Victoria cleared her throat and said: "It may not be necessary to produce the tape."

Steve gave her a sharp look but said nothing. She was confident he wouldn't stop her. He'd told her several times about his Sonny Corleone rule: Never contradict your partner in front of the opposition.

"Now you don't want the tape?" the judge asked. "Why, Ms. Lord?"

"Because Mr. Pincher is an honorable man. He will do the honorable thing."

"How's that?" the judge asked, bewildered.

"Yeah, this I gotta hear," Steve said.

"Mr. Pincher never would have tampered with the evidence had he believed Katrina Barksdale was innocent," Victoria said. "He thought he was just . . ."

"Adding basil to the bruschetta," the judge said.

"Exactly. Now that Mr. Pincher knows the truth, he can dismiss the case, and there'll be no need for anyone to hear the tape."

Pincher scratched at his chin. "Intriguing suggestion, Counselor."

He's doing the cost-benefit a.n.a.lysis of dumping the case, she thought. And Steve was giving her a sideways glance. He wouldn't do this, she knew. A total advocate, a total warrior, he'd go for the win in front of the jury. She thought there was a safer way to get the same result.

"Wait a second," the judge said. "You can't end a legal thriller by settling a case!"

"It would be best, Your Honor," Victoria said.

"There goes the movie sale," the judge said, sadly.

"I'll need an explanation for the press," Pincher said.

"We have no objection to your taking credit for clearing an innocent woman," Victoria told him.

"Hang on," Steve said. "We should get the credit."

"Steve, the client comes first."

"Since when?"

"Mr. Pincher, give it any spin you want," Victoria said, ignoring Steve, "as long as you dismiss the case against Katrina Barksdale."

"Who made you senior partner?" Steve said. Violating his Sonny Corleone rule.

"I could say that my office has uncovered new evidence," Pincher mused. "Evidence missed by overworked detectives and overlooked by defense counsel."

"Screw that," Steve said. "I didn't overlook anything."

"Quiet, Steve," Victoria said. "Doing justice is credit enough."

"They teach that in the Ivy League?"

"I diligently pursued every lead until justice was done," Pincher continued, rehearsing his statement to the press.

"Make up your minds, then," the judge said. "Are we going back to trial or not?"

Pincher proclaimed formally: "Judge Thornberry, let's call in the court reporter. The state has an announcement to make."

Forty-eight.

MOJITO MAKER.

"Go, go, go," Victoria said. "We have an hour to get to Juvie Court."

"I want to talk to the press."

"No way. We'll be late."

She dragged Steve down the corridor. They sidestepped Ray Pincher, who was telling the reporters of his sage and courageous decision to dismiss all charges against Katrina Barksdale.

"Just one little sound bite," Steve pleaded.

"No time."

They shoved their way through the wolf pack of reporters and photographers and hustled to the parking lot.

"You were great today," she said, as they got into his car.

"You, too. Getting Pincher to dismiss. I wouldn't have thought of it."

"And I wouldn't have thought of turning the case into a Perry Mason novel. I've learned a lot from you."

"Ditto." He smiled, forgiving her, she supposed, for taking over at the end.

Twenty minutes later, they were in the bungalow on k.u.mquat Avenue, where Steve tossed Bobby into the shower, then hastily dressed him in a navy sport coat, gray wool slacks, a white shirt, and a striped tie.

By the time they all piled into the old Caddy, the little preppie's shirttail was out, his gla.s.ses were smudged, and his hair was mussed. He sat in the backseat, knees pulled up under his chin, rocking back and forth, looking like the cla.s.s weirdo genius being carted off to jail for blowing up the science lab.

Steve tuned the radio to the all-news station but punched another b.u.t.ton when he heard Pincher saluting himself for uncovering the truth about the death of Charles Barksdale. On the reggae station, Desmond Dekker & the Aces were singing "Israelites," promising a calm after the storm.

Victoria glanced at Bobby and started to worry. He lay on his back, his feet pressed against a window, as if trying to break out of the car. "Maybe we should rethink our strategy for tonight," she said, cryptically.

Translation: I'm scared to death to put Bobby on the witness stand.

"Not your call, cupcake."

"Tell me you didn't just call me 'cupcake.'"

"Don't make some feminist thing out of it. I'm starving, and I'm thinking about the Fink's Krispy Kremes."

