Trial and Error

Twenty-nine

“I’m sorry I was late, kiddo,” Steve said.

“Wouldn’t have made any difference,” Bobby sulked.

“Steve could have given you some tips,” Victoria said.

“I’d still suck.”

Victoria ran a hand through the boy’s squashed hair, which bore the imprint of his ball cap. “Steve says you have potential. Something about your arm.”

“A live arm.” Steve made a throwing motion. “All you need is some confidence and a little practice.”

Bobby picked up his root beer and sucked at the straw. He was deep into self-pity mode. They were sitting at an outdoor table at the Red Fish Grill in Matheson Hammock Park. The night was warm, but a breeze from the Bay cooled them. Across the water, they could see the lights of Key Biscayne. Some of those lights lined the dock at Cetacean Park, but from this distance, you couldn’t really make out the place.

Bobby looked toward the darkness of the bay. “I don’t wanna talk about baseball, okay?”

“How about the case, then?” Steve asked. “You really helped me today, kiddo.”

“You’re patronizing me, Uncle Steve.”

“I mean it. You helped me prove that Hardcastle kidnapped Spunky and Misty.”

“Prove it?” Victoria tried not to sound skeptical as she sipped at her Pinot Noir.

“Think about it,” Steve said. “Hardcastle needed the world’s smartest dolphins for its Marine Mammal program. That was the motive for the raid.”

“I don’t want to diss your case,” she said, “but Hardcastle’s a New York Stock Exchange company. A four-billion-dollar company. A company in the public eye.”

“You ever hear of Enron? Never trust the suits, Vic.”

“You’re a suit.”

“I wear a suit. There’s a difference.”

“Still not buying it,” she said. “All you’ve got is a theory, not proof.”

“Really? Bobby, how long does it take to train dolphins?”

“Four or five years to get to Spunky and Misty’s level.” Bobby dipped a piece of his broiled mahimahi into a spicy tartar sauce.

“Don’t you see, Vic? Hardcastle wins a contract to provide trained dolphins to the military to guard the ports. But they don’t have five years to do it. The clock’s ticking. Fort Lauderdale. Long Beach. New York. Every port authority wants to be protected yesterday. They also want the sexiest, newest item in the defense arsenal, dolphins with cameras and transmitters, and for all we know, dart guns and iPods.”

Victoria sipped at her wine, shook her head. “I still can’t see a giant company taking a risk like that.”

“Forget that Hardcastle’s a billion-dollar conglomerate. It’s made of divisions and departments. Somewhere there’s a guy running the dolphin program, and he reports to a numbers cruncher who reports to a hard-ass who reports to the guy who runs all their defense subsidiaries. If the dolphin guy can’t produce, there’s no year-end bonus. There’s bad publicity. If it’s bad enough, 60 Minutes comes knocking on your door. There are congressional investigations. Cries of boondoggles and pork-barrel politics. Taxpayer money down the drain. Hardcastle loses bigger contracts just because they couldn’t supply dolphins who can do the job.”

Victoria thought it over a moment. In the nearby saltwater pond, a pair of yellow-crowned herons poked their beaks in the shallows for crabs. “Let’s say you’re right and Hardcastle doesn’t have time to train its own dolphins. Why not just buy them?”

“Mr. Grisby loves Spunky and Misty,” Bobby said. “He’d never sell them.”

“Even if Grisby wanted to, he couldn’t do it,” Steve said. “Think of the uproar. One day, Spunky and Misty are nuzzling kids with muscular dystrophy. The next day, they’re packing explosives. I don’t think so.”

A waiter came to their table with offers of key lime pie and tres leches cake. Bobby went for the pie. Victoria ordered cinnamon apple tea, and Steve stood pat.

“If Hardcastle’s as corrupt as you say, what’s a retired naval officer like Sanders doing mixed up with them?” Victoria asked.

“I figure he was a legitimate hire, the perfect guy to run the dolphin-training program. Then Hardcastle tells Sanders he has twelve months to produce, and he says it can’t be done. They say make it happen. Again, he says it’s impossible. Finally, they put someone else in charge, two guys from their security division, or whatever they call their department of dirty pool.”

“The men in the Lincoln,” Victoria said.

“They tell Sanders they’ve got a shortcut. Steal trained dolphins. But they need cover. It’s got to look like the Animal Liberation Movement is behind it.”

“So Sanders dupes Nash? That’s your theory?”

“A perfect plan. Sanders and his buddies can hit several attractions around the country and blame the animal nuts. This was the first raid, and it blew up in their faces.”

Victoria sipped her tea.

Steve waited.

In the saltwater pool, a long-necked white ibis with a curved beak joined the herons in their search for dinner.

Victoria sipped some more, then said, “I think you may be right.”

“Yes! I knew it. I knew you’d respond to logic and reason. You always do.”

“Your client was clueless, wasn’t he?”

“Yep. Nash figured they were setting the dolphins free. He’d have shit a brick if he knew they were turning the animals into warriors.”

“Not that it would matter if Nash knew.” Victoria put down the teacup and patted her lips dry. “It’s irrelevant that his accomplices were committing a different crime. Regardless of their motive or his, Nash committed a felony, Steve. Grand larceny. In the course of that felony, Sanders was killed. So even if you prove to the jury everything you just said, you still have no defense. Your client is still guilty.”

SOLOMON’S LAWS

9. Be confident, but not cocky. Smile, but don’t snicker. And no matter how desperate your case, never let the jurors see your fear.