The Deep Blue Alibi (42 page)

“Overruled,” the judge said.

“I didn’t hide anything, Ms. Lord. The lawyers titled the boat that way for tax purposes.”

“Where’s that boat today?”

“It was stolen from a marina yesterday. I’ve been told it was involved in an accident in the Gulf.”

An accident. Sounds better than “My hired killer got his ass blown up.”

“Did you report the boat stolen?”

“To tell you the truth, Ms. Lord …”

A witness is almost always lying when he says: “To tell you the truth …”

“… I didn’t know the boat was gone until the Coast Guard told me it had sunk.”

“Do you know a man named Chester Lee Conklin, also known as Conchy Conklin?”

“Apparently, he’s the one who stole my boat.”

“A stranger, then?”

“I didn’t say that, ma’am. He’s a welder, used to work for me.”

“Used to?”

“Conklin was unreliable. I fired him a few weeks ago.”

“Then what was he doing in Jacksonville less than two weeks ago?”

The question seemed to surprise him. Robinson wouldn’t know about the traffic ticket, wouldn’t know

they could place Conklin near the shipyard.

“Did you hear the question, sir?” the judge asked.

“You’ll have to ask Mr. Conklin what he was doing in Jacksonville,” the witness replied.

“Come now, Mr. Robinson,” Victoria said. “Surely, the Coast Guard also told you that Mr. Conklin’s body was found in the wreckage of your boat.”

The jurors seemed to perk up at that bit of news. No one was snoring or staring at the clock.

“Sorry, it was just a figure of speech. I don’t know what he was doing there.”

“Was he checking on your barge at Southern Ship-works?”

Robinson blinked. Maybe he didn’t bend at the waist as if he’d been gut-punched, but his eyes flicked twice.

So far, Steve had been right. He’d studied the satellite photos. He’d cobbled together all the bits and pieces from Griffin and Fowles and handed her this shiny new toy. But Victoria still needed to wrap the toy in colorful paper and tie it up with a pretty ribbon.

“Ms. Lord, as I told you in my office, after Mr. Griffin was charged with murder, I had no choice but to cancel the barge order.”

“I wonder if ‘cancel’ is the right word,” Victoria said. “Didn’t you simply
change
the order?”

Robinson studied her, as if asking:
“Just how much do you know?”
She opened a folder and angled it so that he could see the four-inch-high letters: “SOUTHERN SHIPWORKS.” Inside was the Sak’s catalog with this season’s resort-wear. Rayon halter dresses seemed to be making a comeback.

“Certain changes were made, that’s true,” Robinson said, carefully.

Victoria picked up the poster board she’d had made at 8 a.m. A blowup of the satellite photos showing a barge under construction. The flat steel deck was piled high with those giant children’s blocks. At least that’s what they looked like from low-earth orbit. “Is this the barge you’ve commissioned?”

Another pause. She could tell from his expression he was looking for a safe passage. A way to navigate the channel between perjury and conspiracy to commit murder.

“It’s hard to tell, but yes, that could be mine.”

Victoria strolled past the jury box, holding up the poster. “What’s that on deck, Mr. Robinson? It doesn’t look like heavy machinery or construction equipment.”

“Prefabricated steel pods.”

“Hundreds of them, right?”

“Five hundred fifty, ma’am.”

“When you’ve cornered the witness, keep the questions simple. Force ‘Yes’ and ‘No,’ and pick up your pace.”

Thank you, Steve.

“Each one about four hundred to five hundred square feet?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“With conduits for plumbing and electricity and ventilation?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“But no cranes or Mud Cats. No pile drivers or heavy drills?”

“That’s correct, ma’am.”

“Because this isn’t a work barge, is it?”

“No, it’s not.”

“What is it, then?”

“Well, it’s a multi-purpose craft, really.”

A fine line of perspiration was visible on Robinson’s forehead. She’d made witnesses sweat before, and it was always a thrill. Steve boasted he’d once cross-examined a witness into heart palpitations, firing questions even as paramedics wheeled the man from the courtroom.

“Multipurpose?” A raised eyebrow, a sarcastic tone, idiosyncrasies she’d picked up from Steve. “Would those purposes be gambling and vacationing?”

“You could say that, yes.”

She raised her voice. “
You
say it, Mr. Robinson. Those steel pods are prefab hotel rooms. You’re building a floating hotel and casino, aren’t you?”

