Evil Eye

by Michael Slade

  "I'm Section 38.1 of the Rules and Regs. Separate Custody. PCPC. Protective Custody gets kiddie diddlers, skinners, rats, and finks. I'm a cop so I need guarding more than them. At the moment, there are just two of us in the Digger. Me and Arnold, who I'm told is 'a bit of a cannibal.' "

  "Hannibal Lecter?"

  "Hardly. He looks like Caspar Milquetoast."

  "Dare I laugh?"

  "Feel free," he said.

  Fleetingly, their hands touched as they sat at the table, a caress from palms to fingertips. Then Gill said, "Nick, fire your lawyer."

  "Too harsh," he soothed. "With Cutter, who could get me bail? All cops hire Peabody. He prosecuted, you know?"

  "That's the risk. The man is Crown-minded. 'May it please your lordship' this, and 'With the greatest of respect' that. Form is important to Peabody, and don't rock the boat. That's how he made QC and will go to the bench. Do you think a hit man or pusher would hire that Pinstripe?"

  "I don't want their kind of shyster."

  "Why?" said Gill angrily. "You'd rather spend life in jail? Cops are so dumb when it comes to counsel. You don't hire the suit who fights with one hand behind his back, you retain the pit bull who goes for the jugular. The best defense advocate is always in shit with the judge, not kissing his ass."

  "Who do you think I should hire?"

  "You're on the witness stand in a big case. If you crumple in cross-exam, a killer walks free. One-on-one, who do you fear and hate most?"

  "The Vulture," said Nick.

  "He's the lawyer you want."

  What began as a scoff turned into a snort. "Knight is owned by the Mob. All the Big Guys run to him. He's in the pocket of every hitter in—"

  "Don't be silly. Drop the cop-speak. I know Knight better than you. The man's a free agent, not mouthpiece to the Mob. The reason hitters run to Knight is he gets them off. Is that not a good enough reason to hire him for you?"

  "You know what he costs? An arm and both legs. I squandered my savings, and can't get Mom's estate while charged with her murder. The bottom line is Knight's too rich for me."

  "Not for me," said Gill.

  "I pay my own way," Nick snapped. "I'm not a kept man."

  "I'm hiring Knight for you."

  "No, you're not."

  "Oh, yes, I am. Now shut up and listen. That first night at my place, I told you I wanted excitement, not ties. You know I'm an independent woman of independent means. But for sex, I don't need a man to complete me. I've taken something from you, Nick, you should know. I was going to tell you the night your mom died. Then I was going to tell you the night you were arrested. Too much turmoil got in the way, and now I can't wait for a happy moment. I'm seven weeks' pregnant with your son or daughter."

  It took a second to hit him. "You're—"

  "I'm not finished. If you want to rot in prison, that's your choice. And the fastest way to get there is let John Peabody take on Lyndon Wilde. But don't expect me to bring your child out on weekends, or explain that Daddy's there because he refused to fight, he wouldn't be 'kept' by me, so now he's kept by the queen, because out of foolish male pride he let Broompole convict him of killing his mom!"

  Nick stared out the window at the cold gray prison yard.

  "It's your money," he mumbled.

  "It's our lives," she replied.

  KNIGHT'S GAMBIT

  The Digger, or Separate Custody, was on the sixth floor of the Pretrial Center, high atop the Tower where inmates slept. Because Nick was a cop his cell had "the good view," a narrow panorama of the Pan Pacific Hotel, where Charles and Di stayed during Expo '86, and Yeltsin checked in for his summit with Clinton. On the opposite side, Arnold the Cannibal enjoyed "the bad view" of the skids.

  Nick's cell— 04 —was shaped like a cleaver. The single bed and slatted window by its foot edged the top of the blade. Across from the window, a stainless-steel toilet and sink were tucked into the stubby handle. The door ran along the bottom of the blade, and etched into its paint was the philosophy kill. The floor was gray, the walls and ceiling taupe. The space between the door and the bed was for pacing. There was a smoke detector, a fluorescent light, and an emergency button to "guard up" the door. Hands behind his head, Nick lay faceup on the bed contemplating his unborn kid being fatherless from birth.

  Like me, he thought.

