Solomon vs. Lord (29 page)

Forty-four

FESSING UP

Steve was driving and Victoria was in the passenger seat, going over her note cards. They were headed north on Ronald Reagan Avenue, so named because the former President once ate a Cuban sandwich at a
restaurante
there. They would cut over to Coral Way, take Twenty-seventh Avenue, and they'd be at the Juvenile Justice Center with maybe two minutes to spare. Steve knew he was running out of time to fess up.

“There's something about Bobby's case I haven't told you.”

“Yeah?” Putting down her cards, sounding worried.

“I've got some evidence that'll totally discredit Kranchick.”

“What is it?” Sounding dubious now.

“She's using an illegal drug. Something not approved by the FDA.”

“Wow. You sure?”

“Positive. But you can't use the evidence.”

“Why not?”

“Because we stole it.”

“We?”

“Okay. Me. Actually, Cadillac, at my request. He rifled her wastebasket.”

“The wastebasket?” She shook her head. “Like the Winnie-the-Pooh case?”

Steve knew the case. The judge dismissed a suit against Disney in part because the plaintiffs went through the company's garbage. “Pretty much. Which is why you've got to be subtle.”

“How is one subtle with illegally obtained evidence?”

“Get Kranchick to admit she's using an unapproved drug.”

“And just how do I do that?”

“Play on her pride. She really believes what she's doing is right. No matter how unethical it is.”

As they crossed the Twenty-seventh Avenue bridge, he told Victoria about the opinion piece, Kranchick expressing support for dangerous medical research that had been condemned by medical ethicists. “She's not afraid of taking unpopular positions, of being out of the mainstream. Her principles are her own, not the FDA's.”

“So she's like you?” Victoria said. “She makes up her own laws?”

“Mine don't put people's lives at risk.” Steve ran a yellow light, another motorist honking at him. They were less than a block away, passing a run-down strip mall with a discount liquor store, a muffler shop, and a pawnshop—Casa de Empeño. “The key to cracking her is that she's not ashamed. She has a sense of honor about what she does. Which is why I don't think she'll lie.”

“Your gut again, right?”

“Yeah. Plus my research. Something you taught me.”

He pulled the car into the parking lot, thinking the Juvenile Justice Center resembled a prison more than a courthouse. Concrete block pods were built around a barren concrete terrace that had all the warmth of a prisoners' exercise yard. The building's windowless stucco walls had once been white but were now streaked with permanent rust stains. A grim, impersonal place. Steve wondered how Bobby would react to the unfamiliar surroundings. They would find out tomorrow when they brought him to meet the judge. Tonight, he was with Marvin and Teresa, eating a Cuban sandwich and drinking a mamey milk shake at the Versailles on
Calle Ocho.

“I don't know if I can pull this off,” Victoria said.

“Sure you can.”

They got out of the car and headed inside, a jet on final approach to MIA screaming over their heads. She still looked troubled. “We both could go to jail and lose our licenses.”

“If you do it right, Kranchick will never know where we got the information.”

“And if I do it wrong?”

“We'll both go to jail and lose our licenses,” Steve said.

Forty-five

HERBERT SOLOMON'S SON

Standing in front of the bench, Zinkavich announced formally: “Jack Zinkavich for the people of the State of Florida.”

Not all of them, Steve thought, as his partner got to her feet.

“Victoria Lord, on behalf of Stephen Solomon.”

Just little ole me, Steve thought.

They were in the cramped courtroom of Judge Althea Rolle. The judge was a petite black woman with a streak of gray in her tightly cropped hair. Two teddy bears sat on her desk. Drawings by sixth graders covered the walls. Dozens of snapshots were taped to a blackboard, the judge posing with happy families who had just adopted children. There would be no jury here; Bobby's fate was entirely up to Judge Rolle.

The lives of Juvenile Court judges were schizophrenic, Steve figured. They packed off troubled teens to Youth Hall in delinquency proceedings. They handled the gut-wrenching cases known as TPRs—Termination of Parental Rights—yanking kids away from abusive or neglectful parents. And occasionally they brought joy to families who adopt children no one else wants.