She wondered why he couldn't see the danger of having Bobby testify. He knew Bobby always spoke the unvarnished truth. And surely Solomon, of all people, knew that the truth sometimes needs a fresh coat of paint.

"What we're planning could backfire," she said.

"You distract Zinkavich, and I'll go after a couple of glazed crullers."

He's reverted to Irritating Habit Number 396: Ignoring what I say when he doesn't want to deal with it.

She searched for a way to say it was too risky to call Bobby without the boy picking up on it. "Maybe we should reorder our witnesses."

From the backseat, Bobby said: "I'm not scared to talk to the judge."

So much for subterfuge.

"Of course you're not, kiddo," Steve said. "You'll do great." He turned to Victoria. "Bobby testifies. Subject closed."

"You've been telling me to go with my gut, and my gut tells me-"

"Closed."

"Pet.i.tioner calls Robert Solomon," Victoria said.

"Objection," Zinkavich said. "The testimony will be tainted by the boy's affinity with his uncle. Not to mention his history of hallucinations."

"We think Your Honor should be the judge of Bobby's competence, not Mr. Zinkavich," Victoria said.

"Does the kid even understand the oath?" Zinkavich asked.

"Do you, Fink?" Steve growled, under his breath.

"I heard that, Mr. Solomon," said Judge Althea Rolle, wagging a finger. The judge wore fuchsia robes, a frilly lace rabat at the neck. Her dark eyes were blazing at Steve. "Do you know what we do in Juvie Court when someone acts up?"

"No, ma'am."

"We give them a time-out and they go sit in the corner."

"I apologize to the Court, ma'am."

Meaning, Victoria understood, that he didn't apologize to Zinkavich.

"Now, as for the child's testimony, Ms. Lord, do you really want to do that?"

When a judge asks a leading question, you best head the direction you're being led, Victoria knew. And she agreed with the judge. You never knew when Bobby was going to slip into a screaming fit or burst out that "President Clinton of the USA" can be rearranged to spell, "TO COPULATE HE FINDS INTERNS."

"We believe there can be no better witness than the one most directly affected by this proceeding," Victoria answered. She didn't believe it, but sometimes you do what your client wants, especially when your client is a know-it-all lawyer.

"Here's how it's gonna be," Judge Rolle said. "I'll talk to the boy alone in my chambers. Counsel will sit in the anteroom and listen on the speakers. No coaching from Mr. Solomon and no cross-exam from Mr. Zinkavich. Now, skedaddle, all of you."

Steve paced in front of a set of bookshelves, claustrophobic in the small anteroom. Victoria sat rigidly at a worktable, fingers clutching a pen, poised to take notes. Zinkavich slumped in a cushioned chair, his love handles overflowing the armrests.

"Would you like something to drink?" Judge Rolle asked, her voice tinny over the speaker.

"Nope. Uncle Steve made me a papaya smoothie for the ride over." Bobby's voice was high and nervous.

"Sounds healthy."

"Makes me p.o.o.p," Bobby said.

"Uh-huh."

"Sometimes we get the papayas from the fruit stand on Red Road."

"They have wonderful produce," the judge said.

"Sometimes Uncle Steve just steals them from a neighbor's trees."

"I see."

Yikes. Steve stopped pacing. If he were a smoker, he would light up about now.

"Do you do spend a lot of time with your uncle?" the judge asked.

"Like 24/7," Bobby said. "Except when he, you know . . ."

"When he goes out on dates?"

"Uncle Steve doesn't go on dates. He just has chicks come over, hang out in his bedroom, then split."

"Oh, s.h.i.t," Steve groaned.

"Do any women ever spend the night?"

"If they've had too many mojitos," Bobby said.

"So I guess your uncle makes more than papaya smoothies," the judge said, a note of sarcasm in her voice.

"I make the mojitos." Bobby said it proudly. "The secret's squeezing fresh guarapo. Sugarcane juice. But not too much, because the rum is already sweet. And the mint leaves gotta be fresh."

Zinkavich said: "We reap what we sow, Solomon."

"Aw, shut up," Steve said.

Over the speaker, the judge said: "Does it bother you when women sleep over?"

"No way," Bobby said. "Sometimes I get to see bare b.o.o.bs in the morning."