Read Online Solomon vs. Lord by Paul Levine - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Paul Levine
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in a country where the rule of law prevails?
Victoria slumped into her chair, dazed. She was vaguely aware of Pedrosa hugging Steve Solomon at the defense table. There was a flapping of wings. The damned bird was celebrating, too. Next to her, Pincher stirred uncomfortably.
“I'm sorry, sir.” Her voice was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves.
“Some lawyers aren't cut out for the courtroom,” Pincher told her. “Maybe you can be a back-office scrivener somewhere, but trial work's not for you.”
She must have been shaking her head, because he said, “Do you understand?”
“No, sir.”
“Do I need Donald Trump to deliver the news? You're fired.”
Pincher got up and left her there, alone. A loser. A leper in a colony of one.
Her throat felt constricted, and her heart, which had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, seemed to stop. The courtroom became unbearably hot, the lights excruciatingly bright. Footsteps of departing spectators echoed like thunderclaps, whispers cackled like derisive laughter.
She tried to compose herself, knowing her cheeks were crimson, her makeup melting. And then it came. The first salty tear.
At the defense table, Steve looked at Victoria sitting alone and forlorn. Only another trial lawyer could understand what she was going through, her blood pooling on the courtroom floor. Steve had lost cases—though perhaps none so spectacularly—and he knew the shame. He'd heard Pincher fire her. The prick hadn't even waited until they were back in the office.
And now what?
Oh, jeez, she's crying.
Steve felt an emotion that seldom wormed itself into his consciousness: guilt. He hadn't meant to get her fired. He wanted to tell her that the only lawyers who never get humiliated in court are those too chickenshit to venture there. He wanted to tell her that she had more potential than any young lawyer he knew. She was a gladiator who'd gone down swinging her sword. Nothing to be ashamed of, not her fault her boss was a jerk.
Steve watched Victoria unstrap her expensive Italian shoes and toss them into a plastic bag, slipping on white Nikes for the trek to the parking lot. The Warrior Princess stripped of her armor. He told himself that someday she'd look back and realize it was for the best. Why should she waste her time with Sugar Ray Pincher? He'd do nothing but stunt her growth. She should be in private practice. Like him.
An idea was forming.
He could groom her, teach her all his tricks.
We could handle the Barksdale case together.
He wondered just how furious she was. Would she even listen to his offer? Would she help him—help
them—
land Katrina Barksdale as a client? He gathered up Mr. Ruffles and walked to the prosecution table.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“No you're not.”
“I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity.”
“I hate you, you know.”
“I hate you,” Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.
“What are you going to do now?” Steve asked.
“I don't know.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“You've done quite enough.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“Shit!” she screamed.
“Don't say that till you hear me out,” he said.
“Dammit! Your bird.”
Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.
“They say it's good luck,” Steve said.
GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH
By Joan Fleischman
Herald
Staff Writer
The Miami-Dade Grand Jury will hear evidence Monday in the strangulation death of construction magnate and philanthropist Charles Barksdale, 60.
County Coroner Wu-Chi Yang reportedly will tell the Grand Jury that Barksdale died from “erotic asphyxia,” death from cutting off the air supply during sex. The issue before the Grand Jury is whether there is probable cause that the death
Victoria slumped into her chair, dazed. She was vaguely aware of Pedrosa hugging Steve Solomon at the defense table. There was a flapping of wings. The damned bird was celebrating, too. Next to her, Pincher stirred uncomfortably.
“I'm sorry, sir.” Her voice was as dry as the rustle of dead leaves.
“Some lawyers aren't cut out for the courtroom,” Pincher told her. “Maybe you can be a back-office scrivener somewhere, but trial work's not for you.”
She must have been shaking her head, because he said, “Do you understand?”
“No, sir.”
“Do I need Donald Trump to deliver the news? You're fired.”
Pincher got up and left her there, alone. A loser. A leper in a colony of one.
Her throat felt constricted, and her heart, which had been beating like a hummingbird's wings, seemed to stop. The courtroom became unbearably hot, the lights excruciatingly bright. Footsteps of departing spectators echoed like thunderclaps, whispers cackled like derisive laughter.
She tried to compose herself, knowing her cheeks were crimson, her makeup melting. And then it came. The first salty tear.
At the defense table, Steve looked at Victoria sitting alone and forlorn. Only another trial lawyer could understand what she was going through, her blood pooling on the courtroom floor. Steve had lost cases—though perhaps none so spectacularly—and he knew the shame. He'd heard Pincher fire her. The prick hadn't even waited until they were back in the office.
And now what?
Oh, jeez, she's crying.
Steve felt an emotion that seldom wormed itself into his consciousness: guilt. He hadn't meant to get her fired. He wanted to tell her that the only lawyers who never get humiliated in court are those too chickenshit to venture there. He wanted to tell her that she had more potential than any young lawyer he knew. She was a gladiator who'd gone down swinging her sword. Nothing to be ashamed of, not her fault her boss was a jerk.
Steve watched Victoria unstrap her expensive Italian shoes and toss them into a plastic bag, slipping on white Nikes for the trek to the parking lot. The Warrior Princess stripped of her armor. He told himself that someday she'd look back and realize it was for the best. Why should she waste her time with Sugar Ray Pincher? He'd do nothing but stunt her growth. She should be in private practice. Like him.
An idea was forming.
He could groom her, teach her all his tricks.
We could handle the Barksdale case together.
He wondered just how furious she was. Would she even listen to his offer? Would she help him—help
them—
land Katrina Barksdale as a client? He gathered up Mr. Ruffles and walked to the prosecution table.
“I'm sorry,” he said.
“No you're not.”
“I am. Really. But try to look at it as an opportunity.”
“I hate you, you know.”
“I hate you,” Mr. Ruffles said, then hopped from Steve's shoulder to Victoria's. She was too numb to even care.
“What are you going to do now?” Steve asked.
“I don't know.”
“Maybe I can help.”
“You've done quite enough.”
“I have a proposition for you.”
“Shit!” she screamed.
“Don't say that till you hear me out,” he said.
“Dammit! Your bird.”
Mr. Ruffles flapped his wings and flew away. Eyes filling with tears, Victoria stared at the arm of her tweedy jacket where Mr. Ruffles had just left the molten aftermath of what had been prune Danish.
“They say it's good luck,” Steve said.
GRAND JURY CONSIDERS BARKSDALE DEATH
By Joan Fleischman
Herald
Staff Writer
The Miami-Dade Grand Jury will hear evidence Monday in the strangulation death of construction magnate and philanthropist Charles Barksdale, 60.
County Coroner Wu-Chi Yang reportedly will tell the Grand Jury that Barksdale died from “erotic asphyxia,” death from cutting off the air supply during sex. The issue before the Grand Jury is whether there is probable cause that the death
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