The spear's angle of entry was crucial to support the theory. So far, Victoria had consulted two expert witnesses: a biomechanics professor from Georgia Tech and a safety engineer from a private firm. The professor told her the accident theory was "not provable to a reasonable degree of biomechanical probability" and the engineer said his tests were similarly inconclusive. Nothing they could use in court. There was another professor, a human factors expert from Columbia University, but his report wasn't prepared yet.
Steve had been toying with the idea of a courtroom demonstration where he would load the speargun, trying to shoot himself in the chest while wearing a Kevlar vest. He did a dry run in the office and managed to fire the spear out the window and onto the balcony across the alley where the Jamaican steel band was grilling chicken and smoking weed. Victoria was fairly certain it would not help their case if they impaled a juror.
Now she guided Griffin by the elbow, steering him toward the elevator. An odd sensation, this role reversal. She could remember Uncle Grif's protective hand on her arm, steering her through crowds at Disney World so many years ago. Now she was the protector. She was all that stood between Uncle Grif and life in prison. At least for the moment. When the trial began, Steve would be alongside, jockeying for position.
For now, though, she enjoyed the spotlight, the attention from the press. Amazing, the instant respect a high-profile murder case seemed to convey. Especially when you sit first chair. No wonder Steve was reluctant to give it up. But she'd laid down the law, Lord's Law.
"Your choice, Steve. You can sit second chair. Or take a seat in the gallery."
"No problem," he'd said. "You're the boss. That's what we agreed."
Steve's unconditional surrender made her suspicious- she half expected him to burst through the courtroom door with some headline-grabbing announcement-but he'd stayed behind while she handled the arraignment and soaked up her fifteen minutes of media fame. Now, as she clawed her way past the reporters to the elevator, she still wondered if Steve wasn't lurking nearby, about to call his own press conference.
"Ms. Lord! Mr. Griffin!" a disheveled young man she recognized as a reporter from the Key West Citizen shouted at her. "What happened on that boat?"
"It will all come out in court." She smiled for the cameras.
Of all the sappy platitudes, she thought. Of course it will all come out in court. She just didn't know what the hell it would be.
"And in due course," she added, "it will be clear that the death of Mr. Stubbs was simply a tragic accident."
Steve would be proud, she thought.
A fine rain was falling now, and Victoria worried about her makeup running. The courthouse, with its open-air walkways, was one of those designs for the subtropics, where you can get sunburned or rained on while technically still inside the building.
Once in the lobby, they passed a mural of a Spanish galleon, buccaneers landing on a sandy beach, pirates engaged in sword fights. An unusual image in a courthouse, she thought, a celebration of the island's distant-or not so distant-lawlessness.
"This way, Ms. Lord!" one photographer screeched, aiming a still camera at her.
"No. Over here, Ms. Lord!" another belted out.
"Will Griffin testify?" hollered a man in dirty jeans and a wife-beater T-shirt.
They were down here, too. Clogging the lobby, scrambling like cockroaches. A bothersome, boisterous, unkempt lot. But feeling a bit like a star on the red carpet, Victoria figured she'd better get used to the attention. The spotlight, she believed, burned bright but was narrowly focused. Wide enough only for one. Even when they're partnered up, lawyers are lone gunslingers. Who remembers the name of Johnnie Cochran's law partner? Or Melvin Belli's? Or Gerry Spence's?
So, yes indeed, a lawyer who makes a name for herself in a big murder trial had better expect the high-wattage lights. And buy some waterproof makeup, too.
SOLOMON'S LAWS
6. The client who lies to his lawyer is like a husband who cheats on his wife. It seldom happens just once.
Twenty
Ten minutes and a pink taxicab ride later, Victoria and Griffin were in the War Room, her suite at the Pier House. An oak conference table and leather chairs, a wicker sofa, sailing prints on the walls. The miscellany of trial prep filled the suite. Cardboard boxes stacked on the floor; documents scattered across the table; a model of the Force Majeure on a sideboard.
Victoria kicked off her velvet-toed pumps, poured mineral water over ice, and sparred with her client. "So where did Stubbs get forty thousand dollars in cash?" she demanded.
"Like I told you before, Princess, I got no idea."
"The state will say you bribed him for a favorable environmental report."
"Let 'em prove it."
"They can subpoena your bank accounts, get all your records."
"Good luck to 'em."
"Meaning?"
"I've lived in a dozen countries. Even I can't remember where all my money is."
Victoria didn't know how to get him to open up.
Should she tell him what she knew, perhaps limiting what he would disclose, or should she keep the questions open-ended, hoping he would fill in even more? She sipped at the mineral water, buying time.
Outside the windows, tugboats guided a cruise ship into port. In the hotel parking lot, three TV news trucks sat side by side, resembling giant insects, their antennas poking the air. Victoria had the fear, not entirely irrational, that a TV camera attached to a mechanical arm would appear on her balcony and poke its lens into the suite.
"Uncle Grif, you have to tell me the truth."
"I have, Princess."
"Did you give Stubbs the forty thousand?"
"I didn't. I swear."
She took a deep breath and plunged ahead. "I've spent the last two days going through the county's real estate records. Do you know what I found?"
"They're still selling waterlogged property in the Glades?"
"Two months ago, Ben Stubbs bought a lot in Key Largo for three hundred thousand dollars. No mortgage. All cash."
Silence. Griffin sat at the conference table, poker-faced.
"Where do you suppose Stubbs got the money?" she asked.
"Maybe he won big at jai alai."
"The money was wired from a corporate account in a Cayman Islands bank to an escrow agent in Key Largo. Want to guess the name on the account?"
"Nah. I bite."
"Queen Investments, Limited." She paused to gauge his reaction. Nothing. "Unusual name, don't you think?"
"The Caymans are British. Maybe they're honoring Queen Elizabeth."
"Or Queen Irene."
"Your mother?" He laughed, but his smile seemed artificial. "What are you getting at, Princess?"
"Uncle Grif, I've got the corporate filings. You're the sole officer of Queen Investments. You wired that money to Ben Stubbs."
He grunted, getting out of his chair, then walked to the window. Outside, the cruise ship eased up to the dock, hundreds of passengers lining the rails. "Nice work, Princess."
"Uncle Grif, why didn't you tell me you bribed Stubbs?"
He turned back and seemed to appraise her. Maybe trying to figure out just how much she knew. Usually, she got that look from an unfriendly witness, not her own client.