Trial and Error

Twenty-five

Steve kept out of Victoria’s sight for the next two hours. He gathered up ball and glove and took Bobby into the backyard, where he taught him the basics of the curveball. Then, back in the kitchen, he basted some yellowtail snapper filets in a lemon pepper sauce. Next, he tossed a salad with all of Victoria’s favorite ingredients, including toasted pine nuts, which he thought tasted like tree bark.

Back outside, he undertook the manly duties of firing up the hibachi without burning down the bottlebrush tree, then grilled the fish and covered it with fresh salsa he’d made in the blender. Finally, he tossed a tablecloth over the redwood picnic table and poured ample quantities of Chardonnay for his lover, partner, and opposing counsel.

Victoria was unusually silent as they ate dinner. Steve didn’t push it, didn’t force the conversation. He was giving her a little time, a little space, and a lot of wine.

After they polished off the flan Steve had picked up at a bakery on Coral Way, Bobby headed inside to soak his elbow in a tub of ice because that’s what Sandy Koufax, the best Jewish pitcher of all time, did after every game.

Steve figured that the wine might have softened up Victoria, and he was ready to make nice, but she slipped into the house without so much as a “See you later.” Moments later, he found her down the hall, stringing yellow crime-scene tape across the door to the study.

“What’s going on?” he asked. “You doing War of the Roses?”

“I’m moving into the study for the duration of the trial.”

“Moving? Meaning you’re working in here?”

“Working. Thinking. Sleeping. The room is strictly off-limits to you.”

“Whatever you say.” He didn’t mean to sound petulant, but that’s the way it came out.

“The bedroom is yours, Steve. You can keep your files there, and I won’t touch them.”

“What files?”

“It’s customary for lawyers to bring their work home during trials.”

“Really? Why wasn’t I informed?”

“Should you choose to behave like a real trial lawyer, rest assured I won’t peek at your work product.”

“You’ve already seen my work product.”

Not even a smile. She just ducked under the crosshatched tape and entered the study. Steve stayed in the hall, an unhappy looky-loo. “Have I been dismissed?”

“I have work to do.” She began unpacking her trial bag, laying out folders on the desk. Color-coded, alphabetically arranged, neatly labeled.

The term “anal retentive” came to Steve’s mind, but he kept quiet.

A moment later, Bobby, his arm in an icy sling, slipped under the tape and went to Victoria’s side.

“Hey!” Steve protested. “How come Bobby’s allowed in there?”

“Don’t be childish, Steve,” she berated him. “Bobby, you can help me if you want.”

“Cool.” The boy opened a folder. “Can I see the autopsy photos?”

“No,” Victoria and Steve said in unison.

But Bobby was already thumbing through the eight-by-ten glossies. “Whoa! Totally janked.”

“Put that down, kiddo,” Steve said from the doorway.

“Bobby, listen to your uncle,” Victoria said.

“Okay, but I won’t tell you what ship the dead guy was on in the Navy.”

That stopped both of them. The naval records had been classified.

“What are you talking about, Bobby?” Steve said.

“Autopsy photo B-18. The word Missouri is tattooed on the guy’s arm.”

“Yeah, so maybe he likes Mizzou.”

“Not the university. It’s says ‘Big Mo’ under the tattoo. That’s the USS Missouri, the old battleship. Its last mission was in Desert Storm in 1991.”

Steve pushed his way through the yellow tape, like fending off a cobweb. “Keep talking, kiddo. I’m betting you know what the Missouri did in the war.”

“Fired a bunch of Tomahawk missiles at the Iraqi Army.”

“Anything else?”

“Shelled the shoreline, the big fake-out to make Saddam think we were invading from the sea.”

“C’mon, Bobby. Don’t hold out on your uncle Steve.”

“Oh, you mean the dolphins.”

Innocent as a twelve-year-old wise guy can be.

Victoria snatched the autopsy photos from the boy. “What about the dolphins, Bobby?”

“They’re from the CIM.” The kid grinned. This was his moment, and he was going to milk it.

“If you don’t tell us right now, I’ll never teach you the split-finger fastball,” Steve threatened.

“The Cetacean Intelligence Mission. The Missouri transported the dolphins. Their handlers, too. Then smaller ships took them to ports in the Gulf for operations.”

“What operations?” Victoria demanded.

“Clearing shipping lanes into Umm al Qasr. The dolphins spotted the mines, and then the SEALs defused them.”

“Flipper goes to war,” Steve muttered. “Amazing.”

“Dolphins are the bomb-sniffing dogs of the ocean. They use echolocation to work in total darkness. They can dive a hundred times without rest.”

“This Cetacean Intelligence mishegoss. Where’s it headquartered?”

“The Naval Warfare Systems Center in San Diego.”

“Bingo! Sanders’ last stop before retirement. And that medal he got for defusing mines in the Gulf…”

“He had to be working with the dolphins,” Bobby said, with the certainty of a boy genius.

Steve turned to Victoria with a triumphant look. “See? What did I tell you?”

“You told me you were kidnapped by two thugs. What’s that have to do with dolphins in the Persian Gulf?”

“It proves Sanders was never an animal rights guy. He risked the dolphins’ lives on every mission. True believers like Nash would never do that. They think it’s unethical to ride horses. They hate the idea of German shepherds working with cops, of using canaries in mines. Nobody in the Animal Liberation Movement would ever risk one of his pals being turned into dolphin burger.”

“Gross, Uncle Steve,” Bobby said.

“Sorry. Can’t you see it, Vic? Sanders knew everything about dolphins, including how to choose the smartest ones.”

“Spunky and Misty,” Bobby chimed in.

“The stars of the show,” Steve continued. “The best-trained dolphins in the park. Maybe the best on the East Coast.”

“So what was Sanders going to do with them?” Victoria asked. “And what’s it have to do with the guys who grabbed you?”

“Still working on that. But when I figure it out, I’ll bet all the pieces of the puzzle fit together.”

“I suggest you do your figuring in a hurry,” she said. “We pick a jury in the morning.”