Tator kept reading, slowly shaking her head.
Parish looked over at Lydia, who seemed to be teetering on her designer shoes.
Tator finally raised her eyes and zeroed in on Lydia. The judge had been an excellent lawyer in her day, and Parish could see why. She knew how to command a courtroom, capture the moment.
“Ms. Lansing, I don’t want to tread too much on the personal issues behind all this, but to be clear for the record, you and the accused were colleagues at the same law firm?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
“I believe you articled together?”
“We did.”
“I see,” Tator said. She hesitated. “How should I say this? There are some complicated family dynamics at work between the two of you, are there not?”
Lydia closed her eyes, and started to nod, as if she were in a trance. She swayed on her feet.
For an instant Parish thought she might even lose her balance. She had seen this many times before in the courtroom, people thrown back into their past recollections. Forgetting where they were, or even that other people were there.
Lydia kept nodding.
“Ms. Lansing,” Tator said, her voice warming. “I do need you to answer yes or no for the record.”
Lydia snapped her eyes open. Flustered.
“Oh, excuse me,” she said. “Yes, it’s true. Things with Melissa and me are complicated. They certainly are. I wish they weren’t.”
“I understand. To be absolutely clear, despite what I’ll call, if you don’t mind, your mutual history, you are confirming on the record that you are content with Mr. Fernandez’s decision.”
This happened with some judges. Especially the ones who had been good courtroom lawyers. Like a retired hockey player who was now a coach behind the bench but couldn’t control their urge to get back on the ice, they couldn’t control their urge to cross-examine a witness.
Lydia started nodding again. Then realized that she had to speak. “Yes, yes, I am.”
Now Tator was nodding too. “You two have known each other for a very long time,” she said, sounding more like a friend than a judge.
Lydia’s lips began to quiver. Then she broke, crying. She covered her face with her hands. “We went to kindergarten together, camp, school, university,” she said, struggling to get the words out. “She was my very best friend. I want her to get help, to get better.”
The courtroom fell silent again.
Lydia looked alone, naked and exposed.
Parish took a step forward to take the spotlight off her.
“Your Honour,” she said. “I think this witness has made herself clear.”
Tator realized that she’d gone too far.
“Yes, thank you, Counsel,” she said quickly. “The Crown has complete control of his case, and if he chooses to withdraw a charge, there is nothing this court can do. I have no further jurisdiction.”
Tator turned to Fernandez. “Mr. Fernandez, tell your colleagues that my court is now free. I can assist with any overflow cases.”
And with that, it was all over. The spectre of Melissa going to jail, the nightmare scenario that had kept Parish up all night, vanished into thin air not with the stroke of a pen but with a few words from a judge. After all these years of practice as a criminal lawyer, it still amazed her how a handful of words one way or the other could change forever a person’s life.
Lydia came over to her, and they walked out of the courtroom together, past security, through the heavy metal front door, and into the treeless parking lot. With nothing to stop it, the wind was strong and cold.
Lydia looked across the pavement at the used-car lot. “Nance, such an exotic place you get to come to for your work.”
“A hundred miles from the corporate boardrooms you spend your life in.”
“Imagine if all three of us had stayed at the firm. Mel went so far downhill when you and I left.”
“Who knows.” Parish shrugged.
“I’m not evil. Anything I do, Mel is going to turn against me.”
“I know.”
“I want her to see Britt. I really do.”
“It’s freezing,” Parish said. “Go home and I’ll call you later.”
“They say it’s going to warm up tonight. See you at the party.”
They hugged and Parish watched Lydia walk away before she went over to her car. She turned on the engine and blasted the heater, plugged her cell phone into the charger, and tapped out a text. “Mel. Lyd was good as her word. The charges against you are withdrawn. She wants to work out a way for you to see Britt after the party tonight. Please call me. Please. Nance.”
Parish knew that trying to reach Melissa now was almost certainly futile. It was like sending a message in a bottle, because when Melissa blew up like this, it could be weeks, even months, before Parish would hear from her again. Still, she had to try. Maybe it was the lawyer in her, or the loyal friend, or whatever. She pushed send.
Her cell rang while it was still in her hand. Was Melissa miraculously calling her back? Instead, the call display read “Detective Kennicott, Toronto Homicide.” She had his name in her contacts because he’d been one of the detectives on a murder trial she’d done a few years earlier.
“Hello, Detective,” she said.
“Good morning, Ms. Parish. I’ve just spoken with Albert Fernandez. I understand you are Melissa Copeland’s lawyer.”
“I am,” she said slowly. Why was Kennicott, a homicide detective, calling about Melissa? She couldn’t be a suspect, could she?
“I want to talk to you about her.”
“I can’t do that right now.” Parish knew that Kennicott had been a lawyer before he became a cop. “You understand solicitor-client privilege. I’d need her permission.”
“I understand, but you don’t need Ms. Copeland’s permission to listen to what I have to say. It’s important and urgent, but I’d rather not talk on the phone.”
She sighed. “I’ve had a long morning, Detective, and I’m stuck up here in the North York Courthouse.”
“I know where you are.”
