The Deep Blue Alibi (43 page)

Now, that didn’t hurt, did it? Actually, yes it did.
“Besides
saying
he killed Mr. Stubbs,” Victoria said, “what else did Mr. Fowles do?”

“He wrote a confession and signed it.”

“Where and when did this happen?”

“Yesterday. On Fowles’ World War Two chariot.”

“His what?” the judge asked.

“A two-man underwater craft that looks like a torpedo with seats. You ride it in scuba gear. We were on the ocean floor at the time.”

“The ocean floor?” Waddle laughed. “Sounds like the witness has a case of nitrogen narcosis.”

“And how did Mr. Fowles write this confession underwater?” The judge was intrigued.

“On a magnetic slate. The kind divers use.”

Waddle cleared his throat. “Best evidence rule, Judge. Where’s this alleged written confession?”

“Lost at sea,” Steve said. “I dropped the slate when Fowles rammed Conklin’s boat and they were both killed.”

“Jesus on the cross.” Judge Feathers let out a low whistle.

“Your Honor, I move to bar all of Mr. Solomon’s testimony,” Waddle announced. “The alleged confession is a hundred percent hearsay, pure and simple.”

“State Attorney’s right,” the judge said. “Ms. Lord, if you had that slate, I’d be inclined to let Mr. Solomon authenticate it and get it into evidence. But without it…”

“Thank you,” Waddle smirked. “Now may we bring the jury back in and try this case according to the rules?”

Just then, the courtroom door opened, and a tall, handsome, suntanned man barged in. Junior Griffin wore flip-flops, chinos, and a muscle tee, and his long blond hair was wet and slicked back. To Steve, he looked like one of those men’s cologne commercials.

But what’s he holding?

“Hope I’m not too late.” Junior was waving a mesh bag. Inside the bag was the magnetic slate.

Steve couldn’t believe it.

I’m supposed to be the hero. Not Junior Friggin’ Griffin!

“It was only in eighty feet of water,” Junior said, nearing the bench. “But the Coast Guard coordinates were a little off. It took me five dives. No tanks, of course.”

The court reporter, a young woman in open-toed sandals and a short skirt, was gaping at Junior as if he were a butterscotch sundae. “Could I get your name for the record?” she asked.

“Harold Griffin, Jr.”

“And your phone number?” she continued.

“Let’s see what you’ve got there, young man,” Judge Feathers said.

Junior opened the bag and handed the slate to the judge. The message was still there: “I killed Stubbs.” With Clive A. Fowles’ signature.

“Mr. Solomon, is this the written confession you were talking about?” the judge asked.

“It is.”

“And you saw Mr. Fowles sign this?”

“I did.”

“All right, then. Let’s bring in the jury. I believe Ms. Lord has some evidence to introduce.”

Fifty-three

FORGIVEN BUT NOT

FORGOTTEN

Two days later, in a blissful daze of Tylenol with codeine, Steve was semi-snoozing in the rope hammock strung between two sabal palms along the shoreline at Sugarloaf Key. He would have fallen asleep if his father hadn’t been spouting profanities as he crab-crawled across the roof of his houseboat, wrestling with his satellite dish.

“Suck egg, cornholer!” Herbert yelled, then banged the dish with a wrench.

The Solomons were genetically impaired in home improvement genes, Steve knew.

“Still snowing,” Bobby called out from inside the living salon. He was watching the TV screen as his grandfather tried to realign the dish.

“Hey, lazybones!” Herbert growled. “You might give us some help over here.”

Steve rocked back and forth in the hammock. “If you’d fix the leak, so the boat wouldn’t list to starboard, you wouldn’t have to keep moving the dish.”

“Like you know electronics.”

“So why ask me to help?”

Bare-chested, wearing paint-splattered shorts, Herbert was glistening with sweat. He grunted as he tried to muscle the dish a few millimeters.

“Dad, why don’t you come down before you have a heart attack?”

“Don’t go spending a fortune on the funeral,” Herbert ordered. “Not that you would.”

“A blizzard now,” Bobby reported from inside.

“To hell with it.” Herbert climbed down the ladder to the rear deck.

Bobby stuck his head out a window. “Uncle Steve, can you fix the TV?”

“Do your homework. Television’s bad for you. Especially Fox News.”

