"Those folks wouldn't have convicted Ted Bundy of littering." Luber turned to Steve. "See, kid. Jurors will do what they damn well please. I remember one trial, they were all dressed in jeans and sneakers. Gene Miller writes in the Herald that times had changed. Used to be, jurors would wear coats and ties, dresses or nice skirts. Now, your old man had instructed the jury not to read the papers, but the day after the story appeared. ."
"All the men wore suits, all the women dresses." Herbert filled in the rest. "Looked like they were going to church."
"So what's the lesson, kid?" Luber said.
"Don't patronize me," Steve said.
"You can't trust juries. Take it from me."
"You don't believe in the system, that it, Luber?"
"Would you want to be judged by people too stupid to get out of jury duty?"
"You believe that, too, Dad?" Steve challenged.
"I don't think about those things anymore."
"Jesus, we had some cases," Luber said.
"We?" Steve shook his head. "You guys weren't partners."
"The law's stacked against the state, so a good prosecutor always gets the judge on his side. Right, Herb?"
Herbert silently walked to the window and stared across the alley.
"You remember the Butcher of Lovers' Lane?" Luber prodded.
When Herbert didn't respond, Luber kept chattering: "I was at the top of my game. Jury voted in thirty-nine minutes to fry his ass. That still the record, Herb?"
"Ah wouldn't know." Herbert still looked out the window.
Steve was trying to figure out the change that had come over his father. At first, Herbert had seemed genuinely pleased to see this rosy-faced son-of-a-bitch. That was strange enough. But now, with Luber telling war stories, his old man's mood had dipped.
What message is Pinky sending that I'm not getting?
Herbert turned around and faced the two of them. "Son, if you've got some questions for Pinky, why not ask them and get this over with?"
"Fine," Steve said. "Sofia, back on the record."
She stretched her arms over her head, then behind her back, which caused her breasts to strain against the fabric of her silk blouse. All three men-one young k'nocker, two alter kockers-took a gander at Sofia's knockers. Smiling to herself, she curled her fingers over the stenograph keys and waited.
"Did there come a time you testified to the Grand Jury in a corruption probe, Mr. Luber?" Steve asked, reverting to the formal cadence of a trial lawyer.
"Yes."
"Did you testify that Herbert Solomon took bribes to rezone agricultural property to commercial use?"
"Lemme save you some time, kid," Luber said. "If you're asking me to recant what I said about Herb, I ain't gonna do it."
"So your lies stand, is that it?"
"Go pound your pud, bud."
"Son, just get back to your murder case and drop this, okay?" Herbert pleaded.
"I offered to help the kid out," Luber said. "And this is the way he treats me."
"Don't want your help," Steve said.
"I'll give you some, anyway. You oughta be following the green path."
Steve must have looked puzzled.
"The money trail, kid. Hal Griffin's got a hundred thousand cash on his boat, then the cops find forty grand in Stubbs' hotel room after he croaked. But with Oceania, you're talking hundreds of millions of dollars. So if a hundred forty thousand's floating around, there's gotta be more. Find out who's greasing those skids, kid. Follow the money, sonny."
Nineteen
"Not guilty!" Hal Griffin proclaimed in a strong, clear voice. Exactly the way Victoria had instructed him. They were standing in front of Judge Clyde Feathers in a fourth-floor courtroom of the Monroe County Courthouse, three blocks from the harbor in Key West. With Steve in Miami prepping his father's case, Victoria was flying solo, handling Griffin's arraignment by herself. Happy to be in charge.
She had rejected Steve's advice that Griffin sing out: "Not guilty, not guilty. Thank God Almighty, I am not guilty!" All to the rhythm of Martin Luther King's "free at last." Too melodramatic for Victoria's taste.
Lately, Steve had been fussing around with creative pleas, intended to influence the press and prospective jurors. Once he tried "Innocent as the pure, driven snow," an unfortunate choice in a cocaine trial.
But is Uncle Grif really innocent?
For the past two days, at Steve's suggestion, Victoria had been following "the green path," and she didn't like where it seemed to lead. She'd been hauling down mildewy books in the county's Real Property records room, breaking two fingernails and poring over real estate sales. Now she was sure Uncle Grif had misled her, and she planned to confront him as soon as they got back to the hotel.
"Damn it, Uncle Grif. I told you to be honest with me. I can't help you if you lie."
She had been careful all morning not to let Griffin know she was upset. He needed to appear confident and at ease in his first court appearance. Glancing at him now, she thought Griffin seemed dignified and prosperous in a dark, double-breasted suit. But the suit made him even thicker through the chest-more physically imposing-and Victoria made a mental note to have him dress in something slimming when a jury was impaneled.
She wore a double-breasted suit, too. A mauve, Dolce amp; Gabbana with the extra-wide lapels, a boned bodice, and a fitted skirt. A hip-hugging summer wool fabric made stretchy with a touch of spandex, and no, she didn't need any slimming tricks, thank you very much. Her suede-lined Bottega Veneta woven-leather black purse-large as a satchel-was perfect for carrying a legal file as well as her makeup. What had Sarah Jessica Parker said on Sex and the City?
"Purses are to women what balls are to men. You'd feel naked leaving home without them."
Got that right, girl.
Judge Feathers spent a few minutes with housekeeping details. Victoria waived the formal reading of the indictment. Calendars came out, and the judge set discovery deadlines and a trial date. Then he announced bail would be one million dollars. No problem there. The amount had been agreed upon in advance, and the surety was already posted. Griffin would walk out of the courthouse without ever feeling the shame and discomfort of the orange jumpsuit with the Monroe County jail logo. . unless he was convicted at trial.
A hot blast of muggy air hit her as they left the courtroom, which opened directly onto an outdoor walkway that led to the elevators. Cameras clicked and questions were shouted as Victoria escorted Griffin through the snarling, slobbering, shoving pack of backpedaling jackals and hyenas, aka journalists.
"Any chance of a plea?" one reporter yelled.
"What's your defense?" shouted another.
"Why'd you do it, Griffin?" a particularly rude reporter called out.
"My attorney will answer all questions," Griffin said, serenely.
Victoria put on her lawyer's look for the evening news-confident but not cocky. "We fully believe the jury will conclude this was all a tragic accident."
"Tragic accident."
Steve had given her the tag line and told her to repeat it as often as possible. "Start drilling your theme into the public consciousness and never let up," he'd instructed.
Okay, she had to admit Steve had won a bunch of cases using the technique.
Mistaken identity.
Sloppy police work.
Justifiable homicide.
And now tragic accident. Which would have been a lot easier if Uncle Grif had said he was showing Stubbs the speargun when it accidentally fired. But Griffin stuck to his story: He was on the bridge, and when Stubbs didn't respond to the intercom, he put the boat on auto, climbed down the ladder, and found the man with the spear in his chest. So she was stuck arguing to the jury that Stubbs had been messing around with the speargun and accidentally shot himself.