“You do?”
She heard a tap on her window and turned. Kennicott was standing there, a grim look on his face.
She rolled down her window.
“Detective Kennicott? What’s going on? Is she all right?”
“I don’t know. I drove up here and just missed her,” Kennicott said. “We think she’s in danger.”
22
“Detective Greene,” Hodgson said. “What a most unpleasant surprise.”
“Not many people are happy to be visited by a homicide detective.”
“Especially for a second time.” Hodgson was a broad-shouldered man who wore his initialled shirts undone at the collar, as if his neck were too big to enclose in a shirt. He had a full head of thick hair and a nervous tic of tilting his head to the side and running his hand through it.
“I figured you’d show up on my doorstep this morning when I heard about the second murder in the valley. I’ve already called my lawyer,” Hodgson said. “Your pal Phil Cutter.”
Cutter had been Hodgson’s lawyer at his murder trial. Years earlier, he’d started his career as a Crown Attorney and soon developed a reputation as a rabid advocate, determined to prosecute every case to the max. Greene had worked a number of murder trials with Cutter and never felt comfortable with him. Eventually Cutter’s zeal led him to cross the line, and Greene was the one who caught him and got him turfed out of the Crown’s office.
He’d become a defence lawyer—“I’ve gone over to the dark side,” he liked to brag—and had been up against Greene on a number of murder trials. As a defence lawyer, his ultra-combative style, drilling down on even the most minute detail, was at times brilliant. But often his obsessiveness wound up being detrimental to his clients’ best interests. Greene didn’t trust him, and Cutter knew it.
Greene looked around Hodgson’s office. It wasn’t so much an office as a shrine to hi
s daughter’s golf achievements. Photos of Britt playing adorned the walls, along with tournament champion banners, and an array of brass trophies on a special shelf. A collection of putters was mounted behind his desk, each one longer than the next, tracking his daughter’s growth.
Greene sat across the desk from Hodgson. He didn’t attempt to shake hands, and he didn’t acknowledge any of the golf-shrine décor.
“I’ll take a wild guess,” Greene said. “Cutter told you not to talk to me.”
“You are correct.”
“Then why did you agree to see me at all?”
“Because I wanted to tell you something important, Detective Greene.” Hodgson leaned forward. “I didn’t kill that bum who was killed in the valley a few days ago, and I didn’t kill the one who died today that’s all over the news this morning.”
“Bums?”
“Yeah, bums. I never use the word homeless. That glorifies it. Makes it sound as if these leeches had no life choices. They have plenty of choice. There are available shelter beds in the city every night. Nobody has to live in the valley or sleep on the street.”
“Sounds like a political speech.”
“It is. And yes, the rumours are true. I’m running for mayor in the next election, and I plan to win.” He sat back and smiled. Ran his fingers through his hair.
They both knew what that meant. If Hodgson became mayor, he’d be Greene’s boss.
Greene stood. “I’m apolitical.”
Hodgson stood too. “That’s it?”
“You told me you didn’t kill them,” Greene said.
“You don’t believe me?”
“It’s not my job to believe or disbelieve. I’m interested in facts. Do you want to tell me where you were earlier this morning?”
For the first time since Greene had walked into his office, Hodgson wasn’t looking cocky. He crossed his arms. Defiant. Silent.
“Perhaps you would like to explain this to me,” Greene said, fishing his cell phone out of his pocket. “I’m curious. How did the right front fender of your SUV get scratched?”
“Right front fender?” Hodgson said, unable to contain himself. Answering a police officer’s question with a question was a classic stall. He was playing for time.
“Long and narrow,” Greene said. “Have to see what forensics says, but it looks to me as if it’s the shape of a bicycle fender. Back wheel.”
Hodgson looked flustered. Even though his lawyer had advised him to keep his mouth shut, it wasn’t easy for an extrovert like him. He loved to talk, and the best way to break his cone of silence was to be quiet. Surprise him.
Greene slowly raised his cell phone, punched in some letters, and pulled up a set of photos. He fiddled with the phone, rotating it, upwards and sideways. He didn’t look at Hodgson, but he could feel his agitation and impatience growing.
“There it is,” Greene said.
“What?” Hodgson said, his anxiety getting the best of his vow of silence.
“I took some pictures of your SUV in the parking garage. Want to see?”
Hodgson shrugged.
“Is that a yes or a no?” Greene asked. Without waiting for an answer, he reached across the desk and put the phone right up to Hodgson’s face.
Hodgson couldn’t resist looking at the photo. He shook his head. “Ever since the trial and my acquittal, my car gets vandalized all the time.”
“This scratch looks fresh.”
Hodgson stared at him and didn’t respond. Back to trying to not speak.
“I’ll ask you again. Where were you this morning, say at about five thirty to six a.m.?”
“I don’t have to answer any more questions.”
Suspects often said this. But even saying they didn’t have to talk meant they were still talking. And that was the key. Keep them talking.
Greene reached back into his pocket and pulled out a piece of cloth. He bent over Hodgson’s desk and began to unfold it.
