse opposing counsel of acts I know to be untrue.”

Steve took a long pull on the ale. It tasted of roasted buckwheat. He wondered if she was finished.

“And another thing,” she said.

Nope.

“Do you remember that stupid pickup line you used on me that day?” she demanded. “The day we met?”

Steve shook his head. How the hell could he remember that? And how could she remember everything he’d ever said or done that was asinine or embarrassing, or both? On that day of infamy, they were ensconced in facing holding cells. He’d flirted with her, but how could she expect him to remember what he’d said?

“You said you’d like to mentor me,” Victoria reminded him.

Ah, that.

“It was the best of lines,” Steve said.

“It was the worst of lines. I hate that sexist banter. And that day, I hated you. I haven’t been so furious since, not until today.”

Steve had said something else in the holding cells, something he remembered well.

“Cell mates today, soul mates tomorrow.”

He’d passed it off as a wisecrack. But it wasn’t. From the moment he’d seen her enter the courtroom that day he’d felt something for her.

You had me, Vic. You had me from “Get lost.”

“You are so damned infuriating,” she said now.

“I thought that’s what you liked about me.”

“No, I love you in spite of it. But I know that when I go to sleep tonight and wake up tomorrow, you’ll still be infuriating. And frankly, Steve, I’m tired of it.”

She sighed and leaned against the counter. The kitchen was silent except for the whir of the refrigerator.

Steve drank a hefty portion of the ale and waited. She seemed to be finished. He waited another few seconds. Then he spoke softly:

“Do you know what you just said? That you love me. And I love you, too. I have since the day that bird crapped on your sleeve and you started crying. So I’m sorry. I got carried away today. I was way over the top. It won’t happen again. With you, I mean. Other lawyers are fair game.”

He moved toward her, pausing long enough to let her close the distance and meet him halfway for a makeup hug. She didn’t move.

“Just give me a little room right now, Steve.”

“Okay, if that’s what you want, I’ll…”

But she was already out the door.

SOLOMON’S LAWS

8. When the woman you love is angry, it’s best to give her space, time, and copious quantities of wine.