Like Jack Zinkavich, Family Services poster boy.

The judge looked up from her file, studied Steve a moment. “You wouldn't be Herbert Solomon's son, would you?”

“Guilty, Your Honor.” Steve was used to the question but never knew what to expect next. Sometimes there would be a sad shake of the head, sometimes a scowl, and sometimes . . .

“What a wonderful man.”

Steve eased out a breath.

“A judge with a heart,” she continued.

“Ex-judge,” Zinkavich piped up, an open box of Krispy Kremes on his table. Steve spotted a
dulce de leche—
a top seller in Miami—a cinnamon twist, and an iced donut, with its dark little rim around the top, like a chocolate yarmulke. Salivating, he realized he'd violated one of his own rules—he'd skipped lunch—and dinner was hours away.

“I was so sorry when I heard about your father's troubles, Mr. Solomon,” the judge said. “Would you give him my best wishes?”

“I'll do that, Your Honor,” Steve said. “Thank you.”

Zinkavich cleared his throat. “Judge Rolle, may I inquire into the extent of your relationship with the Petitioner's father?”

“I never slept with him, if that's what you mean.”

Zinkavich's head jerked back, causing his several chins to jiggle. “Of course not. I just meant—”

“But if he'd asked me, I don't know what I'd have done.”

“I just wondered how close the two of you were,” Zinkavich said.

“How many cases you try before me, Z?”

“Twenty-five or so.”

“Am I always fair to you?”

“Yes, ma'am. You usually rule with me.”

“Yes, I do, even though you're a royal pain in the butt and a total weenie.”

“Yes, ma'am.”

“You win, Z, because Family Services almost always has the best interests of the child at heart, and that's my sole consideration.”

“I understand, ma'am.”

“Now, I've never met Mr. Stephen Solomon and I don't care if his father's the Prince of Wales. You understand that?”

“I think so, Your Honor.”

“So while I have a little colloquy with the gentleman, why don't you just stuff your mouth with a double-glazed?” Judge Rolle turned to Steve and softened her tone. “We're a little less formal on this side of the river.”

“I see that, Judge.”

“Broke my cherry with your father.”

“Beg your pardon . . . ?”

“Tried my first case before Herbert Solomon. You never forget your first one.”

Or your last, Steve thought.

“Auto accident case,” the judge continued. “Ink wasn't dry on my diploma, and I couldn't get a shred of evidence in. Every question, these two snippy insurance lawyers would hop up and object. ‘Irrelevant.' ‘Hearsay.' ‘Improper predicate.'”

“Old trick,” Steve said, “to rattle a young lawyer.”

“Your daddy kept sustaining their objections in that sweet drawl of his. ‘Ah wuz you, Miss Rolle, ah'd rephrase that question.' Finally, he called us up to sidebar. I thought he was gonna ream me out for being incompetent, but instead he turned to those white boys and said, ‘Ah'd like to hear the little lady's questions, so y'all crackers shut your traps, 'cuz your next objection lands you in contempt.' That shut 'em up real quick.”

“Sounds like Dad,” Steve said.

“He didn't always follow the letter of the law but he sure adhered to its spirit. I like to think I do the same.” She opened a file, then turned to Zinkavich. “Now, why does the state say the petitioner should not be granted guardianship of his nephew?”

Zinkavich didn't bother standing up. “Because Mr. Solomon is incapable of caring for a special-needs child. Because he has prevented testing and treatment of the child that our experts have determined to be necessary.”

The
child,
Steve thought. As impersonal as a lawsuit over
property.
Had he reminded Victoria to refer to Bobby by name?

“Because Mr. Solomon exposes the child to inappropriate adult materials,” Zinkavich droned on. “And because he has violent propensities and committed serious crimes when he acquired de facto custody.”

“You can prove all of that?” the judge asked. She seemed taken aback, Steve thought. Maybe shocked to learn that Herbert's son might not measure up to his father. She wouldn't be the first to reach that conclusion.

