Solomon Vs. Lord Part 25

"You refuse to question authority."

"I question plenty. I just don't flout."

"Do you think the state should take Bobby from me?"

"Of course not."

"Then help me."

"I cannot and will not break the law."

"Haven't I taught you anything? The law doesn't work. That's why you have to work the law."

"Sorry. Can't do it."

His frustration turned to anger. "I can't f.u.c.king believe it. You're still a robot, still an automaton. By now you gotta know Lady Justice takes it doggy style. The law gets bent over a chair like a girl in Kobe Bryant's hotel room."

"And they say you're not a charmer."

They emerged from the path, silence engulfing the s.p.a.ce between them, driving them apart. Alongside a pond, a mother was snapping photos of her two little girls, scarlet macaws perched on their shoulders.

They neared the edge of the bay. Crabs no larger than a fingernail scuttled along the wet sand. Feathery terns scoured the beach for snacks. Just across the water, a bell was ringing, and a barrier arm came down. Traffic stopped on the Venetian Causeway drawbridge.

"I need to tell you something about Bobby," he said.

"Nothing you can say will change my mind."

They stopped beneath a gumbo-limbo tree, its small red fruits bunched in cl.u.s.ters. Victoria's face was half in the sun, half in the shade.

"When Bobby was nine," Steve said, "his mother, Janice, moved to this commune up in the Panhandle. The Universal Friends of something-or-other. Freaks and druggies. When Janice was straight, she'd slap Bobby around and scream biblical quotations at him. When she was stoned, she'd lock him in a dog cage. Then she'd go into town for a few hours or a few days."

"Bobby told me about the dog cage. It sounded terrible. Honestly, Steve, I'd love to help, but-"

"He's making progress every day. And once I get him some specialized treatment, he'll do even better. But this creepy doctor wants to take him away and put him in a hospital."

"How can they do that if you're his guardian?"

The drawbridge was up now, and a sloop with its sails furled putt-putted through, cars backing up on the mainland to the west and on Biscayne Island to the east.

"Janice never exactly consented to my taking Bobby, so he's in sort of a legal limbo."

She thought about it for a moment. "You kidnapped him?"

"Rescued him," he corrected. "But I've never told anyone how. Until now."

He told her then. Told her about the night of freezing rain, about Janice delivering cold soup to Bobby in the shed, about his breaking in and finding the boy in the cage. Told her, too, about the mangy man with the heavy stick and how they fought, the crack of the man's skull, his blood pooling on the floor. Told her about the gunshots and how he ran through the woods, carrying Bobby, chased by barking dogs and men with guns.

When he was finished, Victoria studied him, her lips slightly parted, words trying to form. She felt fragile enough to shatter like white china. "I never could have imagined any of this."

"When I was running, Bobby's arms around my neck, I knew they'd never catch me as long as I didn't fall. All my life, I could run. Really run. But it had no purpose. Then it came to me. Like it was all meant to be. I could run like this so that someday, that day, I could carry this poor kid out of h.e.l.l and give him a life.

"Sometimes, when I'm drifting off to sleep, I hear the floorboards squeak, and I think they're here. Men with torches and sticks, and they're going to kill me and s.n.a.t.c.h Bobby. Then I wake up and think, if those are my nightmares, what must Bobby's be?"

Eyes welling, he turned away. "So you think I'm gonna let some fat-a.s.sed bureaucrats take him away?"

"Look at me," she commanded.

He turned back. With a fingertip, she caught a tear just as it neared the corner of his mouth, then let her finger track across his lips, as if gently shushing him.

Across the bay, the bell rang again, and the causeway bridge jerked down in fits and starts like an old man dropping into his chair.

"Who knew?" she said, removing the finger from his lips.

"Knew what?"

"That you were capable of such love."

He shrugged. "That other stuff. The courtroom. Just a game. This is life."

Her eyes were soft and watery. "So where are we going?"

"Going?"

"On our honeymoon."

It took a second to register. Then Steve smiled broadly. "You're gonna do it? You're gonna be my fiancee?"

"One night only."

"Ye-s-s-s!" Tomorrow night. He laughed, a big pealing laugh like rolling thunder. "You're terrific. If there's ever anything you need. Anything."

"If I'm arrested, get me a good lawyer." She pulled out her cell phone. "I was supposed to play tennis with Jackie at Grove Isle tomorrow, have dinner with Bruce at his club. I'll cancel."