  Hemmed in physically, emotionally, and legally, he was so claustrophobic he felt driven to pound his fists against the walls.

  The judas window in the door was a grilled square of glass with a steel cover. The steel port lifted as a face stared in. "Your lawyer's here, nigger," said the guard.

  To themselves, they were Correctional Officers. To outsiders, they were guards. To the inmates, they were screws. Until lately, screws wore brown, for the first uniforms were World War I surplus. Up to twenty inmates surround each screw, so their dress evolved to blue for "more authority" and to distinguish them from sheriff's "Brownies" in charge of remand. Screws branch into two subgroups: right-wing rednecks—"Chilliwack militia"—

  Chilliwack's a Valley "hick town" to hip Vancouverites, those screws who call inmates "maggots" or "shit rats," and left-wing bleeding hearts—"fixing the broken machine"—who espouse reform instead of merely clamping down the garbage can lid.

  This guard was militia.

  A Mickey Spillane tough, all crew cut and cut the crap, he released Nick and led him across the TV common room to the elevator access door. "Pew, secure movement to Visiting. Count of one," the screw growled into the intercom.

  Bang! fired the door.

  The segregation unit had eleven seg cells. As Nick left Secure Custody for Visiting, another screw lifted the port to Arnold's cell, then jumped back when he saw the cannibal's face pressed against the glass, grinning at him.

  Slam! shut the door.

  "Don't call me nigger," Nick warned the guard.

  "I'll call you anything I like. Where's your sense of humor, Craven? You and Pancakes are in segregation, so that makes you two the niggers of the joint. Nothing personal."

  "Pancakes is Arnold?"

  "That's what I call him. You can call me Gallows. For gallows humor. We had the Paper Bag Rapist in seg a while ago. I'm the joker who hung the Gumby doll in his cell with a little paper bag over its head."

  "Why Pancakes?" asked Nick.

  They rode the elevator down as Gallows explained. "Pancakes was a hermit up Revelstoke way. He butchered a rural family that had a little girl. Cut her stomach open and ate the contents. Twenty guesses what she had for breakfast?"

  "He should be jailed up-country. What's he doing here?"

  "Same as you. Court remand to accommodate counsel. You'd be in Surrey Pretrial if not for your lawyer, and he'd be up north if not for his. Pancakes was PC'd with the other scum, but he kept sneaking up behind them and whispering, 'What'd you have for breakfast? What'd you have for lunch?' A diddler snapped and went berserk, so we had to open the armory and SWAT

  the PC unit, cuffing them all facedown spread-eagled on their beds. That's when the SCO transferred Pancakes to PCPC. Nice company you keep."

  Gallows grinned and nudged Nick in the ribs. "To welcome him to seg, I taped a few autopsy photos to his wall. Took 'em down when the moppers bitched the floor was white with cum."

  The elevator opened on the ground floor where they crossed to an orange door marked visiting. The intercom was RFA'd by the screw, the request for access inducing another "pop."

  Bang! fired the door.

  As he was passed to the muscled woman from Visits Control, Nick thanked the guard for escorting him down. "After all the militiamen, nice to get a bleeding heart for a change."

  "See you, nigger."

  The woman led Nick to gv-19 and locked him in. The Vulture—dark, lean, and lanky—was waiting in Nick's office. He still wore legal robes under his trench coat, for he was here over the dinner break while waiting for a jury. His chin hadn't felt a razor since five a.m. so his jaw resembled a kid's smeared with chocolate
ice cream.

  "I know you, Craven."

  "And I you, Knight."

  "You don't like me. Hate me, perhaps?"

  "I don't like you. Hate's a strong word."

  "To what trial do I owe your animosity? Or is it a matter of general principle?"

  "Inderjit Parmar," said Nick.

  "Right. The carvings from India hiding all those drugs. You made a mistake in removing the junk from inside at Canada Customs."

  "It was imported. The smack was in our hands."

  "Imported in fact, but not in law. For that it had to clear Canada Customs, and all that came through was the carvings and a bit of junk you missed. How could my client possess something that didn't exist in law?"

  "The judge tongue-lashed me over sloppy work. You screwed us when you said you were pleading to all the drugs."