“Every word, Your Honor.” Zinkavich seemed to swagger, even though he was sitting down. “Indeed, we will prove that granting Mr. Solomon guardianship rights would violate both the letter”—he showed a self-satisfied smirk—“and the spirit of the law.”

“Don't suck up to me, Z. Ms. Lord, I take it you disagree with the state's characterization of your client.”

Victoria stood. To Steve, she looked nervous. On unfamiliar ground. A new judge, new legal issues, and a ton of responsibility.

“Steve Solomon is wonderful with Bobby, Your Honor,” she said. “Sensitive, loving, and nurturing. It's true that Bobby has special needs, but he also has special gifts. In the course of the case, you'll hear from Bobby so that you can appreciate the marvelous way his mind works.”

Right, Steve thought. How many kids know twenty-six synonyms for “penis” and twenty-six for “vagina,” each starting with a different letter?

“You'll see how much Steve cares for Bobby and how much Bobby cares for him,” Victoria said. “By the close of our case, I think you'll agree that Steve Solomon is a terrific lover.”

“Lover?” the judge said.

“Father,” Victoria said, blushing. “I meant ‘father,' of course.”

“Of course. Okay, Ms. Lord, let's take some testimony.”

“Petitioner calls Dr. Doris Kranchick as an adverse witness,” Victoria said.

Doris Kranchick stomped through the swinging gate of the courtroom as if advancing on goal. Her hair was pulled back, and her only makeup was a pinkish powder intended to cover the scar than ran down her cheek but only served to accentuate it. She wore plain black flats, a no-nonsense suit, and a white blouse with a frilly white bow that Steve figured was Zinkavich's attempt to soften her appearance. It worked about as well as a tiara on a plowhorse.

Victoria used a friendly, conversational tone, something Steve thought he should try sometime. She asked Kranchick about her educational background, running smoothly through college, medical school, her internship, residency, and fellowships. She complimented the doctor on her stellar academic record and noted how extraordinary it was to also be a champion athlete. The two women spent the next few minutes chatting about lacrosse.

“I still play the sport,” Kranchick said proudly. She slipped a hand in each suit pocket and pulled out two yellow balls.

The only balls Doris Kranchick was likely to ever hold, Steve thought.

Victoria moved on to the monographs Kranchick had written, the studies she'd directed, the programs she initiated at Rockland State Hospital. It was all very relaxed, the litigation equivalent of a base runner lulling the pitcher to sleep before stealing a base. Then, the preliminaries over, Victoria asked: “Precisely what is Bobby's medical condition?”

“I can't say
precisely,
because Mr. Solomon won't agree to a complete examination.”

Score one for the All-American point on defense, Steve thought.

C'mon, Vic. Don't let her rattle you.

“Then tell us what you can about Bobby's condition.”

“Robert is a high-functioning savant with autistic characteristics of unknown origin. He is fearful of strangers, given to episodes of hysteria, and insufficiently socialized. As the cause of autism is unknown, it is impossible to determine the source of Robert's malady. However, we do know that he suffered sensory deprivation and malnutrition while in the custody of his mother.” She shot a look at Steve. “That would be Janice Solomon, the Petitioner's sister.”

Guilt by blood, Steve thought.

Kranchick dropped the lacrosse balls back into her pockets. “We need to test Robert to determine whether he suffered central nervous system injuries or merely psychological damage that's reversible in therapy. That's the key to understanding the source of the echolalia, the anagrams, the foreign-language skills.”

Kranchick turned to Judge Rolle. Enthusiastic now. Witnesses always are when you let them prattle on about their passions. “That's what makes Robert so important, Judge. If his right brain was stimulated without CNS damage, maybe we can duplicate that in others with drugs or hormones. I believe we can unlock the Rain Man in all of us. Can you imagine what it would be like to recall verbatim everything you've ever heard?”

“A lot of what I hear I'd just as soon forget,” the judge said, “but I get your point.”