A few minutes later, Steve heard the unmistakable
clink
ing of ice cubes in a glass. He opened his eyes to see his father approaching the hammock. He carried two large glasses swirling with golden liquid.

“May I assume that’s not root beer?”

“Ain’t gator sweat, neither.” Herbert sat down in a plastic chair alongside the hammock. “Scotch with a
shpritz
of soda.”

“I hope it’s more than a
shpritz.
Those are sixteen-ounce glasses.”

“Should last us a spell. Good for what ails you.”

“Is Bobby doing his homework?”

“He is if his teacher assigned a website with cameras inside the cheerleaders’ locker rooms.”

“Great.” Steve sat up and swung his feet over the edge of the hammock. “Ooh.”

“You okay, son?”

“When I was running on adrenaline in court, I was fine. Now I’m just a little woozy.”

Herbert handed him a drink.
“L’chaim.”

Steve tilted his glass toward his father. “Confusion to the enemy.”

The men drank, and Herbert said: “So what do you hear from Victoria?”

“Jury went out at eleven this morning.”

“You oughta be there.”

Steve shook his head, and billiard balls bounced between his ears. “It’s her case. Not mine.”

“So?”

“When she gets a verdict, it should be her moment. She deserves her autonomy.”

“What kind of word is that? ‘Autonomy’?”

“Victoria’s word.”

“Thought so.” The old man took a long pull on the Scotch. “So we gonna talk, or what?”

“I dismissed the Bar suit, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

“That ah already know.”

“How?”

“Pinky Luber told me.”

“You’re still talking to him?”

“Talk? Hell, ah’m taking Pinky fishing next week.”

“I still don’t get it, Dad. It’s like you forgot what he did to you.”

“Ah haven’t forgotten. Ah’ve forgiven.”

“Is that some Zen thing, Dad? How do you get to a place where you just move on?”

“Comes with age and experience. And the knowledge that we’re all damaged pieces of equipment.”

Steve let himself smile. That was pretty much what he’d told Victoria.
“We’re all flawed.”
Could he hold his father to a higher standard than he held himself? “I shouldn’t have poked around in your life, Dad. I had no right.”

“Like ah said, the truth can be painful. You mad at me for what ah did all those years ago?”

“No, I guess not. Not anymore.”

Herbert raised his glass in a salute. “You’re a good kid. Ah should tell you that once in a while.”

Steve let that soak in a moment and took another sip. The alcohol was already going to his head, and he’d barely made a dent in the drink. Then he blurted out: “I lied in court, Dad.”

Feeling ten years old:
“I’m the one who threw the baseball through the window, not Janice.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In Griffin’s case. I lied under oath.”

“Jesus.”

“Willis Rask said if I told the truth, Griffin would get off. But the state could never pin anything on Robinson.”

“Fowles didn’t shoot Stubbs?”

“Robinson ordered him to. But Fowles didn’t do it. Stubbs got shot when they struggled over the speargun.”

“Holy shit.”

“Can you believe it? Junior Griffin was right from day one. Stubbs pretty much shot himself and Hal Griffin fell down the ladder trying to go up and call for help.”

“What about that magnetic slate? You write that confession?”

“No, I didn’t lie about that. Fowles signed the slate because he accepted moral responsibility for the death. I took that as permission to say he shot Stubbs.”

“A helluva rationalization. Welcome to the club, son.”

“The liars’ club?”

“The ends-justify-the-means club.”

“Like you and Pinky?”

“Like a lot of people, son. It’s not all black and white. There are a thousand shades of gray.”

“So I guess I owe you an apology.”

“For what? Lying in court? Or busting my balls?”

“Both.”

“Forget it. It’s over.”

“You’re letting me off that easy? Don’t you want to hit me with at least one I-told-you-so?”

“Hell, no. Ah want you to finish your drink, then fix mah damn satellite dish.”

Fifty-four

GO HENCE WITHOUT DAY

Victoria’s heart was beating at a staccato pace, and she could feel her face heating up. Hal Griffin squeezed her hand so hard, she heard her knuckles crack.

As the clerk prepared to read the verdict, Victoria feared she wouldn’t hear the words above the
kerthump
ing in her chest.

“We, the jury, find the defendant Harold Griffin not guilty on the charge of murder in the second degree.”

Yes! I did it. Okay, Steve helped. But I did it. A murder trial.

