Solomon Vs. Lord Part 8

"Thanks a bunch," she said.

"I have to wing it right now. You know why?"

"I don't care."

"My client's guilty."

She stopped short. "What?"

"He imports illegal birds, snakes, big cats. Sells them to zoos and collectors."

Now she was confused. "You want to plead him out?"

"No way. Pedrosa gives people work, and the animals are healthy and happy."

"What he does is a crime."

"A victimless crime," Steve said. "Pedrosa came to this country with nothing. He's put two kids through college. He's good people."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"So you can dismiss the case and spare yourself embarra.s.sment."

"Forget it."

"Then I'm not responsible for what happens."

"Are you threatening me?"

"You're going to be a fine lawyer someday, Lord. But not until you find your heart."

Victoria felt dizzy as she sat down, as if she had plunged through the rabbit hole and just kept falling. Hoping to stem the vertigo, she tried focusing on the sign above the judge's head. We Who Labor Here Seek Only Truth.

Sure. Solomon seeks to beat her brains in, the judge to beat the point spread, and the jurors to beat the traffic home.

Amancio Pedrosa swore to tell the truth and Steve started asking questions.

"What's your occupation, sir?"

"I run an animal shelter for poor, injured creatures," Pedrosa said.

And Fidel Castro runs Club Med, Victoria thought.

"So you have birds on your property?" Steve asked.

Pedrosa's eyes welled with tears. "Flamingos with broken legs. Pelicans with fishhooks in their beaks. Egrets that swallow beer-can tabs."

The jurors seemed stricken, Victoria thought. Could they be buying this s.h.i.+t?

"Do you recognize the bird sitting on my shoulder?"

"Looks like a Brazilian white c.o.c.katoo with a sulfur crest," Pedrosa said.

"c.o.c.katoo!" Mr. Ruffles said, as Steve hand-fed him another prune Danish.

"Did you smuggle this bird into the country?"

"No, sir."

"Then how do you explain how Wildlife Officers found the bird on your property?"

"Hurricane Brenda," Pedrosa said. "You remember? The storm came up the coast from South America."

"So the hurricane blew our feathered friend north and deposited him on your property," Steve said.

No one laughed, no one screamed, and Solomon's pants didn't catch fire.

Just wait till cross-examination. I'll show you a hurricane.

"That's about it," Pedrosa said. "One day just after the storm, I saw that bird perched in a gumbo-limbo tree."

"Gumbo-limbo," Mr. Ruffles said.

"The same day, the Wildlife people showed up and arrested me."

"For saving this bird's life, you were arrested," Steve said sadly. He gave Mr. Ruffles a nudge, and the bird flapped his wings and hopped to Pedrosa's shoulder.

Victoria leapt to her feet. "Your Honor, let the record reflect that the bird has just landed on the defendant, Amancio Pedrosa."

"Objection," Steve said. "It's irrelevant where Mr. Ruffles sits."

The bird was nuzzling Pedrosa's neck. Victoria felt her excitement rise.

You think I can't wing it? Just watch, Solomon.

"It's highly relevant, Your Honor," she said. "It proves that Mr. Ruffles knows Mr. Pedrosa. Just look at them. They're practically cuddling."

"It's a case of mistaken ident.i.ty," Steve said. "By zoological malfeasance and misleading suggestion, the state has planted false evidence."

Solomon's babbling, Victoria thought. He's scared. She had him right where she wanted him.

Hoisted on his own gumbo-limbo.

"Ms. Lord has employed trickery to dupe this innocent bird," Steve railed. "To Mr. Ruffles, all people look alike."

"Then why," Victoria retorted, "of all the people in the courtroom, did Mr. Ruffles choose Mr. Pedrosa? There's only one reason. Because it's Mr. Pedrosa's bird!"

Mr. Ruffles said: "Mr. Pedrosa's bird."

"Objection!" Steve yelled. "Ms. Lord has tainted these proceedings with prejudice."

"Mr. Pedrosa's bird," Mr. Ruffles repeated.

"Stifle that bird," the judge demanded, then turned to Victoria. "Ms. Lord, you think I was born tired and raised lazy?"

"No, sir."

