Trial & Error (11 page)

SOLOMON’S LAWS

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

Twenty-five

FLIPPER GOES TO WAR

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.”

Twenty-six

ON CAT’S FEET

Victoria knew precisely what Steve was doing when she spotted him at 7:45
A.M.
in the jurors’ parking lot.

Lurking. Tying his shoes. Pretending to smoke a cigarette. But really spying. Checking out the bumper stickers.

“Ban Fur.”
Defense juror.

“My Kid Can Beat Up Your Honor Student.”
Prosecution juror.

She watched as Steve sidled up to car windows, peeking inside. She could practically hear his voice.

“People leave clues about themselves everywhere, including their car seats.”

A wad of traffic tickets. Defense juror.

Guns & Ammo
magazine. Prosecution juror.

A book by Rush Limbaugh. Simpleminded juror.

If Steve could get into trunks and glove compartments, he’d do it. Watching him, Victoria almost smiled. He made a big deal about spending so little time on trial preparation. But he prepped, all right, in his own devious and cockeyed way.

Now, just after nine
A.M.
, Judge Gridley was perched on the bench. The spectators lounged in the gallery. Steve manned the defense table. He’d cut his dark hair so that he no longer resembled a beach bum. In his trial uniform—a pin-striped charcoal suit, pale blue shirt, and striped tie—he almost looked like a real lawyer. Gerald Nash sat alongside, a clean yellow pad in front of him, as if he might write useful notes in his own defense. Victoria, surrounded by a picket fence of files and books, sat alone at the prosecution table.

Voir dire.

She knew every single one of Steve’s tricks in picking a jury. His strengths, his weaknesses, his stunts, his surprises. She’d listened to him, learned from him.

“Watch the jurors walk into the courtroom. Study their body language. See who’s a leader and who’s a follower. Eavesdrop on them. Pick their pockets. Steal their purses.”

Figuratively speaking, he meant. Or did he?

Selecting a jury against Steve was like playing singles against Jackie Tuttle, her best bud. Jackie had a smooth, strong forehand and an okay backhand, but she was weak at the net. If Victoria hit to Jackie’s backhand, then lured her to the net with a drop shot, she could blast passing shots for winners four times out of five.

Likewise, she knew Steve’s game by heart.

“When you’re picking a jury, don’t forget that they’re also picking you. They’re deciding which lawyer they like better.”

She’d learned so well, lately Steve had asked her to take the lead in questioning. For whatever reason, she made a better first impression. Okay, she
knew
the reason. She was gentle and kind, and it showed. Steve could be overly confrontational. Sure, he was graceful on his feet, but it was the grace of—
God help me
—a shark, cutting through the well of the courtroom, eager to bite off the head of a contrary witness, opposing counsel, or even the judge.

She knew something else about Steve’s tactics, too. The weaker his case, the more outrageous his stunts. Meaning he would misbehave while questioning prospective jurors today. She didn’t know how, but it was inevitable, like pesky mosquitoes following summer storms.

“Don’t worry about jumping offsides. Sometimes the officials don’t catch you.”

Another of his lessons. At the first opportunity, he would start arguing his case. Voir dire—the questioning of jurors—is intended to detect prejudice or bias. Some trial lawyers wait until the opening statement to start planting seeds of their argument, which is still too soon, according to proper procedure. They do it because studies show that a sizeable percentage of jurors make up their minds in opening statements,
before
the first witness takes the stand.

But to Steve, opening statement was
too late.

He starts arguing his case with “Good morning, Madame ‘Persecutor.’”

Victoria would be on high alert. At least as prosecutor, she would start first. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” she began.

She carefully framed her questions to explain the highly technical charge of felony murder. “Do all of you understand that the defendant can be found guilty, even though someone else pulled the trigger?”

Numbers one through twelve nodded eagerly, a jury box of bobbleheads.

“It’s never enough for the sheep to baa in unison. Get in their faces, one-on-one, and challenge their beliefs.”

