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despise the little bastard. A self-righteous prick just like his old man. And you won’t lose. Gerald broke into Cetacean Park. His accomplice was killed. Close the book. He’s on the hook.”
    In her brief tenure as a prosecutor, Victoria had never handled a murder trial. But Pincher couldn’t be tanking the case. The political fallout would be brutal. And he was right.
State
v.
Nash
was a slam dunk. Pincher was right about something else, too. A high-profile case was just what Solomon & Lord needed. And even better, she could work on her own. Solo, without Steve hovering over her, second-guessing every tactical decision.
    So, despite the uneasy feeling of not knowing precisely what was going on, Victoria turned to the judge and said, “Where’s that Bible, Your Honor?”

SOLOMON’S LAWS
    2. The best way to hustle a case is to pretend you don’t want the work.

Nine
    TUPIDITY IN THE FIRST DEGREE
    Gerald Nash—aka Darth Vader, aka Pincher’s nephew—gave Steve a wiseass grin. “Why do you think I called you?”
    “Let’s see,” Steve said. “You’re in jail. I’m a defense lawyer. I don’t know. Why?”
    “So you’re not surprised?”
    “I’ve been trying cases ten years. I’m only surprised when clients tell the truth.”
    They were sitting in a brightly lit yet grim interview room at the Miami-Dade County jail. The scuffed walls were painted pea-soup green and the furniture—scarred wooden table, straight-backed chairs—was the stuff of one-room schoolhouses. The place smelled of metal, lubricants, and sweat. Heavy doors
clank
ed and buzzers sounded from inside the old hellhole.
    “So why do you want to represent me?” Nash challenged Steve.
    In the light, Nash bore some resemblance to Pincher. Lighter skinned than his uncle, but the same pugnacious jaw. A similarity in personalities, too. Just like the State Attorney, Nash projected arrogance and self-righteousness.
    “Who says I want to represent you?” Steve fired back. “I like Wade Grisby, and you just screwed up his business.”
    “He treats the dolphins as if he owns them.”
    “He
does
own them. He caught them or bought them or bred them. Now he feeds them and trains them.”
    “Sounds like a slave owner in the Old South.”
    “Disabled kids swim with the dolphins for therapy, and Grisby doesn’t charge them a dime. The way I see it, he’s helping humanity, and you’re a worthless punk.”
    “His park is nothing more than a chlorinated prison.”
    “Bullshit. The dolphins get all-you-can-eat sushi. They have medical care. They love the people there.”
    “You have no idea what dolphins feel.”
    “And
you
do?”
    “Have you ever run your hand over a dolphin’s belly, all wet and slippery?”
    Nash said it with such a rhapsodic look, he might have been stroking Angelina Jolie’s ass.
    “They’re gorgeous animals, anatomically perfect,” Nash continued. “They can swim twenty-five miles an hour and dive to a thousand feet. But you know what’s best about them?”
    “They’re not sharks?”
    “They live at peace in a harmonious society.”
    “I wonder if the fish they eat would agree.”
    “Did you know bottleneck dolphins have their own language?”
    “Yeah, my nephew told me. He thinks he understands them. He also thinks you should be shot. He’s gonna be pissed if I represent you.”
    “Why?”
    “The dolphins you released are his pals.”
    “Then he should be thrilled. Dolphins in captivity grow obese. They fill up with the junk food the stupid tourists throw them. They don’t hunt. They don’t dive. They need to be free.”
    “You know what you are, Nash? A true believer. A self-appointed savior. And that makes you really dangerous.”
    “This the way you get your cases, Solomon? Insult the client?”
    “I don’t need the work, Nash.”
    Technically, that was true, Steve thought. He could be working, pro bono, on any number of cases for Lexy and Rexy, the twin bimbo models, who spent as much time