“Let's discuss the Child Protection report you filed with the court,” Victoria said.

“Gladly,” Dr. Kranchick said. On a roll now.

“You make some highly critical comments about Mr. Solomon.”

“Not everyone finds him as cuddly as you do.”

“What's that mean?” the judge interrupted.

“They're engaged.” Kranchick raised her eyebrows, as if she disapproved.

Judge Rolle smiled. “Congratulations. You make a beautiful couple.”

Zinkavich put down a glazed cruller: “My condolences, Ms. Lord.”

“Actually . . .” Victoria faltered.

“Don't,” Steve whispered to her. But he knew too well that she could no more lie to a judge than strangle a kitten.

“We are not engaged,” Victoria said.

Damn. Just don't try to explain too much.

“Oh?” The judge seemed confused.

Victoria was blushing. “Anymore. We were. Then. But now we're not.”

Ker-flumping. Sure sign of the rookie prevaricator.

“And that big rock on your finger?” the judge asked.

“Now I'm engaged to someone else.”

“Proves my point,” Kranchick said to the judge. “Mr. Solomon is undomesticated and incapable of sustaining a relationship.” She turned to Victoria. “I hope it's Mr. Bigby. I preferred him from the get-go.”

“All right, let's get back on track,” the judge said sternly. “Doctor, I'm interested in Mr. Solomon's abilities as a potential parent, not a potential spouse.”

“Mr. Solomon's utterly ill equipped to care for Robert, Your Honor. The boy needs testing and therapy in a controlled setting. Rockland State Hospital would be ideal for him.”

Her cheeks still red, Victoria asked: “Do you perform behavioral therapy at Rockland?”

“A bit. But we really don't have adequate staffing for much of that.”

“Even though one-on-one behavioral therapy has proven to be the best treatment for autism.”

“Perhaps you could tell that to the governor and get us additional funding. Until then, we'll be content to be in the forefront of the most aggressive new therapies.”

“Drug therapies?”

Nice segue. Now go for it.

“Drugs, vitamins, hormones.”

“Tell us about them.”

“Megadoses of magnesium and vitamin B
₆
, plus some new synthetic polypeptides.”

“And the results?”

“Limited success so far. That's why we continue to work so hard.”

“Just so we're clear, what you call ‘therapy' really means testing with experimental drugs, doesn't it?”

“When drug therapy succeeds, it turns out to be quite therapeutic,” Kranchick said.

Damn. The doc's no pushover.

“And when it fails?” Victoria pounced. “What does that turn out to be?”

“Objection. Argumentative.” Zinkavich wiped his cinnamon-coated mouth.

“Overruled,” Judge Rolle said.

“Therapy that fails is the first step to finding what succeeds,” Kranchick said, not backing down.

She's really good. But you're better, Vic. Go get her.

“What about giving autistic children Replengren?”

That stopped Kranchick. She seemed to give great thought to her answer.

Steve prayed that she wouldn't lie. If she lied, they couldn't disprove it.

“Replengren has not yet been approved by the FDA,” Kranchick said evenly.

She didn't lie. She also didn't answer the question. Keep going, Vic.

“It's unapproved because Replengren impaired motor skills in lab rats, correct, Dr. Kranchick?”

“At extremely high doses, far higher than would ever be given to humans.”

“Which brings us back to the question: Do you give Replengren to human patients?”

“At Pedro Mallo, in Buenos Aires, we used Replengren in some strictly controlled human tests, with promising results.”

She's still not answering. Did you notice that, Judge?

Victoria said: “My question has nothing to do with Buenos Aires. Do you give Replengren to patients at Rockland State Hospital in Fort Lauderdale, where you are bound by FDA rules?”

Kranchick's cheeks turned pale, which seemed to brighten her old lacrosse scar. “In a perfect world, you'd never have experimental drugs. You'd plug data into a computer, and out would come the cure for every disease. In a perfect world, every parent would have the resources for the best medical care. Every autistic child would have one-on-one therapy. But the world's not perfect.”