Griffin let out a long, whistling breath.

Waddle asked that the jurors be polled, and each affirmed the verdict, good and true. Judge Feathers thanked them for their service and told Griffin he was free to “go hence without day.” Waddle gave Victoria a tight little “Congratulations” and said he’d be convening the Grand Jury to consider murder charges against Leicester Robinson. Sheriff Rask winked at her and gave two thumbs-up.

Minutes later, on the courthouse lawn, she was surrounded by reporters, courthouse regulars, even a few curious tourists. She answered questions and posed for photos. An enormous bearded man in flowered shorts shoved a microphone in her face. Billy Wahoo, radio host, who now claimed he’d told his listeners Griffin was innocent and Victoria would prove it.

She broke away from the reporters, and Griffin hugged her once, twice, three times, then hurried off. The Queen was waiting at the airport, the Gulfstream’s engines were already warming up. They’d planned a little celebration. Just the two of them, his place in Costa Rica.

Junior picked Victoria up and twirled her around, a Ferragamo pump flying off. He retrieved it from under the kapok tree, then knelt at her feet. Prince Charming to her Cinderella. She put a hand on his shoulder for balance and slipped her foot back into the shoe.

You’re sweet, dear hunkalicious Junior, but you’re not my prince.

Then she saw Steve across the street, standing in the doorway of the Green Parrot, a beer in his hand. Violating the open container law, a misdemeanant in nylon running shorts and T-shirt. She motioned Steve to come over, join the fun, but he shook his head. A moment later, she headed his way.

They walked along Duval Street, Victoria bouncing on her toes, swinging her purse.

Steve knew the feeling. Not so much joy as a lightness in being. First, the crushing weight is lifted, that über-gravity of responsibility a lawyer bears when defending a client charged with murder. Then a sense of personal redemption: The state with all its money and all its minions condemned your client, branded him a murderer, and you’re the tough guy who stood in the alley, arms crossed, saying,
“You’ll have to go through me, first.”

But no chest-thumping, no triumphant exultation. More a vicarious pleasure for this living, breathing person who depends on you the way a patient depends on a surgeon.

“I wish you’d heard my closing.” Victoria’s cheeks were still flushed with excitement.

“Willis said you were riveting. And ravishing.”

“I came up with a theme and drilled it into the jurors, just like you taught me.”

“The ‘extra step.’ Willis told me.”

Victoria’s voice fell into its courtroom cadence.
“In most cases, the defense is content to show there’s reasonable doubt as to guilt. But here, we took the
extra step
. We’ve proved not just that Harold Griffin is innocent. We’ve proved who is guilty. Clive Fowles murdered Ben Stubbs.”

Steve chose not to disagree. It was, after all, his story.

“I kept drilling it in,” Victoria continued. “We took
this
extra step. We took
that
extra step. Then I asked the jurors:
‘So what did the state do? The state charged the most convenient person, the other man on the boat. The state
skipped a step.
They skipped over the real killer and hauled the wrong man into court.’ ”

“Nicely phrased. Easy to remember. What’d you say about Robinson?”

” ‘Leicester Robinson is a man of great intellect and ability. But utterly amoral and totally corrupt. Like rotten mackerel by moonlight, he shines and stinks at the same time.’ ”

“Cute. But didn’t I use that once?”

“Twice. But I changed snapper to mackerel for the alliteration.”

“Nice work all around. Great job.”

She beamed at him then skipped a step of her own. If her mood were any more airy, Steve thought, she’d be floating. They passed an ice-cream parlor, the aroma of hot waffle cones wafting onto the sidewalk. Next, he knew from personal experience, would come her hunger pangs.

“I’m famished,” Victoria said. “Want to grab lunch?”

Aha. Right on cue.

“I can always eat, Vic. You know that.”

The cafés were jammed with the cruise-ship passengers, unleashed on the town for five hours before the horns blew and they rushed back to the harbor like rats heeding the pied piper.

“What about here, Steve? Your pal’s place. We’ll get that barbecued tuna you like so much.”

Sure enough, they were in front of the Margaritaville Café, one of Jimmy Buffett’s restaurants. The place was packed, with a line of starving patrons snaking out the door. Most had that pudgy, sunburned, tropical shirt right-off-the-hanger Midwestern look. Steve and Victoria moved to the end of the line.