The Deep Blue Alibi (36 page)

“Aw, go call B’nai B’rith and spare me your indignation. You know as well as ah do that Jews are defense jurors. Ever try to get a couple
landsmen
to go for the death penalty? Good luck, boychik.”

“And even after stacking the panel, you still had to signal Pinky which jurors to challenge?”

Herbert poured himself another drink. “He asked me to. Ah was better at seating a jury than he ever was, and Pinky knew it. Funny thing is, we were gonna stop after Mays was convicted. But it worked so damn well …”

“You did it sixteen more times.”

“Looking back now, with the benefit of hindsight …”

“You wish you’d never done it?”

“Hell, no. Ah wish we’d started earlier. They were all guilty, son. Every last one.”

“I’m sure lynch mobs feel the same way.”

“Give it a rest. Ah feel a helluva lot better than those damn fool prosecutors who let O. J. Simpson walk. Damn fools tried the case in downtown LA because they wanted a diverse jury. Wanted to be politically correct. Ended up with nine blacks when they would have had one or two, tops, over in Santa Monica. The case was over before it began. The Mays case might have been, too, if we hadn’t been proactive.”

“Proactive? That a new word for corrupt?”

“Aw, fuck it, Stevie. I know the rules you play by, and they ain’t the Marquis of Queensberry’s.”

“Don’t compare what I do with this shit.”

“Anyway, ah’m glad you know. I don’t have to tiptoe around it anymore. And now you can drop that damn fool lawsuit.”

“Why should I? What you did was scummy and made you unfit to be a judge, but you’re not going back on the bench. And no one has to know.”

Herbert burped out a laugh. “Spoken like a true advocate. Problem is, you’re wrong about one thing. That part, ‘No one has to know.’ ”

“Not following you.”

“How do you plan to get my Bar license back?”

“By proving that Pinky lied when he accused you of taking bribes in the zoning cases.”

“He did, indeed. But when Pinky cut his deal with the state, they made him waive the statute of limitations on perjury. If you prove he lied, he’ll go to jail. So he’s got to stop you from taking my case to trial.”

“How’s he gonna do that?”

“He’s gonna go back in time, son.”

“Meaning what?”

“How many of those seventeen defendants we convicted are still alive?”

“Eight were executed. Three are still on death row.

Six were sentenced to life.” Steve did the math, maybe not as quickly as Bobby could have. “So nine are still breathing.”

“Pinky knows the number, too. Read their names to me. Told me, if you take him down, he’ll fess up as to what we did twenty years ago. What do you think happens then?”

“Nine guys get new trials.”

“Nine
murderers.
Worst of the worst. Ah can’t let that happen, son. Witnesses are gone. Evidence is degraded. Files are lost. How many of those nine do you think would walk?”

“No way to tell. Some, I guess.”

“Even one is too many. Especially the one named Mr. Willie Mays.”

Forty-two

DEUS EX TSUNAMI

Quick, crisp, and efficient.

That’s the way Richard Waddle tried his case, and it had Victoria worried. Lousy prosecutors take too much time, put in too much evidence, narcotize the jury with repetition and detail. The nuggets of damning evidence get lost in the blabber and the blather. But Waddle seemed to realize that jurors have attention spans of eight-year-olds. A solid prosecutor with a seemingly solid case, he asked direct questions and received concise answers.

“Detective, what did you find in Mr. Stubbs’ hotel room?”

“A briefcase containing precisely forty thousand dollars in hundred-dollar bills.”

“Did you also investigate his recent financial transactions?”

“He purchased a waterfront lot in Key Largo for three hundred thousand in cash less than three months before he was killed.”

“And the source of that money?”

“The funds were wired from the account of a shell corporation in the Cayman Islands.”

“Who owns that corporation?”

“The sole shareholder is the defendant, Harold Griffin.”

Slam, bam, thank you, Detective.

Sitting next to Victoria, a silent Hal Griffin was not looking chipper. A little gray in his usually ruddy cheeks. He’d told Victoria he wasn’t sleeping well.

Welcome to the club, Uncle Grif.

