Kill All the Lawyers by Paul Levine Read Free Book Online Page A

aside man-made notions of right and wrong, it would be logical to kill a rival for a promotion at work or for the love of a woman or even for the last seat on a bus.
    Suddenly, preparing for the man's trial, it had all become clear to Steve.
    William Kreeger, MD, was the love child of Ayn Rand and Ted Bundy.
    A man so possessed of narcissism and self-interest and so devoid of feelings for others that he would eliminate anyone he believed was a threat.
    His classmate. His lady friend. Or his lawyer.
    Sure, Victoria was right. Not only was it illegal to turn over incriminating evidence to the state, with Kreeger as a client, it was also dangerous. So what now? Kreeger wouldn't be satisfied with pranks involving dead fish, marlin gaffs, and trash talk on the radio. Those were just preludes.
    Kreeger could be planning his attack right now.
    Which meant Steve needed a counterattack. Or better yet, an offensive. A way to bring down Kreeger before he took his shot. But how?
    Storm into the radio station, jack Kreeger up against the wall, and rattle his fillings.
    Nah.
    Steve was a lawyer. A schmoozer. He could bob and weave in front of a jury and play rope-a-dope with opposing counsel. But violence? Not his style. Sure, he'd taken one swing with a stick that cracked a man's skull, but that had been necessary to rescue Bobby. What else?
    Punching that probation officer in dubious defense of Cece's virtue? Not very impressive. Starting a brawl years ago by spiking the Florida State shortstop while breaking up a double play? Nah, nobody even got bruised.
    But Kreeger? The man had a track record of deadly violence. So Steve needed a plan. But a problem there, too. How do you outsmart a man who is both brilliant and a killer, when you are neither?
     
     

SOLOMON'S LAWS
     
     
    3. When you don't know what to do, seek advice from your father . . . even if he's two candles short of a menorah.
     
     

Seven
     
     
    KING SOLOMON AND THE
    QUEEN OF SHEBA
     
     
    Steve needed advice. He needed to talk to the man who had once peered down at assorted miscreants, pronouncing them guilty, dispatching them to places where the only harm they could inflict was on one another. The Honorable Herbert T. Solomon had a feel for this sort of thing.
    What do I do, Dad, when some nutcase is after me?
    Steve walked out the kitchen door into his backyard. His father and nephew sat cross-legged on the ground, in the shade of a bottlebrush tree. Pieces of plywood and two-by-fours were strewn on the grass, along with a hammer, a saw, and an open toolbox.
    " Shalom, son," his father called out. Chin stubbled with white whiskers, long silvery hair swept straight back, flipping up at his neck. With a bottle of sour mash whiskey within arm's reach, Herbert T. Solomon looked like Wild Bill Hickock in a yarmulke.
    Or maybe a biblical prophet. He held a weathered copy of the Old Testament in one hand and a drink in the other. "The Queen of Sheba," Herbert intoned in his Southern drawl, "having heard of Solomon's fame, came to test him with tricky questions."
    "Get to the sexy part," Bobby said. "Where Solomon slips it to Sheba and all the concubines."
    Herbert took a sip of the whiskey. "In due time, boychik."
    "What's going on, Dad?"
    "Ah'm teaching Robert the good book." Herbert flipped a page. " 'The Queen of Sheba gave Solomon gold and spices, and—' "
    " 'Spice' is Bible talk for nookie," Bobby interrupted, grinning at Steve. "Grandpop taught me that."
    "Grandpop's a regular Talmudic scholar."
    Bobby went on, excitedly: "In the first book of Kings, it says that Solomon gave Sheba 'everything she desired and asked for.' You get it, Uncle Steve?"
    "I think I can figure it out."
    "Did you know King Solomon had seven hundred wives and three hundred concubines?"
    "No wonder he wanted to get out of the house and conquer Mesopotamia." Steve turned to his father, who was pouring whiskey over ice. "Dad, why are you filling Bobby with this nonsense?"
    "Our roots are not