is it about?
“Even if Nash told me, I couldn’t tell you—”
Another open palm ricocheted off the back of Steve’s skull. “Sure you could,” Cowboy Boots said. “Or you’ll be Mr. Brown. As in shit-in-your-pants.”
“But Nash doesn’t know anything. You said it yourself. He needs two hands to find his dick.”
The headache dug deeper into Steve’s skull. Back in college, he’d been beaned by a Tulane pitcher who took offense at batters crowding the plate. The pitch cracked Steve’s batting helmet and left him seeing double. Now he was starting to feel as if he’d been hit by another pitch.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the Justice Building. Steve hadn’t realized it, but they’d driven in a circle.
“He’s telling the truth,” the driver told his pal, before turning to Steve. “Get out.”
The second Steve’s feet hit the pavement, the door swung closed, and the black Lincoln pulled away. Hillsborough County plates.
“S-3-J-1…”
That’s all Steve could pick up before the car turned the corner. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, tucked his shirttail in, and straightened his tie. Then he bounded up the steps two at a time, heading into the Justice Building. He was late for court.
Twenty-one
STUCK ON HIS SHTICK
“I’m sure Mr. Solomon will be here any moment, Your Honor. Traffic is so heavy today.”
Victoria often made excuses for Steve when they were cocounsel. Now, even on opposite sides of a case, she was still sticking up for him.
“Uh-huh.” Judge Gridley, berobed, was on the bench. Victoria, with perfect posture, stood behind the prosecution table.
Some judges will hold you in contempt for being tardy. Some levy a fine, five bucks a minute, the proceeds going to the Pizza Fund for Needy Bailiffs. But Judge Gridley seemed remarkably sanguine, leafing through a tabloid tout sheet called
Lou’s Surefire Picks.
The door flew open and Steve barreled into the courtroom, looking as if he’d just been dragged through a car wash. Hair tousled, shirt sweat-stained, dark complexion tinged red around the ears. He slipped into his suit jacket and tightened the knot in his tie as he hurried through the swinging gate to the defense table.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor.” He nodded toward the bench, then gave Victoria a tight smile.
“What happened to you?” Victoria asked.
“Later. Let’s get this over with.”
“Ah, Mr. Solomon graces us with his presence,” Judge Gridley said mildly, without looking up.
Steve bowed slightly. “I apologize, Your Honor.”
“One preliminary matter before we take on the defense motion.” The judge closed
Lou’s Surefire Picks
and looked gravely at Steve. “What’s your take on Florida State at Miami this weekend?”
“I generally don’t bet against the ’Canes in the Orange Bowl,” Steve said.
“A wise policy,” the judge allowed.
“But those national championships seem like ancient history. The line’s pick ’em. I’d go with the ’Noles.”
The judge grunted his approval and jotted a note on his tout sheet. “Okay, Mr. Solomon. It’s your motion. Stoke your boilers.”
Before Steve could open his mouth, Victoria said, “The defense motion may be moot, Your Honor. I haven’t had time to discuss this with Mr. Solomon, but the state has a plea offer.”
“Excellent. Always happy to clear the calendar. You two take as much time as you need, while I check out the Big Ten games.”
The judge licked his thumb and began turning pages on his tout sheet.
Steve whispered to Victoria: “Two guys jumped me outside.”
“What! Who?”
“Later. What’s this about a plea deal?”
“Ray Pincher suggested it.”
“On his own?”
“No. The U.S. Attorney asked him to do it.”
“Because the feds are investigating the ALM? Or something else? A different investigation?”
“How did you know that?” Victoria demanded.
Steve exhaled a sigh that was almost visible. “Someone’s playing us,
“Even if Nash told me, I couldn’t tell you—”
Another open palm ricocheted off the back of Steve’s skull. “Sure you could,” Cowboy Boots said. “Or you’ll be Mr. Brown. As in shit-in-your-pants.”
“But Nash doesn’t know anything. You said it yourself. He needs two hands to find his dick.”
The headache dug deeper into Steve’s skull. Back in college, he’d been beaned by a Tulane pitcher who took offense at batters crowding the plate. The pitch cracked Steve’s batting helmet and left him seeing double. Now he was starting to feel as if he’d been hit by another pitch.
The car pulled to a stop in front of the Justice Building. Steve hadn’t realized it, but they’d driven in a circle.
“He’s telling the truth,” the driver told his pal, before turning to Steve. “Get out.”
The second Steve’s feet hit the pavement, the door swung closed, and the black Lincoln pulled away. Hillsborough County plates.
“S-3-J-1…”
That’s all Steve could pick up before the car turned the corner. He ran a hand through his mussed hair, tucked his shirttail in, and straightened his tie. Then he bounded up the steps two at a time, heading into the Justice Building. He was late for court.
Twenty-one
STUCK ON HIS SHTICK
“I’m sure Mr. Solomon will be here any moment, Your Honor. Traffic is so heavy today.”
Victoria often made excuses for Steve when they were cocounsel. Now, even on opposite sides of a case, she was still sticking up for him.
“Uh-huh.” Judge Gridley, berobed, was on the bench. Victoria, with perfect posture, stood behind the prosecution table.
Some judges will hold you in contempt for being tardy. Some levy a fine, five bucks a minute, the proceeds going to the Pizza Fund for Needy Bailiffs. But Judge Gridley seemed remarkably sanguine, leafing through a tabloid tout sheet called
Lou’s Surefire Picks.
The door flew open and Steve barreled into the courtroom, looking as if he’d just been dragged through a car wash. Hair tousled, shirt sweat-stained, dark complexion tinged red around the ears. He slipped into his suit jacket and tightened the knot in his tie as he hurried through the swinging gate to the defense table.
“Good afternoon, Your Honor.” He nodded toward the bench, then gave Victoria a tight smile.
“What happened to you?” Victoria asked.
“Later. Let’s get this over with.”
“Ah, Mr. Solomon graces us with his presence,” Judge Gridley said mildly, without looking up.
Steve bowed slightly. “I apologize, Your Honor.”
“One preliminary matter before we take on the defense motion.” The judge closed
Lou’s Surefire Picks
and looked gravely at Steve. “What’s your take on Florida State at Miami this weekend?”
“I generally don’t bet against the ’Canes in the Orange Bowl,” Steve said.
“A wise policy,” the judge allowed.
“But those national championships seem like ancient history. The line’s pick ’em. I’d go with the ’Noles.”
The judge grunted his approval and jotted a note on his tout sheet. “Okay, Mr. Solomon. It’s your motion. Stoke your boilers.”
Before Steve could open his mouth, Victoria said, “The defense motion may be moot, Your Honor. I haven’t had time to discuss this with Mr. Solomon, but the state has a plea offer.”
“Excellent. Always happy to clear the calendar. You two take as much time as you need, while I check out the Big Ten games.”
The judge licked his thumb and began turning pages on his tout sheet.
Steve whispered to Victoria: “Two guys jumped me outside.”
“What! Who?”
“Later. What’s this about a plea deal?”
“Ray Pincher suggested it.”
“On his own?”
“No. The U.S. Attorney asked him to do it.”
“Because the feds are investigating the ALM? Or something else? A different investigation?”
“How did you know that?” Victoria demanded.
Steve exhaled a sigh that was almost visible. “Someone’s playing us,
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