Solomon vs. Lord (36 page)

10.                  We all hold the keys to our own jail cells.

Fifty-five

SOLOMON'S LAWS

“Y'all think my dog-ass Gators can make the Final Four?” Judge Erwin Gridley asked.

“Tough region,” Steve said. “They'll be lucky to get to the Sweet Sixteen.”

The judge harrumphed, or maybe the open-jawed alligator head on his desk did. They were in the orange-and-blue chambers of the old Bull Gator himself. Steve sat on one side of the T-bone-shaped conference table, his client, Harry Sachs, alongside. As Harry was not working today—meaning he wasn't pulling one of his numerous cons—he had left the wheelchair at home. He wore jeans and a cammie jacket emblazoned with Marine battle insignia he'd bought on the Internet. Harry was admiring a miniature replica of Ben Hill Griffin Stadium, maybe wondering how much it would bring at a pawnshop. Steve made a mental note to frisk his client before they left chambers.

Directly across the table sat Joanne Sachs, a handsome woman in her mid-forties in wire-framed glasses and a gray wool dress with a white lacy collar. Steve nodded to her, thinking they were a mismatched couple. If he saw Harry and Joanne side by side on the street, he'd figure she was a librarian about to have her purse snatched.

Victoria sat next to Joanne, scanning the Property Settlement Agreement. At the side of the judge's desk, Sofia Hernandez, in a black leather mini and a white blouse, was poised over her stenograph machine. Her long, lacquered nails were emblazoned with silver hearts.

“Mr. Sachs, have you been a resident of Miami-Dade County for six months prior to filing this petition?” the judge asked.

“Yes, sir,” Harry said.

“Your marriage irretrievably broken?”

“Like Heidi Fleiss' hymen.”

“How's that?”

“He answered in the affirmative,” Steve said, giving his client a sharp look.

“Now, this Property Settlement Agreement,” Judge Gridley continued, “you agree with its terms?”

“Every word,” Harry said fervently.

“You, too, Mrs. Sachs?”

Joanne Sachs started to nod, but Victoria put a hand on her arm and said: “Your Honor, I'm not sure this agreement is entirely fair.”

Steve bolted to attention. “What are you doing?”

“Representing my client,” Victoria said.

“
Your
client already signed the agreement.”

“Without benefit of independent counsel.”

“Hey, Lord. Stick to the script, okay?”

“I'm not a potted plant.”

“Y'all gonna start up again?” Judge Gridley asked, with interest.

“Judge, it's not fair that Mrs. Sachs gets the eight-year-old Dodge and her husband keeps the new Lexus,” Victoria said. “Then there's his pending IRS audit. Mr. Sachs should be required to indemnify and hold his wife harmless from any penalties.”

Steve couldn't believe it. The last day of Solomon and Lord, and the woman was mucking up everything. Jesus, why didn't she just clear out already?

“Joanne, fire your lawyer,” he said.

“Don't you dare address my client,” Victoria said.

“She's not your client. You don't have clients. You have time-shares and green gourds and pretty soon you'll have little green children. I'll tell you something else, Lord. I bought you a really nice wedding present, but to hell with it, I'm giving it to Katrina.”

“You're losing it, Solomon,” Victoria said.

The judge sighed and said: “I ever tell y'all about those two beagles on my farm, always yapping at each other?”

“Yeah, Judge, you did,” Steve said.

“They finally settled it all by humping in the barn,” the judge reminded them.

“We tried that, Your Honor,” Steve said. “Even had the bales of straw.”

“Damn you!” Victoria said. “Your Honor, I move that Mr. Solomon's slanderous statement be stricken from the record.”

Sofia Hernandez typed away, a wicked smile on her crimson lips.

“It's only slander if it's false,” Steve said. “Are you denying it happened?”

“Calm down, now, both of you,” the judge ordered.

“What about my divorce?” Harry Sachs said.

“I'm gonna postpone the hearing and order counseling,” the judge said.

“My client doesn't want counseling,” Steve said.

“Neither does mine,” Victoria said.

“Not for them. For the two of you,” the judge said.

“I object,” Steve said.

“So do I,” Victoria said. “And I insist the Court strike all references to my private life from the transcript.”

“Put her under oath,” Steve said.

“That's enough,” the judge said.

“Ask her if we didn't do it in a chickee hut on a bale of straw,” Steve railed on.

“Bastard!” Victoria said.

“Bitch!” Steve said.

“That's by God enough! Y'all just scalded the corn pudding.” The judge hit a button on the intercom. “Eloise, send the bailiff in here.”

His tie loosened, his jacket crumpled under his head, Steve lay on his back on the molded plastic bench of the holding cell. Victoria paced in the facing cell, the heels of her ankle-strapped Gucci pumps clicking on the concrete floor. For the thirty minutes they'd been locked up, neither had said a word.

“This is ridiculous,” she said, finally.

No response.

“Steve, can we talk?”

She couldn't see into the shadows of his cell. Was he asleep? Or just giving her the silent treatment?

“We should never be on opposite sides of a case,” she said.

Still no answer. Somewhere inside the walls, the plumbing rattled.

“When we're on the same side,” she continued, “no one can beat us. But when we're opposed, we tear each other apart. So, I was thinking . . . maybe we should consider working together.”

She heard rustling in the other cell, and in a second, Steve was standing at the bars. “You mean it? Solomon and Lord?”

“Maybe we should give it a try for a while, see how it goes. . . .”

“What's Bruce gonna say?”

“He's unhappy about it.”

“You already told him?”

“Last night. When I told him the wedding's off.”

“When I told him the wedding's off.”