"Then why did you elicit testimony from that flea-bitten bird?"

She felt the first sharp dagger of panic.

The judge's order. Have I violated the judge's order?

Next to her, Pincher cleared his throat with the sound of a truck dumping gravel. She could feel Solomon's presence, gliding into the well of the courtroom, circling like a hungry shark.

"It's Mr. Solomon's fault," she said. "He planned this. I don't know how exactly, but I know he did."

"That doesn't cut it, Judge," Steve said. "Ms. Lord has shamefully induced Mr. Ruffles to incriminate the defendant. I reluctantly move for a mistrial."

The word "mistrial" sent a s.h.i.+ver of fear through her. She groped for the right response, not daring to risk a glance at Pincher.

"But Pedrosa's guilty! Solomon told me so." The words just poured out. "That's why he's winging it. Solomon's diabolical, unbalanced, dangerous. He should be locked up along with his guilty client."

The courtroom was hushed. Everyone was staring at her. Victoria looked down. She was pointing her scissors at Solomon, her hand shaking.

"Bailiff, disarm counsel," the judge said, gravely.

Elwood Reed hitched up his belt, walked purposefully to the prosecution table, and took the scissors from Victoria.

"Mistrial granted," Judge Gridley said. He turned to the jurors and thanked them for their service, explaining that their duties were over, and isn't it wonderful to live in a country where the rule of law prevails?

Victoria slumped into her chair, dazed. She was vaguely aware of Pedrosa hugging Steve Solomon at the defense table. There was a flapping of wings. The d.a.m.ned bird was celebrating, too. Next to her, Pincher stirred uncomfortably.

"I'm sorry, sir." Her voice was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves.

"Some lawyers aren't cut out for the courtroom," Pincher told her. "Maybe you can be a back-office scrivener somewhere, but trial work's not for you."

She must have been shaking her head, because he said, "Do you understand?"

"No, sir."

"Do I need Donald Trump to deliver the news? You're fired."

Pincher got up and left her there, alone. A loser. A leper in a colony of one.

Her throat felt constricted, and her heart, which had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, seemed to stop. The courtroom became unbearably hot, the lights excruciatingly bright. Footsteps of departing spectators echoed like thunderclaps, whispers cackled like derisive laughter.

She tried to compose herself, knowing her cheeks were crimson, her makeup melting. And then it came. The first salty tear.

At the defense table, Steve looked at Victoria sitting alone and forlorn. Only another trial lawyer could understand what she was going through, her blood pooling on the courtroom floor. Steve had lost cases-though perhaps none so spectacularly-and he knew the shame. He'd heard Pincher fire her. The p.r.i.c.k hadn't even waited until they were back in the office.

And now what?

Oh, jeez, she's crying.

Steve felt an emotion that seldom wormed itself into his consciousness: guilt. He hadn't meant to get her fired. He wanted to tell her that the only lawyers who never get humiliated in court are those too chickens.h.i.+t to venture there. He wanted to tell her that she had more potential than any young lawyer he knew. She was a gladiator who'd gone down swinging her sword. Nothing to be ashamed of, not her fault her boss was a jerk.

Steve watched Victoria unstrap her expensive Italian shoes and toss them into a plastic bag, slipping on white Nikes for the trek to the parking lot. The Warrior Princess stripped of her armor. He told himself that someday she'd look back and realize it was for the best. Why should she waste her time with Sugar Ray Pincher? He'd do nothing but stunt her growth. She should be in private practice. Like him.

An idea was forming.

He could groom her, teach her all his tricks.

We could handle the Barksdale case together.

He wondered just how furious she was. Would she even listen to his offer? Would she help him-help them-land Katrina Barksdale as a client? He gathered up Mr. Ruffles and walked to the prosecution table.

"I'm sorry," he said.

"No you're not."

"I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity."

"I hate you, you know."

"I hate you," Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.

"What are you going to do now?" Steve asked.

"I don't know."

"Maybe I can help."

"You've done quite enough."

"I have a proposition for you."

"s.h.i.+t!" she screamed.

"Don't say that till you hear me out," he said.

"Dammit! Your bird."

Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.

"They say it's good luck," Steve said.

GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH.