The Deep Blue Alibi (18 page)

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.

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

THE MONEY TRAIL

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.

“A bribe?” Griffin said finally. “At the time, it felt more like extortion. Stubbs demanded the money.”

“Whatever you call it, you lied to me.”

“If you knew I paid off a federal employee, would you put me on the stand to deny it?”

“Of course not. That would be unethical.”

“Which is why I couldn’t tell you about the money. I needed to preserve my ability to deny.”

“It won’t work. If I found this, the state will, too. Uncle Grif, the truth might be better than a lie. Bribing Stubbs is a lot better than killing him. In fact, it could help the case.”

“How?”

“Hypothetically, if you bribed him, you’d have no reason to kill him. You knew his environmental report was going to be positive. You just needed him to file it.”

“You’re saying we admit I paid off Stubbs?”

“It’d be ballsy; but without motive, the state can’t win.”

“Ballsy” bringing Steve to mind. It was just the kind of bungee-jumping tactic he loved.

“Hypothetically,” Griffin said, borrowing her ten-dollar word, “let’s say Stubbs wasn’t happy with the lot in Key Largo, even though that’s what he’d been yammering about. A place for his retirement. Let’s say we’re having dinner and the greedy prick says,
‘Hal, you’re gonna make millions off Oceania. Tens of millions. But you couldn’t make a dime without me.’ ”

Victoria frowned, seeing where this boat was headed. “When would this have happened? Hypothetically?”

“A week before we get on the
Force Majeure
to come see you and Solomon. And suppose we’re eating red snapper and Stubbs says,
‘From now on, I’m your partner, Hal. I want a million up front and five percent of the casino profits.’ ”
Griffin snorted a laugh. “Like he was some connected guy in Vegas. The stupid shit watched too many movies. No concept what it takes to build something like this. Saying he’s my partner. I could have bashed his head in right there.”

“Please tell me you didn’t.”

Seeing her case sink to the bottom of the Gulf.

“I told him to fuck off. But I never touched him. Not then. Not on the boat. What you gotta understand, Princess, people see this kind of money, they all want a piece. A county commissioner threatened to hold up a port license unless I paid him under the table. I told the bandit I didn’t need no stinking license. Leicester Robinson, the barge guy, said he’d do his work for nothing up front, but he wanted three points of the gross. Points! Where do they get this stuff?”

“It wouldn’t have been a crime to make Robinson your partner. He’s not a federal employee.”

“I told Robinson to fuck off, too. He backed down and was damn glad to get the barge work at cost plus thirty percent.”

“Ben Stubbs,” Victoria said, getting back on track. “After he extorted you, after you wanted to bash his head in, what happened then?”

“I calmed down. Decided to toss him some chum. The day before I brought him down on the boat, I’d put a hundred thousand in cash in one of the lobster pots. So now, when I pull up the pot, I say to Stubbs,
‘Here’s the best-tasting lobster you’ll ever eat.’
Up comes the money and I tell him I’ll give him a hundred grand every lobster season the rest of his life. Which, come to think of it, I guess I did.”

“What was Stubbs’ reaction? He wanted a million and you only gave him a hundred thousand?”

“I gave him an annuity. He was good at math, so he took it.”

“You tell anyone you were paying Stubbs off?”

“No.”

“Not even Junior?” Thinking if Junior knew and hadn’t told her, there were ramifications, both professional and personal.

Griffin shook his head. “I didn’t want to implicate my boy.”

“You think Stubbs told anyone about your deal?”

“Doubt it. No wife. Kind of a loner. And he didn’t need an accomplice to pull this off.”

“Anything else about Stubbs I should know?”

Griffin seemed to think something over. Then he said: “The last week or so, he was a little skitterish.”

“Skitterish?” Thinking he meant skittish. Or maybe jittery. Or maybe a combination of the two.

“Kind of nervous and paranoid. He started using disposable cell phones so there’d be no record of his calls. Every time I needed to talk to him, I’d have a helluva time because he was using a different phone. He was like a scared rabbit.”

“Maybe he wasn’t as used to taking bribes as you were at giving them.”

Griffin belted out a laugh. “Okay, Princess, you got me there. Maybe all those projects in the islands made me a little reckless. Jeez, in the Caribbean, you gotta put every politician’s brother-in-law on the payroll before you even think about moving dirt.”

Like an astronaut tethered to a space capsule, Victoria suddenly felt as if she were floating in a vast, dark, dangerous place. She tried to assess the damage. Assuming the cops didn’t find a to-do note in Stubbs’ hotel room
—eat breakfast; buy Bermuda shorts; shake down Hal Griffin—
there was still a chance the state wouldn’t learn what was going on. Or at least not be able to prove it.