Delia Bustamante swiveled into court wearing an ankle-length, espresso-colored peasant dress that would have been demure had she not left the drawstring untied at the neck. The curvaceous cook and activist jiggled to the witness stand, and when she raised her right hand to take the oath, her right boob peeked out of the tiered dress top. After some preliminaries, Waddle asked whether Griffin had offered her a job, and the answer lifted Victoria out of her chair.

“Mr. Griffin tried to buy me off to shut me up about Oceania.”

“Objection, and move to strike! Ms. Bustamante cannot testify as to my client’s intentions.”

“Sustained. The jurors will disregard the witness’ last statement. Ms. Bustamante, just tell us what the defendant did and what you did.”

“Okay, Judge. He offered me more money than even I thought I was worth. But I wouldn’t take a cent from that man.”

Leicester Robinson, the well-read barge operator, testified he saw Griffin and Stubbs arguing. Watching through the salon window, Robinson couldn’t hear what was said, but claimed he could tell from the animated gestures that both men were angry.

And yes, Griffin shoved Stubbs. Victoria cross-examined.

“What you’re calling a shove was really just a finger to the chest, correct?”

“Stubbs took a step back. I call that a shove.”

“But there was no striking, no blow with the fist, isn’t that right?”

“Where I come from, you don’t raise your hand to another man unless you can back it up. Unless you can go all the way. But then, maybe your client did go all the way.”

“Your Honor, I move to strike the unresponsive answer.”

Clive Fowles testified that Griffin instructed him to place a waterproof bag filled with cash—he didn’t know how much—in a lobster trap near Black Turtle Key the day before Stubbs was shot. Usually all business, Richard Waddle had some fun with Fowles.

“Were lobsters in season, Mr. Fowles?”

“No, sir. It’s only a two-day season in July.”

“So, among other things, your boss is a poacher, a lobster mobster?”

“Objection. Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

“All that cash is pretty unusual lobster bait, isn’t it, Mr. Fowles?”

“I suppose.”

“Mr. Griffin tell you what the money was for?”

“No, sir.”

“But you figured it was for Ben Stubbs, didn’t you?”

“Objection. Calls for a conclusion.”

“Overruled.”

“I thought the money might be for him, sir.”

“So, even though lobsters aren’t in season, public officials are?”

Waddle tried to get Fowles to corroborate Robinson’s version of the argument between Griffin and Stubbs, but the boat captain had developed a case of witness blindness, aka three-monkey disease. He heard no evil, saw no evil, spoke no evil.

“Come now, Mr. Fowles, are you telling the jury you didn’t observe the exchange of words between the two men?”

“I have a habit of tending to my own business.”

“You like Mr. Griffin, don’t you?”

“He’s a good man.”

“A good man who signs your paychecks, correct?”

Okay, point made, Victoria thought. Fowles was being loyal to his boss, and the jury would see that.

All three witnesses agreed that the others had gone ashore before the boat left the dock. Standing on the dock, Leicester Robinson and Delia Bustamante watched Junior dive off the bridge and swim away.

The lunch recess was just minutes away when Victoria spotted Steve in the gallery, sitting next to Sheriff Rask. She hadn’t known Steve was coming. No calls, he just showed up.

After the judge called the noon recess and Griffin hurried to the outside patio to sneak a smoke, Steve sauntered up to the defense table. “Hey, Vic. How’s it going?”

She shrugged. “You know how it is. Some moments are better than others.”

“Getting crucified, huh?”

“I see you’re making nice with the opposition.”

“Willis keeps me updated on Conchy Conklin.”

“They find him yet?”

“He’s disappeared. But if he’s still in the Keys, they’ll get him. There’s only a finite number of bars.”

“A
large,
finite number.”

“How ‘bout lunch?”

“Oh, I’m meeting Junior.”

“Ah.”

“I need to prep him.”

“Can never prep enough. Especially dim witnesses.”

Too tired to fight, she let it go. “Have you been working on your father’s case?”

“Don’t want to talk about it.” Like a proper gentleman, Steve grabbed her briefcase and walked her out of the courtroom. “How’s your mom?”

“Don’t want to talk about her.”