“What if I am?” Robinson shot back. “I’m a businessman. I’m not doing anything illegal.”

“And if he gets feisty, kick him in the nuts.”

“Nothing illegal,” she repeated, “unless you conspired to frame Harold Griffin for murder so you could steal his idea at a fraction of the cost.”

Waddle jerked to his feet. “Objection! Counsel’s testifying.” Like all prosecutors, he hated surprises, and now he looked as if he’d just walked into a plate-glass window.

“Sustained,” the judge ruled. “Ms. Lord, please frame your accusations as questions.”

Victoria circled in front of the jury box, moving closer to the witness. “If my client built Oceania over the reef, your barge hotel would be barred from the area under maritime safely laws, correct, Mr. Robinson?”

“The immediate area, yes.”

“You needed access to that reef. If Oceania were built, your barge hotel would be dead in the water, correct?”

“I’m sure it would affect business somewhat, but who is to say how much?”

“And a luxury hotel and casino like Oceania would really take the luster off your floating Wal-Mart, wouldn’t it?”

“That’s a matter of opinion.”

“Your opinion was that you had to stop Griffin from building Oceania.”

“No.” Robinson glared at her. “Our projects were completely different.”

“Just so the jury understands,” she continued, “you were hired by Hal Griffin to do the barge work required in the construction of Oceania. But without informing Mr. Griffin, you began surreptitiously planning a competing project?”

“Like I said, I’m a businessman, Ms. Lord.”

Victoria paused, which gave the judge time to leap in. “Anything further, Counselor?”

Victoria had run out of steam. She had established motive. Now Steve would have to link Robinson to Fowles and Stubbs actual shooting. She was ready to sit down, but realized she’d also violated one of Steve’s numerous rules for cross-examination.

“Always end strong.”

“Just one more thing, Your Honor.” She turned back to the witness. “Mr. Robinson, that speedboat of yours. What did you name it?”

She hoped the newspaper photographer was clicking away. Robinson’s face burned with all the anger he’d been bottling up.

“The
Satisfaction,
” Robinson said.

“You a Rolling Stones fan?”

That sarcasm again. I hate it when Steve does it, but sometimes I can’t help myself.

“It was the name of one of Henry Morgan’s ships,” Robinson said through gritted teeth.

“Morgan the Terrible?” Feigning surprise.

“Some called him that.”

“Didn’t he sink ships and burn villages? Plunder, pillage, and rape?”

“You have to understand history, Ms. Lord. In those days—”

“History or not, wasn’t Morgan the Terrible a pirate?”

“He had letters of reprisal from the Crown. He would have considered himself a privateer.”

“Right,” she said, smiling demurely. “And you consider yourself a businessman.”

Fifty-two

THE WHOLE TRUTH

The corridor leading to the courtroom was out-ofdoors, really a fourth-floor catwalk. Waiting to be called to testify, carrying his suit coat over an arm, rivulets of sweat ran down Steve’s face into his neck brace. The tropical heat seemed to roll waves of pain through his skull.

The door to the courtroom banged opened and Leicester Robinson barreled out. Muttering profanities, his face set in a snarl. Head down, he nearly plowed into Steve on his way to the elevator.

This is good. This is very good.

Victoria must have skinned him and hung up the pelt, Steve thought. She was a better lawyer than he’d been at the same age. Part of Victoria’s effectiveness was that she didn’t know how good she was. That tiniest bit of insecurity kept her ego under control. Her need to be liked—an affliction he did not share—made her more…well, likable.

There were other differences, Steve thought. He had street smarts, she had real smarts. He wielded a broadsword, she struck with a rapier.

Maybe that’s why we’re so good together. Maybe when this is over, we’ll be a team again. And maybe we’ll share the bedroom as well as the courtroom.

As Steve was thinking of all the possible “maybes,” the bailiff poked his head out of the courtroom door and made like the town crier: “Mr. So-lo-mon! Stephen So-lo-mon!”

“That would be me,” Steve said.

Steve promised to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

He’d heard the oath administered thousands of times, but taking it yourself was different. As a lawyer, you weren’t supposed to blatantly lie. But you could straddle that fuzzy fine line between light and shadow. You could tap dance with a top hat and cane, distracting and entertaining. “Razzle dazzle ‘em,” as lawyer Billy Flynn sings. You could shade meanings and color the truth. But when you’re a witness, you’re bound by…

The whole truth.