  "Did I? Or did you just think that's what I said?"

  "Either way, you set me up."

  "When I was young, I lost a lot of trials I should have won. Older now, I win a lot of trials I ought to lose. It balances out, so justice gets done. My client got off. That makes me a good lawyer. Law is the only profession that sells luck. The more luck you have, the more you have to sell. That's why Gill Macbeth retained me for one hundred thousand dollars. Now the time has come to redirect your hate. Before driving here, I went to see Wilde, so he'd know it was me, not Peabody opposing him. You know he carves a notch under his desk for each big win? He invited me to get down on my knees to see the spot chosen for you."

  "Christ," said Nick, "you two play games with human lives."

  "Don't you? The question is, Are you playing to win or lose? You need me because I play to beat Wilde. This may seem like you are the stakes, but I play for my reputation." The lawyer offered his hand. "From now on call me Vic."

  "Vic and Nick." The two men shook. "Sounds like a vaudeville team."

  "Wilde has a chessboard beside his desk. He plays against a computer to keep his mind sharp. In chess, a gambit is an opening in which a piece is sacrificed to gain some advantage. Direct indictment sends you straight to trial with no preliminary hearing to test the Crown's case. That's Wilde's gambit, but it is also mine. Where the evidence is direct—someone is seen committing the crime—a prelim allows the shaking of eyewitnesses before trial. The evidence against you is wholly circumstantial, so a prelim would merely hint our defense to Wilde. Our gambit is go for the jugular by surprise attack."

  "You haven't asked if I did it."

  "I don't care. My only ethical restraint is not to knowingly offer false evidence or lying witnesses. What you don't tell me, I don't 'know,' so keep the truth to yourself unless I specifically ask. What will this jury believe, not truth, concerns me."

  "I'm disillusioned," Nick said dryly.

  "Illusions are a luxury you can't afford. Motive, opportunity, and means are our focus. Here's the case we must meet:

  "The motive is matricide, evidenced by the letter. As

  you're Dora's only child, it was typed by you. What would be most helpful is an evil twin—"

  Nick blinked.

  "—or barring that, a way to show the letter is a frame. Did you search your mother's house after her death?"

  "No," said Nick. "Corporal Kidd pushed me away the night of the murder, then I was warned to stay clear of the place, and when I returned from Maui I was arrested at the airport."

  "The first thing we do," Knight said, "is toss the house for answers. I'll get a court order allowing us a search."

  "Me, too?"

  The lawyer nodded. "The opportunity alleged is the birthday visit, as evidenced by a neighbor who saw you come and go. Since you're the last known person in the locked house, and everyone says your mom wouldn't open the door to strangers, only you had opportunity to kill her. Wilde showed me the Ident photos. Your mom kept a cat?"

  "Jinx," Nick replied.

  "Good, I'll use that to crack the door. Breach the house and there goes sole opportunity. With Schreck on the loose, he's prime suspect."

  "If it's him, how do we explain the letter?"

  "Open question until we see what the search turns up. The means," the lawyer continued, "is a club, which was taken from the murder site. The only evidence tying the means to you is blood, so our first line of defense is get your tunic excluded."

  Nick groaned. "I'm a cop. I loathe the Charter of Rights."

  "Hopefully I'll change your mind before this trial is over."

  "Our second line of defense?"

  "A Band-Aid," said Knight.

  BAND-AID

  New Westminster Wednesday, March 2, 1994

  Gillian Macbeth was on the witness stand at Nick's trial. Nearing the close of direct examination, Lyndon Wilde QC closed in.

  "Does that conclude your evidence concerning the postmortem you did on Dora Craven?"

  "It does."

  "Doctor, tell the jury about your relationship with the accused."

  "We've dated."

  "Have you slept together?"

  Gill turned to Hatchett. "Is my sex life relevant? I resent the inference."

  "Your resentment is irrelevant. Answer the question, Doctor."

  "Yes," Gill said.

  "And did the accused come to your house the night of his mother's murder?"

  "Yes."

  "With a request?"