Steve again. Never trusting the voice of the crowd. He was right. You needed to separate the individuals from the pack, divide the leaders from the followers, the smart ones from the dummies.

“If you don’t know who’s gonna be foreman by the time the jury takes its oath, you haven’t been paying attention.”

Victoria spent the next hour going through her prepared questions and listening intently to each answer. Then she reviewed her chart. It was a twelve-grid document with sliding tabs where she could slip prospective jurors in and out of their slots. Number three had a quizzical look on his face. Nobuchi Fukui, CPA. College educated, married, three children. Owned his own home in Kendall, commuted downtown to his accounting firm. A decent prosecution juror.

“Mr. Fukui,” she said. “A man doesn’t pull the trigger, but he’s charged with murder. Does that rule seem harsh to you?”

“Not at all. Not if the fellow precipitated the violence. People have to take responsibility for their actions. That’s what’s wrong with this country.”

“Thank you, Mr. Fukui.” Not just a decent prosecution juror. A
great
prosecution juror. She turned to the judge. “Your Honor, we tender the panel to Mr. Solomon.”

Steve bounded to his feet and took up his position an even five feet from the rail of the jury box. No legal pad. No twelve-grid chart. He prided himself on being able to remember a dozen names and attach the right one to each juror.

“Let’s start with you, sir. Mr. Fukui.”

“Yes, sir,” Fukui said suspiciously.

“Here’s a real case. Two teenage boys, neither one armed, try to break into a warehouse out near the airport. They’re not very good burglars, never did it before, and they can’t even get inside. Now, here come the cops. They chase the boys across a field. A cop shoots and kills one of the boys. Under Ms. Lord’s theory, the other boy must be convicted of felony murder. He’ll spend the rest of his life in prison.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” When a puppy is naughty, Victoria knew, you have to quickly show who’s the boss. “It’s not my
theory.
It’s the
law.
”

“But is it justice?” Steve shot back.

“That’s not the issue,” Victoria retorted.

“Now, there’s an admission for you,” Steve proclaimed, turning to the jury with a knowing look. “The prosecutor believes in law without mercy. Law without justice. A cold, hard,
unfeeling
law.”

“Your Honor!” Victoria pealed, trying to get Judge Gridley’s attention.

“Okay, you two.” The judge sighed. “We’re gonna get through jury selection without any caterwauling. Now, Mr. Solomon, ask your questions and quit your speechifying.”

“Of course, Your Honor.” Steve turned back to Nobuchi Fukui. “Now, sir, let me take you back to that warehouse. In fact, let me take all twelve of you back there.”

For a moment, two jurors seemed poised to get out of their seats, as if a bus was waiting to drive them to a warehouse near the airport.

“Mr. Fukui,” Steve continued, “do you think the kid who bungled that burglary should be convicted of murder?”

“Well, it’s not really up to me,” the man said. “If that’s what the law says…”

Perfect, Victoria thought. Make Nobuchi Fukui the foreman.

“The
law,
” Steve said dismissively. “The law once said that women couldn’t vote. The law once said that certain folks had to ride in the back of the bus. The law once said the government…” He stabbed a finger toward Victoria, as if she were the face of Evil. “…yes, the government, could lock up innocent American citizens because of their Japanese ancestry.”

How cheesy, Victoria thought. Next, Steve will be asking Mr. Fukui if he’d like sushi for lunch.

“Just because it’s written in books doesn’t make it right.”

“Objection, Your Honor.” Victoria was on her feet again. “Mr. Solomon hasn’t even waited for the trial to start before seeking jury nullification.”

“Ms. Lord’s right,” the judge said. “Mr. Solomon, you shall refrain from implying that the jury may disregard the law. That’s my job.” The judge seemed to ponder that for a moment. “That is, I’ll instruct the jury on the law.”

“Thank you, Your Honor,” Steve said with a slight bow. Another one of his sneaky tricks. Acting as if he’d just won a motion when he’d been slapped in the face.

“This case is about the cruel and inhuman treatment of animals,” Steve told the panel.