An acknowledgment that there were different levels of truth.

And nothing but the truth.

Indicating it’s possible to tell the truth in the main, but fudge a bit around the edges. As he sat down, Steve still didn’t know just what level of truth he was going to dispense.

Victoria’s face was flushed as she stood and approached the witness box. “Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

“Steve Solomon. Trial lawyer.”

“Attorney” always sounding pretentious to him.

“What’s your relationship to the defendant Harold Griffin?”

“I represented him until he fired me. Or maybe you fired me. It was hard to tell.”

We were naked at the time, but no need to tease the jurors with that tidbit.

“Why were your services terminated?”

“I accused Mr. Griffin’s son, Junior, of committing the murder. Mr. Griffin didn’t like it. Neither did you. And by the way, I was wrong.”

“Why did you accuse Mr. Griffin’s son?”

“Do we have to go into that?” Steve pleaded. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Please.”

“It had to do with you. I was jealous of Junior Griffin.”

Waddle spoke up. “Your Honor, is this a murder trial or couples counseling?”

“I’ll tie it up,” Victoria said.

“Do it quickly,” Judge Feathers advised.

“Mr. Solomon, did there come a time when you were run off a bridge in an incident with a motorcycle?”

“Did there come a time …” One of those expressions lawyers carry in their satchels: “Isn’t it true that … ?” “Drawing your attention to the night of …” “What do you mean my bill’s too high?”

“Yes,” Steve said. “My old Caddy convertible drowned.”

“Did the police determine who was responsible for the attack?”

“A man named Chester Lee Conklin. Goes by ‘Conchy.’ ”

“Did there come a time when you encountered Mr. Conklin again?”

“Yesterday. He was shooting a rifle at me. And at Clive Fowles.”

Several jurors stirred. Testimony about shootings will do that.

“Why would Chester Conklin have tried to kill you?”

“Objection! Calls for a conclusion.” Waddle needed to make some noise just to disrupt the flow. “And as far as I can see, Mr. Conklin is irrelevant to these proceedings.”

“He became relevant,” Victoria said, “the moment Leicester Robinson admitted that Conklin was his employee and the defendant Harold Griffin was a business rival.”

“Overruled for now,” the judge said.

“Mr. Conklin,” Steve said, “did not want Clive Fowles to tell me who really killed Ben Stubbs.”

“Objection and move to strike,” Waddle said. “That’s guess-timony, not testimony. Your Honor, I don’t know how they do it up in Miami, but I’ve never tried a case where the defendant’s lawyer takes the witness stand and—”

“Ex-lawyer,” Victoria said.

“Whatever. The lawyer takes the stand and opines on who killed the decedent.”

“The State Attorney has a point.” The judge turned to his bailiff. “Take the jury out for a spell. We’re gonna figure this out without mucking up the record.”

After the jurors had filed into their little room, Judge Feathers asked Victoria, “Just what is it you’re trying to elicit from your partner?”

“Ex-partner,” Victoria corrected. “Your Honor, may I voir dire Mr. Solomon in the absence of the jury?”

“Be my guest.”

“Mr. Solomon, did Clive Fowles tell you who killed Ben Stubbs?”

“He did.”

“I knew it,” Waddle said. “There’s hearsay coming round the bend.”

“Keep your britches on, Dick,” the judge said. “Just because I’m hearing it doesn’t mean the jury will. Keep going, Ms. Lord.”

“What did Clive Fowles tell you?”

“He worked for a third party, someone he wouldn’t name. The third party wanted Stubbs to sink Oceania by writing a negative environmental report. Fowles’ job was to convince Stubbs to go along. And to kill him if he didn’t.”

So far, all true.

“And what did Mr. Fowles do in response to these instructions?”

“He sneaked onto the
Force Majeure,
and when Stubbs refused to do what he was told, Fowles did what he’d been ordered to do.”

Sort of the truth.

“Could you be more specific, Mr. Solomon?”

Steve took a deep breath. There was nowhere to run. Telling the literal truth—that Stubbs had been shot accidentally—would get Griffin off the hook, if the jury ever heard the testimony. But the truth wouldn’t nail Robinson. “Fowles said he shot Stubbs with the spear-gun. He killed the man, just as he’d been instructed.”