Free Kill All the Lawyers by Paul Levine Page A

someone. You'll use that bullshit philosophy of yours to justify your actions, and before you can say, 'Man overboard,' there's another body floating facedown. So maybe I will stick close to you, Kreeger, because I want to be there the day the cops come knocking on your door."
    No one knocked, but the cushioned door to the control room popped open and two City of Miami Beach cops walked in. Weird, Steve thought. But life is like that sometimes. You think of a woman you haven't seen in three or four years, and that day she comes knocking on your door, with a little boy at her side who looks alarmingly like you. Not that it had ever happened to him, but he'd heard stories.
    So what were the Beach cops doing out of their jurisdiction? Had Kreeger slashed some tourist's throat while waiting in line at Joe's Stone Crab?
    "Are you Stephen Solomon?" The cop wore sergeant's stripes and had a mustache. He was in his forties, with a tired look.
    "Guilty," Steve said. "What's this about?"
    He was vaguely aware that Kreeger was leaning close to the microphone, his voice a portentous whisper. "Exclusive report. Breaking news here at WPYG. You're live with Dr. Bill. . . ."
    "You're under arrest, Mr. Solomon," the sergeant said wearily.
    "For what! What'd I do, curse on the air?"
    "Steve-the-Shyster Solomon arrested, right here in Studio A," Kreeger rhapsodized.
    "Assault and battery."
    "I haven't hit the bastard yet." Steve nodded toward Kreeger.
    "Not him. A guy named Freskin."
    "Who the hell is that?"
    The younger cop took a pair of handcuffs from his belt. "Please place your hands behind your back, sir."
    Damn polite, just like they teach them in cop school.
    "I don't know any Freskin."
    "I have to pat you down, sir," the younger cop persisted.
    "The excitement builds," Kreeger announced, sounding like Joe Buck doing a World Series game. "They're putting the cuffs on Solomon."
    "Goddammit. Who's Freskin?" Steve felt a mixture of anger and humiliation.
    "State probation officer," the sergeant answered. "Arnold Freskin. You assaulted him in your law office."
    Oh, him!
    "That freak? He was getting off wrestling with my secretary."
    Even as he spoke, Steve knew he was violating the advice he gave to every client he'd ever had.
    "Never talk to the cops. You'll only dig yourself a deeper hole."
    "You have the right to remain silent," the sergeant reminded him. "You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney—"
    "I know. I know."
    "They're taking him downtown," Kreeger sang out cheerfully. "Is Steve Solomon not only a shyster, but a violent thug, too? Stay tuned."
     
     

Ten
     
     
    EVEN MURDERERS NEED PALS
     
     
    Steve stood at the kitchen sink, scrubbing the ink off his fingertips. He'd been booked and processed, fingerprinted and photographed, and generally ridiculed by cops and corrections officers who knew him from court. He had spent two hours in a holding cell where the walls were covered with yellowish-brown graffiti. Generations of inmates had used mustard from their state-issued bologna sandwiches to leave their misspelled profanities to posterity. Perhaps not as impressive as Paleolithic cave drawings, the graffiti nonetheless provided a sociological snapshot of our underclass, as well as an indictment of our public schools.
    Judge Alvin Elias Schwartz released Steve without bail on the grounds that His Honor used to play pinochle with the defendant's father. Steve would be required to show up in a week to be arraigned on charges of assault and battery and obstructing a state official, to wit: Mr. Arnold G. Freskin, in the performance of his duties. According to the criminal complaint, Freskin's duties included an "on-site interview with a probationer," which Steve figured sounded better than an "erotic wrestling match with an undressed secretary."
    Steve had taken a sweaty taxi ride home, the Jamaican driver explaining the A/C was on the blink, but Steve figured the guy was just saving gas. Steve's pants