"I'm hungry," Bobby said. "When do we eat?"
"After we solve a murder." Steve had already told them about the trip on Fowles' Folly and the aftermath. Everything except for Fowles' sort-of confession. He'd smoothed out the edges on that, telling Victoria simply that Fowles had confessed. Steve hadn't yet decided whether to tell a blatant lie, as Willis Rask had asked, but he wanted to keep his options open.
After Steve finished his tale, with Bobby downloading satellite images of Jacksonville, Victoria gave an update on the trial. The state had rested. Tomorrow morning, she would call her first witness. On the patio, the band played "We Are the People Our Parents Warned Us About."
Steve must have been listening. "So what's with you and your mother?"
"We've reached a new understanding. I didn't know all the facts. Now that I do, I think I was way too judgmental. What about you and your father?"
"Once I learned the facts, I became more judgmental. You want to tell me what happened?"
"Later. When the trial's over. You?"
"Same."
They were silent a moment before Steve said, "Not that I don't love Dad."
"I understand."
"I mean, that's what love is, right? Accepting the person, with all their flaws."
"Just like they accept you."
Bobby cackled again. "Jeez, you two are a couple of scaredy-cats. Why don't you just come out and say you want to bone each other?"
"I'm warning you, kiddo," Steve growled. "You've got military school in your future."
"Yeah, sure. If you want to see where that scuzzball Conklin got a traffic ticket, come over here."
Victoria got there first; Steve eased himself out of bed and moved slowly to the worktable. They both peered at the satellite shot.
"The St. Johns River in Jacksonville," Bobby said, pointing at the screen. "And that's St. Johns Riverway Drive at Commodore Point. That's where Conklin got the ticket."
"All those ships," Steve said. "Looks like a port."
Bobby clicked the mouse, and the image zoomed closer. There was lettering on top of one of the buildings fronting the river. Southern Shipworks. Victoria said it aloud, wanting to hear it. "Southern Shipworks."
"What about it?" Steve asked.
"I know that name. Let me think."
"Work on it a sec," Steve said, going to the mini-bar. "They have Jack Daniel's in here?"
"Robinson!" Victoria said. "Leicester Robinson. That's where he was building his barges for the Oceania work."
Steve stopped short. The Jack Daniel's could wait. "Makes sense if Conklin was working for Robinson."
"Not ten days ago. Robinson said he cancelled the barge work right after Stubbs was killed."
Then it happened. Two runners in sync, stride for stride.
He said: "Unless Robinson lied. ."
She said: "Because he needed the barges for something other than Oceania. ."
He said: "Something that could make money only if there was no Oceania. ."
She said: "So Robinson hired Conklin and Fowles. ."
Together then: "To stop Oceania!"
Total synergy, Victoria thought.
The sweet spot of our relationship.
That's what Steve had called it during the Barksdale trial. They didn't hit it every day, but when they did, well, it was just better than anything else. They completed each other's thoughts, finished each other's sentences, filled each other's lives.
"So what's Robinson planning?" she asked.
"We've got a loose thread. So. ."
"Let's pull it and see where it leads," she finished. "Fowles told Griffin he should forget about the hotel and casino. Just take people out to the reef on glass-bottomed boats and catamarans."
"Griffin said Fowles was talking about a rowboat while he was building the Queen Mary," Steve contributed.
"And Robinson said Griffin thought too big and Fowles too small. So Robinson. ."
"Planned something in between."
"You know what it is, don't you, Steve?"
"After Stubbs was killed, Robinson wouldn't have needed the barges for Oceania. But if he changed their configuration. ." Steve stuck a finger under his neck brace and wiggled his chin. "Bobby, zoom in on every ship under construction."
"I will if you order room service. Club sandwich, extra mayo."
"Later. Do your magic first."
On the patio, the band was breaking into "Apocalypso."
"Vic, we don't have time to subpoena the shipyard," Steve said, "but if I'm right, Robinson's building one helluva barge. Tomorrow, you'll have to bluff him. Act like you have his blueprints."
"Robinson's not my first witness."
"He is now."
She nearly said something about her order of proof but stopped herself. She'd have to be more flexible. Steve was always telling her that. "Okay, we call Robinson as an adverse witness, and …?"
"I gotta see the photos to be sure. Bobby, what's happening?"
"In a sec, okay?"
Victoria said: "Steve, maybe you should cross Robinson. You have a handle on this."
He cocked his head as far as his stiff neck would allow. "C'mon, Vic. You wanted the hot seat. I vaguely recall the words 'first chair' and 'autonomy' coming up in the conversation."
It could have been vintage sarcastic Steve, but his smile was warm, his words soft to the touch.
Yes, painkillers definitely take his edge off.
"But Robinson's the big enchilada," she said.
"I'm hungry," Bobby whined.
Steve smiled at her. "You'll be terrific. I know it."
"I really wish you would take Robinson," she continued. "You're the best cross-examiner I've ever seen."
"That's only because you never watch yourself."
She groaned.
"I mean it, Vic. You're a natural. Robinson will never know what hit him. Besides, I'm not counsel of
record anymore. I withdrew, remember?"
"So file a new appearance in the morning."
"A lawyer can't be a witness, too. After you're done with Robinson, you're calling me."
"What? Why?"
"Here's your barge," Bobby said, pointing at the monitor.
Victoria leaned over Bobby's shoulder. Rectangular pods seemed to be stacked on the deck of a long, flat craft. From the satellite, the pods looked like giant children's building blocks. "What is it?" she asked.
"The stuff murder's made of." Steve gave Bobby a hug. "Let's get this boy a club sandwich. Extra mayo."
Fifty-one
She was all alone.
Oh, the courtroom was filled. Reporters in the front row, a still photographer alongside. There were the regulars, retirees who cruise the building looking for cheap entertainment. A few local lawyers occupied the back pews, waiting for their own cases, grousing about handling D amp;Ds-drunk and disorderlies-instead of a juicy murder trial. There were unkempt old-timers, leathery as lizards, who wandered inside just for the air-conditioning. The jurors were stuffed into their box like eggs in a carton, their expressions ranging from bored to bemused to bitchy: "Prove your case, and entertain me while you're doing it, lady."
Alongside Victoria at the defense table sat Hal Griffin, not nearly as tan or hearty as when the trial began. Judge Feathers swiveled in his high-back chair, his clerk huddled over her desk below the bench. A paunchy, sleepy bailiff stood just inside the door, the courtroom's Medicare-eligible centurion. Sheriff Rask, placid as ever, sat directly behind the prosecution table.
But I'm all alone.
One gladiator. A hundred lions.
Steve would know that feeling. It was part of their bond, the trial lawyer's steaming brew of terror and exhilaration.
"Never let them see your fear."