Not now, she thought. Later, when the trial was over, she’d tell Steve about her mother’s latest dramatics. Her father’s suicide note and the mystery around it.

Father’s
alleged
suicide note.
Wondering if she could believe anything her mother told her.

They rode the elevator in silence. In the lobby, Steve seemed to want to hand over her briefcase but didn’t know quite when and how to do it. It was like a lousy first date that neither party knew how to end. They left the building, and as they passed the kapok tree on the courthouse lawn, Steve said: “Look, this is ridiculous. If you need any help …”

She stopped in the shade of the tree, which bloomed with red flowers.

Sure I need help. With the case. With my mother. With my life.

“Thanks, Steve. I …”

“Excuse me, mate.” Fowles approached, looking a little bashful at the interruption. “Ms. Lord.”

“You’ve been excused, Mr. Fowles,” Victoria said. “If you want to go home, you can.”

“Oh, I know that. I just …” He was fumbling with his hands as if he didn’t know quite where they belonged. “How’s it going, do you think?”

“Too early to tell. But you did fine. Really.”

“I hope it turns out okay. For Mr. G, I mean. No way he would have killed that arse-wipe.”

“Now, there’s a closing argument if ever I heard one,” Steve said.

“Good luck, then.” Fowles raised his right hand, two fingers spread, in his Winston Churchill mode. “V for Victory, Ms. Lord.”

“Thank you, Clive.”

Fowles seemed to have run out of things to say. “Think I’ll go have a pint.”

“Bar’s right across the street,” Steve said. “The Green Parrot.”

“Don’t I know it.” Fowles let himself smile. As if on cue, a bell clanged inside the old bar, signaling that someone had just tipped the bartender.

Fowles nodded his good-byes and headed across Whitehead Street.

“What’s with him?” Steve asked.

“If Uncle Grif is convicted, he’s out of work.”

“Yeah, maybe.” Steve watched Fowles disappear into the bar, passing under the sign in the doorway:
No Sniveling Since 1890.
“Anyway, like I said, Vic, if you need anything, I’m here for you.”

Do I need anything? Let’s make a list. Peace of mind. Self-confidence. And a stunning cross-examination wouldn’t hurt, either.

“I’m fine,” she said.

“How are your experts coming along?”

“The prof from Columbia will say it’s possible Stubbs shot himself loading the speargun. The angle of entry is a little problematic, but it might work.”

“Except …?”

“What you said that first day. We can sell one improbability to the jury, but when we start compounding improbables, we lose.”

“Griffin being knocked unconscious being the second improbable.”

“Without an explanation, it kills us. If we’re saying Stubbs shot himself, then there’s no assailant hiding on board who also knocks out Griffin. We’re stuck arguing that Griffin fell down the ladder and conveniently knocked himself out. No one will buy it. Hell, I don’t buy it.”

“You check the weather for that day?”

“I remember the weather. It was warm and clear. We were standing in the surf, and you were trying to get into my bikini.”

“The way I remember it, you were putting the moves on me.”

“Just one of our many differing observations.”

“You really should check the weather with NOAA.”

“Eighty-one degrees, sixty-nine percent humidity. Southeast wind at ten to twelve knots. Light chop on inland waters. Three foot seas.” She gave him her best smart-ass smile. The smile she’d picked up from him. “Like to know the barometric pressure?”

“What about the Coast Guard?”

“What about them?”

“Any boats capsize? Any rescues in the area? Maybe there was a rogue wave. A mini-tsunami.”

“A mini-tsunami? Why not Moses parting the Gulf?

You want to add another improbable? I know you’re

trying to help, Steve. Sorry if I’m being bitchy.” “No problem.” She took the briefcase from his hand. “Thanks. I’ve

got to go. Meet—” “Junior for lunch,” Steve said. “I know.”

Forty-three

LOOKING INTO THE PAST

“The Coast Guard rescued a couple fishermen off Raccoon Key, but nothing else that day,” Bobby said.

“The fishermen report any rogue waves?” Steve asked.

“They reported drinking a case of Bud and one guy hooking the other’s ear with a shank barb.” The kid gave him a told-you-so smirk. “Then they ran the boat onto a sandbar.”

“It was worth a shot.”