  Knight was on his feet. Judging from broadcasts on TV, Americans expect attorneys to play jack-in-the-box, objecting to this or objecting to that as "Incompetent, irrelevant, and immaterial." Canadians are a suspicious breed. Object and the jury wants to know what damning truth you're trying to hide. "Will Mr. Wilde be cross-examining his own witness? If so, I'd prefer to do it myself."

  "You'll get your turn," Hatchett said. "Answer the question, Doctor."

  "He asked me to perform the autopsy on his mom so he would know nothing was overlooked."

  "So he would know nothing was overlooked," echoed

  Wilde. "Is that why he waited outside the morgue while you did the job?"

  "We had a luncheon date."

  "Doctor, are you bankrolling his defense?"

  "Objection," Knight interjected. "Solicitor-client privilege."

  "This isn't America, Counsel," Hatchett said. "If you have an objection, get on your feet. I won't have sloppiness."

  Knight rose and bowed with a chivalrous arm swept under his vest. "I object, your ladyship."

  "I'm warning you, Mr. Knight."

  "So you keep saying. May I trouble you for a ruling on my objection?"

  "Sustained," Hatchett snarled through tight teeth. The damage, however, was done by the question itself. The seed Wilde planted in the jury room was: If you're paying for his defense, would you also cover up for the man? For your lover who's meddling with evidence sought by the Crown?

  "Doctor, what's the meaning of 'Oedipus complex?' "

  Gill's eyes narrowed. "It's a Freudian term linked to psychoanalysis. Oedipus was a king in a Greek legend who murdered his father and married his mother. An Oedipus complex is the unresolved desire of a child for sexual gratification through the parent of the opposite sex. At first there's identification with, then later hatred for the parent of the same sex, who is thought by the child to be a rival."

  "Desire by a son for his mother, is it not? Father by daughter is 'Electra complex?' "

  "Yes," said Gill.

  "An illustration of hate is the flip side of love, agree?"

  "Perhaps."

  "How old is Corporal Craven?"

  "Thirty-seven."

  "How old are you?"

  "Forty-two."

  "Interesting," Wilde pondered aloud, "in a case of matricide." He flipped his pocket watch open to consult the time, then sharply snapped it shut like a leghold trap. "Particularly where a son asks his older lover to cut up his mom."

  The prosecutor turned to Knight and smugly said, "Your witness," but before he could sit down, Gill took a Parthian shot. "If you were dating a woman five years yo
unger, would that be 'interesting in a case of patricide?' "

  "If she wrote a letter like the one in this case," Wilde shot back.

  "Mr. Knight?" said Hatchett, a wicked smile on her pursed lips.

  "In performing this autopsy, Doctor, were you the only pathologist in the morgue?"

  "No, Dr. Singh was at the station beside me."

  "Also doing postmortem?"

  "Yes, another clubbing. ,,

  "The clubbing of a police officer, I believe? Who was also disemboweled?"

  "Yes," said Macbeth.

  "Was Dora Craven disemboweled?"

  "Not that night. But I was later told—"

  "Hearsay," Hatchett snapped. "Don't say anything more."

  "Did you and Dr. Singh consult?"

  "Yes, back and forth."

  "So there's no way you could sabotage evidence for the Crown?"

  "One, I'd never do that. Professional ethics. Two, the postmortem was witnessed by experienced police. And three, Dr. Singh and I reviewed each other's work since we wondered if the clubbings were related."

  "And were they?"

  "We couldn't tell. The bludgeon used in this case imprinted the zigzag shown in the photographs onto Dora Craven's scalp. The other scalp was shredded when that body was dragged faceup."

  "Apart from the head, there was another important injury here?"

  Hatchett looked up from her bench book.

  Wilde cocked his head and frowned.

  Macbeth seemed perplexed. "To what do you refer?"

  "Exhibit six, Photo ten," Knight advised Hatchett. The jury rummaged through their albums and thumbed to the picture. "The Band-Aid we see on the victim's index

  finger? Did that cover the cut we see exposed in Photo fifteen?"

  A flipping of photographs. "Yes," the pathologist said.

  "And was that cut recent?"

  "Yes," Macbeth replied.

  "As recent as the day she died?"

  "Definitely."

  "And would such a cut bleed?"

  "Yes, for a while."

  "In your professional opinion, can you attribute a cause?"