"No. Bring them along. In fact, we'll go to Bruce's club."

"Are you serious?"

"I'll ask Bruce to be my best man."

"You really want him there?"

"He'll make a great impression on Kranchick, maybe even pick up the tab. And Jackie can be your bridesmaid or whatever."

"She's my maid of honor."

"Perfect. Is she like you?"

Her tone was playful. "You mean a robot and automaton?"

"That stuff, I take back. I mean, proper, dignified, principled." He swallowed hard and his voice went soft. "And beautiful and smart and s.e.xy and-"

She put her finger back to his lips. "Don't, Solomon."

"But there are things I want to say."

"Please, don't." Her smile was soft and sweet. "But we'll always have Parrot Jungle."

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

Twenty-one.

COFFEE KLATCH.

On the steps of the optimistically named Justice Building, a custodian sc.r.a.ped up a melting vanilla cake with chicken wings popping out of the icing. The cake was the culinary handiwork of a Haitian santero, hired by a defendant's family to cast a spell and sweeten a judge's disposition.

Inside the building, at eight-twenty A.M., Steve had just cleared the metal detector and was in desperate need of a cup of coffee when he heard a foghorn behind him. "Oh, Mr. So-lo-mon."

He stopped and turned. Jack Zinkavich was waddling toward him.

"Your witness lists are late," Zinkavich said.

"Sorry, been a little busy."

"And your exhibit list? Pretrial stips. Statement of the case."

"Almost done."

Meaning Steve was almost done thinking about them. Complying with deadlines wasn't his strong suit.

"We need to agree on a trial date," Zinkavich persisted.

"Soon as the Barksdale case is over."

"Not acceptable. Every day Robert is with you is an invitation to disaster."

Steve wrestled his temper under control. He'd promised his father he'd play nice, even though he doubted that Zinkavich was on the level. His old man had a more sanguine view of human nature.

As for Zinkavich, sure he had a s.h.i.tty childhood and sure he'd been saved by the system, an event as rare as snow in Miami. But unlike his old man, Steve didn't think that Zinkavich had turned into the Galahad of Juvenile Court. To Steve, he was just one of Pincher's flunkies, a careerist with a mean streak. Still, since nothing else was working, he'd try a new and unfamiliar strategy: kissing a.s.s.

Steve said: "We got off on the wrong foot, Jack. Okay if I call you Jack?"

"No."

"I just want to apologize. I said some inappropriate things, and I never should have grabbed you."

"Uh-huh."

"I have a great deal of respect for you, Mr. Zinkavich."

"Sure you do."

"I mean it. I know your background. Losing your mother like that. Being in foster care. So I know how you must feel about children at risk."

"Are you patronizing me, Mr. Solomon?"

"No, I'm just trying to relate to what you went through and-"

"Leave my personal life out of this."

"All I'm saying-"

"You condescending piece of s.h.i.t."

"Aw, jeez."

"You think you can hide your violent streak under this phony veneer?"

"I don't have a violent streak. I'm actually quite cowardly."

"You're a menace. I know what you did that night in the commune, and I've got the evidence."

Oh, s.h.i.t.

Was it true? Did Zinkavich have the guy he'd clobbered? Or was the b.a.s.t.a.r.d bluffing?

"You're not just going to lose your nephew," Zinkavich bulldozed on. "You're going to prison."

He took off down the corridor, leaving Steve standing there. Alone and alarmed.

The Courthouse Gang was holding up the cafeteria line, pinching bagels, sniffing Danishes, kibitzing about their aches and pains. Marvin the Maven in a navy blue double-breasted blazer, Cadillac Johnson in a bright dashiki, and Teresa Torao in a dark tweed suit with a simple strand of pearls.

"C'mon, Marvin," Steve said from the back of the line. "Keep moving."

Steve couldn't be late for court. He tried to focus on the upcoming bail hearing, but Zinkavich's threat still rattled around in his brain.

"You're not just going to lose your nephew. You're going to prison."

Just what evidence did Zinkavich have? There wasn't even time to think about it. He needed a jolt of caffeine to jump-start his brain so he could race upstairs to the courtroom. But here he was, trapped behind his pals, who had nowhere to go and lots of time to get there.

"What's your hurry, boychik?" Marvin said.

"Bail hearing in ten minutes. Victoria's waiting for me."