Solomon vs. Lord Read Online Free Page A

pay. He never had a client with the resources of an O. J. Simpson or Klaus von Bulow. Or the looks and glamour of Katrina Barksdale. He didn't know the Barksdales, but he'd read about them. Charles had made millions building condos while collecting custom yachts and trophy wives. Katrina would have been number three or four. Wife, not yacht. Photos of the old hubby and young wifey were routinely plastered in
Ocean Drive
and the
Miami Herald.
You couldn't open a restaurant or hold a charity event without the glam couple. And when her husband stayed home, Katrina was on the arm of an artist or musician at younger, hipper parties.
    The lawyer who got this case was gonna be famous.
    Steve could picture the Justice Building surrounded by sound trucks, generators humming, a forest of satellite dishes, an army of reporters. A carnival in the parking lot, vendors hawking “Free Katrina” T-shirts, iced
granizados,
and grilled arepas. There'd be TV interviews, magazine profiles, analysts critiquing the defense lawyer's trial strategy and his haircut. It'd be a ton of publicity and a helluva lot of fun. And then there was the fee. Not that money juiced him. But Bobby's expenses were mounting, and he'd like to put some bucks away for the boy's care.
    And wouldn't he love going mano a mano with Pincher? The bastard would try to ride that pony all the way to the governor's mansion. All the more reason Steve lusted after the case. He hated pretension and self-righteousness, but most of all, he hated bullies. And in Sugar Ray Pincher, he had all three.
    “This one's out of your league, Solomon,” Pincher said, hammering the nail home.
    Out of his league.
    God, how he hated that. Which prompted another disheartening thought.
    Was Victoria Lord out of his league, too?
    MIAMI-DADE POLICE DEPARTMENT
    TRANSCRIPT OF EMERGENCY
FIRE AND RESCUE CALLS

Dispatch:
Miami-Dade Police. One moment, please.
Caller:
911? Goddammit, are you there? 911?
Dispatch:
Miami-Dade Police. Is this an emergency?
Caller:
My husband! My husband's not breathing.
Dispatch:
Please remain calm, ma'am. Is his airway obstructed?
Caller:
I don't know. He's not breathing!
Dispatch:
Was he eating?
Caller:
We were having sex. Oh, Charlie, breathe!
Dispatch:
What's your name and address, ma'am?
Caller:
Katrina Barksdale, 480 Casuarina Concourse, Gables Estates.
Dispatch:
Have you tried CPR?
Caller:
My husband's Charles Barksdale.
The
Charles Barksdale! Jeb Bush has been here for drinks.
Dispatch:
CPR, ma'am?
Caller:
I'll have to untie Charlie.
Dispatch:
Untie him?
Caller:
I've already taken off his mask.

Three
    ZINK THE FINK
    Pacing the corridor outside Judge Gridley's courtroom, Steve's mind drifted far from the bird-smuggling trial. He wanted to land the Barksdale case before a bigger, faster shark beat him to it. The case could change his life. And, more important, Bobby's.
    Just last month, Steve had consulted a doctor specializing in central nervous system maladies. No one could pin a name on his nephew's condition, which combined acute developmental disorders with astounding mental feats. The boy could spend an hour sitting cross-legged on the sofa, rocking back and forth, lost in his own world, then suddenly erupt in a fit of crying. Five minutes later, he would recite lengthy passages from
The Aeneid.
    In Latin.
    And then Greek.
    The doctor tossed around bewildering phrases like “frontotemporal dementia” and “paradoxical functional facilitation” and “arrested neuronal firing.” One phrase that Steve understood quite clearly was “five thousand dollars a month”—the cost of a private tutor and therapist.
    So the more Steve thought about the Barksdale case, the more it took on mythic proportions. Sure, the money and the publicity would be great, but the real quest was for Bobby. The Barksdale case could be his ticket to a better life.
    But how to get the client?
    Because he did not run with the caviar-and-canapé crowd, Steve knew he needed an introduction