Yeah, she'd said that. But what did “off” mean? To a lawyer, words were crucial.

“‘Off' meaning canceled? Or ‘off' meaning postponed?” he asked.

“Canceled. I'm not marrying Bruce.”

Steve locked on to the moment. He wanted to preserve the feeling. A cool waterfall, a warm sunset, a full moon on a still bay.

Yes! Yes! Yes!

“What you said in court yesterday was true,” she continued. “I do love Bobby. And what I said was true, too. I find you exasperating and maddening. But deep down inside, you're—”

“Wait. Wait a second.”

Steve fished in his pocket, pulled out something, reached through the bars, and unlocked the door to his cell.

“You have a key? You've had a key all this time?”

He swung the door open, walked to her cell, unlocked the door. “Once you've been here a while, they put you on the honor system.”

“Why in heaven's name didn't you tell me?”

He walked into her cell, swung the door closed behind him. “You weren't ready.”

“For what?” She put her hands on his shoulders, and he slipped his arms around her waist.

“Law Number Ten: ‘We all hold the keys to our own jail cells.'”

“And now I'm ready?”

“You just proved it. You just broke out.”

They kissed. Then she placed her head on his shoulder. “Solomon and Lord. I like the sound of it.”

“We need a slogan for our ads,” he said.

“No we don't. Lawyer advertising is tacky.”

“‘The wisdom of Solomon, the strength of the Lord,'” he intoned, like a TV anchorman.

“Blasphemous.
And
tacky.”

“Somebody gets hit by a city bus, I want one of us in the ER before the doctor washes his hands,” he said.

“No way. We've got to do everything by the book,” she said.

“What book is that?”

She cocked her head, studied him. “Is this the way it's going to be?”

“Every day,” he promised, pressing his lips to hers.

1.                  When the law doesn't work . . . work the law.

2.                  In law and in life, sometimes you have to wing it.

3.                  I will never take a drink until
sundown
. . .
two o'clock
. . .
noon
. . .
I'm thirsty.

4.                  I will never carry a pager, drive a Porsche, or flaunt a Phi Beta Kappa key
. . .
even if I had one.

5.                  I will never compromise my ideals to achieve someone else's definition of success.

6.                  Lie to your priest, your spouse, and the IRS, but always tell your lawyer the truth.

7.                  I will never bribe a cop, lie to a judge, or sleep with my partner
. . .
hasta qué ella diga qué sí.

8.                  There is some shit I will not eat.

9.                  I will never break the law, breach legal ethics, or risk jail time
. . .
unless it's for someone I love.

10.                  We all hold the keys to our own jail cells.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

PAUL LEVINE worked as a newspaper reporter and trial lawyer, practicing law for seventeen years, trying cases in state and federal courts and handling appeals at every level, including the Supreme Court, before becoming a full-time novelist and screenwriter. The winner of the John D. MacDonald fiction award, Levine is the author of the Jake Lassiter novels, which have been published in twenty-three countries.
To Speak for the Dead,
the first Lassiter novel, was a national bestseller and honored as one of the best mysteries of the year by the
Los Angeles Times.
He is also the author of
9 Scorpions,
a thriller set in the U.S. Supreme Court.

He was cocreator and coexecutive producer of the CBS television series
First Monday,
and has written extensively for
JAG.
He lives in California, where he is at work on the second Solomon vs. Lord novel,
The Deep Blue Alibi.
Visit his website at www.paul-levine.com.

THE VERDICT IS IN ON
SOLOMON VS. LORD

“Paul Levine has written a terrific courtroom drama that's also funny as hell. It's as if John Grisham wrote a book with . . . well, me. (John, if you're interested, call!)”—Dave Barry

“A howl. Not since
Moonlighting
has such a funny, combative, romantic relationship been depicted.”—Stephen J. Cannell

“A fast, hilarious and suspenseful tale with juicy characters and an insider's knowledge of the court system and legal hijinks of every kind, all played out against a gorgeous and goofy South Florida setting.”
—James W. Hall

“A terrific courtroom thriller, a wonderful comedy, a delightful love story, and one of the best books I've read this year.”—Philip Margolin

AND THE LEGAL THRILLERS OF
PAUL LEVINE

“Paul Levine is guilty of master storytelling in the first degree.”—Carl Hiaasen

“Irreverent . . . genuinely clever . . . great fun.”
—
New York Times Book Review

“Delicious.”—
Los Angeles Times

“Take one part John Grisham, two parts Carl Hiaasen, throw in a dash of John D. MacDonald, and voilà!”—
Tulsa World

“Cracking good action-mystery . . . funny, sardonic, and fast paced.”—
Detroit Free Press

“A blend of raucous humor and high adventure . . . wildly entertaining.”
—
St. Louis Post-Dispatch

“Lively entertainment.”—
Chicago Tribune

“Mystery writing at its very, very best.”
—Larry King,
USA Today

“High suspense, dry humor . . . another breathless thriller.”—
Fort Lauderdale Sun-Sentinel

“Spiffy plotting, snappy dialogue and enough action to keep pulses racing.”—
Tampa Tribune

“Fast, furious fun.”—
Kirkus Reviews

“First-rate . . . The prose is as smooth as a writ for libel.”—
Boston Globe

“A big brash blend of sex, violence and the Supreme Court.”—
Miami Herald

“Tense, sexy, and sublime.”
—
Philadelphia Legal Intelligencer

“The perfect blend of suspense, intelligence, sex, mystery and charm.”—
Coconut Grove Times

“A rip-roaring read. Vivid, funny and tense . . . Twice as good as Turow and Grisham and four times the fun.”—
Armchair Detective