The Deep Blue Alibi by Paul Levine Page B

Bobby had left it behind and brought along a collection of John Updike’s early stories. The little wizard—Bobby, not Harry— had already gone through his Philip Roth stage.
    ” ‘He was robed in this certainty,’ ” Bobby read aloud, ” ‘that the God who had lavished such craft upon these worthless birds would not destroy His whole Creation by refusing to let David live forever.’ ”
    “What the hell’s that?” Steve demanded.
    ” ‘Pigeon Feathers,’ ” Bobby said. “A boy shoots some pigeons in his family’s barn. It’s all about the inevitability of death.”
    “Jeez, Vic. Did you give that to him?” Steve said.
    “Bobby wanted something challenging,” Victoria said.
    “How about cleaning his room?” Steve suggested. “That seems to be quite a challenge.”
    “Don’t discourage Bobby from reading fine literature,” Victoria said.
    “Or how about doing your homework for once, kiddo?”
    “Bor-ing,” Bobby sang out.
    “And what’s with that note I got from your social studies teacher? Two demerits for insubordination?”
    “All I did was ask: ‘If vegetarians eat vegetables, what do humanitarians eat?’ ”
    “Nobody likes a smart-ass, kiddo.”
    “Re-al-ly?” Bobby and Victoria shot back in unison.
    One hand on the wheel, Steve grumbled something to himself, stewing over Bobby, or Junior, or even her, Victoria figured. As the tires hummed along the roadway, she thought about the man sitting next to her. Her feelings for Steve were so scrambled. They seldom talked about their relationship, never really defined it. They had drifted into monogamy with no plan for the future.
    Where are we headed?
    Marriage? Steve never brought it up. He had suggested living together, but she thought that had more to do with cutting driving time than a blossoming commitment. They had gotten together while defending Katrina Barksdale on a charge she killed her husband during kinky sex. At the time, Victoria was engaged to Bruce Bigby, avocado grower and grown-up Boy Scout. She had laughed off Steve’s flirtations, rebuffed his advances. In truth, she hadn’t much liked him. A shark in the courtroom, a wise guy everywhere else. The idea of getting together with him had seemed preposterous.
    But something had happened. Steve burned with a joyous fire. He would burst through the courtroom door like a rodeo rider coming out of the chute. Combat juiced him; injustice angered him. Once he believed in his client, he would do anything to win. Sometimes he crossed the line of acceptable behavior, often even erasing it.
    “If the law doesn’t work, work the law.”
    At first, Solomon’s Laws offended her. And even now Steve’s tactics could shock her sense of gentility. But he was right about so many things. You didn’t win cases by sticking to the rules carved in the marble pediments. You didn’t win by citing precedent. “Your Honor, referring to the venerable case of Boring versus Snoring …”
    You won by finding your opponent’s soft spot and attacking. You won with showmanship and flair and, whenever possible, the truth. A trial lawyer is a warrior, a knight in rusty armor, who would often be bloodied but would never surrender. Steve taught her to conquer her fears.
    Don’t be afraid to lose.
    Don’t be afraid to look ridiculous.
    Don’t be afraid to steal home.
    He sometimes won impossible cases. When a burglarious client was caught with his fingers lodged in the cash slot of an ATM machine, Steve not only beat the criminal charge, he successfully sued the bank for the man’s mashed knuckles.
    Steve had style. Prowling the well of the courtroom like a shark in the ocean, woe unto the fatter, slower fish. Where she was tense in trial and could even feel herself trembling during moments of stress, Steve was totally comfortable. It seemed he didn’t just own the courtroom, he leased it out to the judge, the prosecutor, the jurors.
    Not that the attraction was all intellectual. Steve was