No, it’s not, Victoria thought.

“Now, thanks to your questionnaires, I already know who among you have pets at home, and I feel quite a kinship with you.” He moved closer to number four, a middle-aged woman with enough coppery hair for an osprey to make a nest. Eyeglasses dangled from a beaded chain around her neck. “Mrs. Overton, I’ll bet you love that orange tabby of yours. I know I love mine.”

Oh, Jesus. Steve doesn’t have a tabby. He’s allergic to cats. He curses at cats, from the ones who knock over the garbage can to the ones who sing “Memory” and “Mr. Mistoffelees.”

Mrs. Overton beamed at Steve, instantly suckered by his bull.

“Would you be shocked to know, Mrs. Overton, that cat innards are used by some unscrupulous companies in the manufacture of women’s cosmetics?”

“Oh, my goodness,” she murmured, bringing a hand to her mouth.

“And that neuroscience labs operate on monkeys without anesthesia, for research purposes?”

“Barbaric,” the woman agreed.

“And that the testicles of little puppies are crushed into a powder that some men use to enhance their own potency?”

“The beasts,” Mrs. Overton whimpered.

Victoria didn’t know how much of that was true and doubted that Steve did, either. When he was on a roll, he roared like a fiery preacher in a revival tent, promising riches for allegiance to the Solomonic way, threatening hell for followers of the state.

“Now, Mrs. Overton, my client, young Gerald over there…”

He pointed at
young Gerald,
who smiled sheepishly at the jurors.

“…has witnessed firsthand the terror and abuse suffered by helpless animals at the hands of heartless and greedy humans. And young Gerald’s sole intent the night of the incident was to protect two magnificent dolphins, those most gentle and intelligent of creatures.”

Mrs. Overton nodded. As did they all. A dozen citizens, good and true, horrified by the rampant abuses against animals.

“And what was it that young Gerald saw that night? Words alone cannot convey the images that were burned into his impressionable mind.”

Steve bent down and reached into his briefcase.

What could he be after? Surely there were no files in there.

A cat!

Steve pulled a plump orange tabby out of his old trial bag, waved it over his head, wrapped two hands around the cat’s neck, and pulled. Hard. Then harder, veins throbbing in his own neck.

“Mr. Solomon!” The judge sounded alarmed.

Elwood Reed, the bailiff, stirred from his slumber and even tried to get to his feet.

Mrs. Overton’s lips trembled.

Suddenly, the cat ripped in half, the head in Steve’s right hand, its body in his left.

Someone in the gallery screamed. Mrs. Overton seemed close to fainting. Another juror gagged.

Stuffing fluttered out of the cat like wispy feathers. The animal was real, or had been. A prior owner had the little tabby stuffed. Steve must have picked it up at one of those dusty curio shops on Calle Ocho.

“Here’s what shaped young Gerald Nash!” Steve thundered. “This is what molded him into a young man who would risk his own life to save the lives of sweet, defenseless animals!”

Victoria leapt to her feet. She was about to object when she noticed Steve’s eyes calmly panning the jury box. Taking inventory. Checking facial expressions. Counting his votes. The horrified ones were defense jurors. The bemused ones, including Nobuchi Fukui, CPA, who wore a slight smile, were prosecution jurors.

“Your Honor,” Victoria said calmly, “I wonder if decapitating a stuffed cat is proper use of voir dire.”

“Certainly not before lunch.” Judge Gridley hit the button and tooted his steam whistle. “Let’s get some victuals and report back at one-thirty sharp.”

Steve and Victoria shared an elevator on the way down to the cafeteria. He seemed to be waiting for her to say something. One of her bad-boy put-downs.

I won’t give him the satisfaction.

After a moment, he said, “Well, I guess I woke everybody up.”

Still she kept quiet, adding a yawn for emphasis. Or maybe de-emphasis.

“Okay,” he said. “You’re really mad at me, but you won’t show it.”

“My, you’re so good at reading people, Mr. Solomon.”