Solomon & Lord Drop Anchor by Paul Levine Page A

million. To say nothing of the widow’s mental anguish and
consortium claims.”
    The judge laughed. “Danny, your widow lady
don’t look like she’ll be without consortium for long.”
    Good. I liked hearing that. Maybe the jurors
will feel the same. Then we only get hit with three million, enough
to wipe out the good doctor several times over.
    The judge straightened. “All right, boys.
Let’s cut through the bullshit. Danny, how much will you take,
bottom line?”
    “Two-point-five. Today. No structured
settlement. All cash.”
    The judge raised his eyebrows and ran a hand
over his bald head. “Attaboy. I always figured you to bet the
favorites to show, but you’re no ribbon clerk, hey? Jake, whadaya
got?”
    I turned my pockets inside out and shook my
head. “A million, judge, just the policy. Client’s only been in
private practice five, six years. Just finished paying off his
debts. He’s pulling down big income, but no assets yet. We can’t
pay it if we don’t have it. Besides, he’s simply not liable.”
    “Okay, Jake, but it’s halftime, and you’re
getting your ass kicked from here to Sopchoppy. You see what’s
coming, don’t you?”
    “Sure judge, but you haven’t heard my
halftime speech.”
    “Fine, we start with your first witness at
one o’clock. Court’s in recess.” With that, he banged the gavel,
and the hollow explosion echoed off the high, beamed ceiling. Roger
Salisbury slumped onto the defense table as if felled by a rifle
shot.
    I headed into the corridor, nearly smashing
into the lovely widow. She didn’t notice. She was toe-to-toe with
another young woman. Each was jawing at the other, faces inflamed,
just a few inches apart like Billy Martin and an umpire. I didn’t
recognize the other woman. No makeup, short-cropped jet black hair,
a turned-up nose and a deep tan, blue jeans and running shoes,
maybe the last pretty woman in Miami with thick glasses.
Tortoiseshell round frames, giving her a professorial look. Her
language, though, was not destined to win tenure. “You’re a
conniving slut and a little whore, and when I get to the bottom of
this, we’ll see who’s out in the cold!”
    The widow’s eyes had narrowed into slits. No
tears now. Just sparks and flames. “Get away from me you ingrate,
and clear your junk out of the house by six tonight or your ratty
clothes will be floating in the bay.”
    Dan Cefalo stepped in and separated the two.
“Miss Corrigan, I think you best leave.”
    Oh, Miss Corrigan. The one with the colorful
vocabulary must be Philip Corrigan’s daughter by his first
marriage. I followed her down the corridor.
    “May I be of assistance?” I asked politely.
Trying not to be your typical lawyer scavenging on the perimeter of
misfortune.
    She lowered the thick glasses and studied me
with steaming eyes the color of a strong cup of coffee. The eyes
had decided not to make any friends today. She looked me up and
down, ending at my black wingtips. I could check for wounds later.
Her nostrils flared as if I emitted noxious fumes.
    “You’re that doctor’s lawyer, aren’t you?”
She made it sound like a capital crime.
    “Guilty as charged. I saw you discussing a
matter with Mrs. Corrigan and I just wondered if I might help
…”
    “Why? Are you fucking her or do you just want
to?” She slid her glasses back up the slope of the ski-jump nose
and headed toward the elevators.
    “No and yes,” I called after her.

4

THE SPORTSWRITER

    My desk was covered with little white
telephone messages. Office confetti. You think the universe comes
to a halt when you are locked into your own little world, but it
doesn’t. It goes on whether you’re in trial or at war or under the
surgeon’s knife. Or dead. Dead rich like Philip Corrigan laid out
on smooth satin in a mahogany box, or dead poor, a wino facedown in
the bay.
    Greeting me in my bay front office was the
clutter of messages that would not be answered—lawyers who wouldn’t
be called,