“You recognize this?” he said, taking his time pulling off the last bit of material to reveal a golf ball with Hodgson’s initials on it.
Hodgson stared at it.
“K.L.H. Your initials, and here’s the club crest,” Greene said. “Leonard’s your middle name.”
“Where did you get this?” Hodgson asked. Once again, unable to maintain his silence.
Greene folded the cloth back up around the ball. It was his turn to go silent. He turned to leave.
“I order two dozen balls every April,” Hodgson said, animated now. “It’s a point of pride for me that I never lose all of them during the season.”
This made sense. Hodgson had testified at his trial that he was a scratch golfer. And his order of twenty-four balls in the spring was true. Greene had checked with the labelling company. But that wasn’t the whole story.
“But then you ordered a half dozen two weeks ago,” Greene said.
“One morning a few weeks ago when I was out on the course playing a round, someone broke into my car and stole my last six balls.”
“Did you report the theft?”
“There’s no point. Waterbridge and the old farts who run the club, do you think they give a damn? They’re probably happy about it. They’d love nothing better than to see me gone.”
Greene pocketed the wrapped-up ball.
Was Hodgson being set up? Or had he let his rage get the better of him when he killed the two homeless people? Had he cleverly concocted a plausible explanation? Impossible to tell.
“Pleasure to see you again, Councillor,” Greene said. “And don’t take your vehicle to the car wash.” He opened the door and left without looking back.
23
Alison had Krevolin park the TV van a block away and around the corner from the church where the memorial service for Deborah Lemon was being held. It was impossible to be unobtrusive if you were a TV reporter, but at least this way they wouldn’t be on the street where the mourners were gathering.
The service was set to start in about half an hour. Alison was scheduled to broadcast live when the church doors opened fifteen minutes before it began. She and Krevolin got out of the van and walked around the corner. The little church was at the far end of the block, and she could see a crowd had already gathered outside. This was a close-knit, working-class neighbourhood. They passed homes on the street where families, despite the blustery cold weather, had come out into their small front yards to watch.
At times like this, Alison wished she were a newspaper reporter and could sit quietly in the back of the church to watch the service and listen to the eulogies without being noticed. Talk to people privately. Write up her story on her own time. Cover the event and not become part of it.
But being a TV reporter meant showing up with a cameraman and everyone knowing you were there. She couldn’t film inside the church and was limited to interviewing people as they came in and out of it. To bulk up the story she had to get tape of what they had to say.
She was under a lot of pressure to deliver a good report. Her boss was skeptical about her doing this story, and Alison had fought hard for it.
“We cover funerals of rich and famous people all the time,” she’d argued, “why don’t we ever cover the funeral of a homeless person?”
“Hundreds of people die in this city every week,” Persaud had said. “That doesn’t make it news.”
“Deborah Lemon was the second murder victim in the valley this week.”
“True.”
“We never do real stories about the poor or the homeless.”
“We cover the homeless issue.”
“That’s my point. We talk about the issue. Interview experts. But when do we do stories about the people who actually live on the street? And the people they leave behind?”
Persaud had agreed. Even though Krevolin had been up with her since they’d rushed out to the Humber Valley early this morning, the cameraman had volunteered for the assignment.
As they approached the church, Alison could
see people were huddled together in two different groups. The first group was well dressed. Some wore Humber River Hospital togs with name tags clipped on them and badges dangling around their necks. The people in the second, smaller group were poorly dressed and most of them were smoking. Alison recognized some of the faces from the protest that Dr. Burns had led outside Police Headquarters. There was no sign of the dead woman’s family.
Sylvia, the receptionist from the clinic, was there. She spotted Alison and gave her a condescending glare. Alison looked for Burns and was surprised that he wasn’t there. She had a fleeting thought: Was she only looking for him for professional reasons? Did she have personal motives for setting this whole thing up?
She had called him this morning when she got the go-ahead for the assignment.
“I’m impressed,” he said.
“I think it’s an important story.”
“Especially if there’s a serial killer out there.”
“That’s what sold it,” she admitted.
As Alison walked closer to the church, Krevolin put his hand out to stop her. “I need an establishing shot,” he said, hoisting up his camera. She stood beside him as he filmed the scene. She looked around. More people were becoming aware that they were there. Some were pointing.
“Done,” Krevolin said. “Let’s go.”
They started by interviewing the health-care workers. Lemon’s former colleagues from the hospital spoke eloquently about what a dedicated and professional nurse Deb had been before her fall. Many were crying.
Alison checked her watch. Fifteen minutes to go. There was still no sign of the family or Burns.
She approached the homeless crowd and smiled at Sylvia.
“Good afternoon,” Alison said.
“Arnold told me you were coming,” Sylvia said, as unimpressed as ever. “You interviewed all those hospital workers first. You going to bother to talk to some of Nurse Deb’s real friends?”
“That’s why I’m here.” She motioned Krevolin to follow her. She took out her mic, he rolled the camera, and she started to talk to people. Some were articulate, others rambled, and others were almost unintelligible. The one thing they all said was that “Nurse Deb” assisted people in the valley and was always trying to help them get off drugs.
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