Full Disclosure

by Beverley McLachlin

  I see the jury leaning forward, hanging on each word. Even the insurance executive. Time to wind up.

  “The law does not require a person defending himself against serious harm or death to measure precisely what is required to remove the impending threat. Damon could have accepted Lippert’s death sentence, but he refused. He fought back to save his life. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, that is the evidence. And on that evidence, you must, I submit, conclude that the Crown has failed to discharge its burden of proving Damon Cheskey guilty of murder.”

  Betty O’Shea nods; the barista wipes a tear from her eye. They have to be unanimous to convict. We may just have a chance.

  I sit down. Justice Orrest gives me a sympathetic look. Not bad, Ms. Truitt, under the circumstances. She turns to the jury. “We’ll take a short recess before we hear from the Crown.”

  “Nice try, Jilly,” Cy says as the jury files out. “Sadly, for your client, not quite enough.” If Cy’s worried, it’s not showing.

  * * *

  AFTER THE RECESS, CY MAKES his pitch.

  He recaps the prosecution’s case, then attacks our defense of local improvement. “Jinks Lippert,” he says, pivoting toward the jury, “may have been a street dealer and enforcer. No doubt he was not the sort of man you would invite to tea in your parlor.” Small smile. “But even not-so-nice people have a right to live. Canadian society has not yet—and hopefully never will—reach the point where one citizen has the right to kill another just because they don’t think he is a good person.”

  The just society argument; a few jurors nod. “Ms. Truitt paints a picture of a naïve, well-intentioned, confused youth. But look at the facts. Damon Cheskey is a young man of superior intelligence, with a term of university behind him. Good family, no mental illness, no extenuating factors that might lead him into what Ms. Truitt so eloquently describes as his inevitable downward spiral. The truth is that Damon Cheskey, a boy with every advantage, chose to forget all he had been taught about right and wrong. He chose to do drugs, knowing what he did about the dangers of them. He chose to continue taking drugs and to leave university for a life on the street. This privileged young man with a world of opportunities before him chose to start selling drugs. That’s the truth. Self-defense,” he guffaws to the jury, “what a joke. Damon Cheskey, in defiance of all the street rules, chose to sell drugs on Kellen’s territory. And, when the inevitable response came from Kellen’s enforcer, Jinks Lippert, Damon Cheskey chose to go out and steal a gun.”

  Cy shifts and sends me a steely gaze. Watch how a pro does it.

  I glare back. Do your best, Cy.

  “At each step, Damon Cheskey could have turned and walked away. But he didn’t. Instead, he made his final, fatal choice—to seek out Mr. Lippert and fire five shots into his chest and head. The first two shots, you have heard, did not kill Mr. Lippert. If the accused had stopped there, Mr. Lippert would be alive today. But Damon Cheskey left nothing to chance. He had decided—he had chosen—to kill Mr. Lippert. So he went on to fire three more shots to Mr. Lippert’s head as he lay helpless and bleeding on the pavement. Each time, he had to cock the pistol, pull the trigger. Each time, he made a deliberate choice. That’s not self-defense, that’s murder. Those, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, are the facts. And there is only one verdict consistent with those facts—guilty as charged of first-degree murder.”

  As Cy returns to the counsel table, he stops to look at Damon in the prisoner’s box. The jurors’ eyes follow Cy’s and read the contempt in his look. Heart sinking, I watch as their faces harden and close.

  CHAPTER 10

  JEFF AND I WAIT ON a low bench in the Great Hall under slanting sheets of green glass. The jury has been out for three hours. Justice Orrest charged them this afternoon on the law and the evidence, barely a hint of incredulity as she described the theory of the defense.

  “We’re done,” Jeff grieves. “It’s the mechanic. He understands the world in pieces; you press, something happens—you don’t press, nothing happens. He’s not buying our rapid fire syndrome.”

  “Jeff, it takes twelve to convict, one to acquit. Delay is good news. Someone is having a problem with guilt.” Still, it will be a miracle if whoever that someone is—I’m thinking the barista—continues to hold out.

  A stray lawyer detours to tell me that the bets in the barristers’ lounge are not in our favor, but I’m more interested in Sheriff Clara Klinks coming down the corridor.

  “Thanks a million,” I say to the lawyer, my eyes on Clara. Her stride tells me she’s on her way somewhere; her expression tells me she’d like to stop but shouldn’t. I decide to make the decision for her.

  “How’s it going, Clara?” I ask, intercepting her path.

  She looks around to see if anyone is watching. “Lots of discussion. So loud it’s coming through the walls.” She sighs. “They want dinner, so nothing will happen before eight at the earliest. Might as well get something yourself.”

  “Thanks, Clara.” She hurries off, and I hear a click behind me. Cy is approaching, alone. I give him a small wave.

  “Long wait,” I offer.

  “Evidently you’ve managed to confuse them, Jilly. But I expect they’ll overcome it.” He leans toward me and lowers his voice. “That last-minute trick you pulled calling Petrov and his cock-and-bull theory of rapid fire syndrome—” He breaks off.

  I take a good look at him. His skin is transparent as Meissen and black pools sag under his eyes. He hasn’t slept for days. I need to talk to him about setting a schedule for Trussardi, but this isn’t the time or place.

  “How’s Lois?”

  “Wearing.” He changes the subject. “Going to grab a bite with Emily. Could be a long night.”

  I wonder if he means the jury or what awaits him at home when Orrest finally lets us go. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Sheriff Clara descending on us.

  “They’ve changed their mind,” she says breathlessly. “They’re ready to bring in the verdict now.”

  “Somebody couldn’t stand the thought of another KFC dinner and caved,” I say lightly, but this is not good news for us.

  We shuffle back into the courtroom, watch while the prisoner and jury are escorted back in. Damon sits motionless, pale as chalk. I try to catch his eye—you’re not alone—but he stares straight ahead as if in a trance.

  Justice Orrest climbs the bench with a heavy step. She, too, looks weary. “Madam foreperson, has the jury reached a verdict?”

  Betty O’Shea stands. She throws her shoulders back in her shiny gray suit, looks straight at Orrest. For this moment, she is totally in command, and she’s making the most of it. I wonder idly how her life on Nanaimo Street will seem after this experience. Will she toss her adult children out? Tell her dockworker husband to take out the garbage on Wednesday morning? Maybe she’ll leave him and find a new life.

  “We have,” Betty O’Shea intones. “We find the accused not guilty.”

  The courtroom erupts. The handful of court watchers who have stayed with us to the end let out a whoop. From the bleachers I hear a low groan that becomes a sob—Damon’s mother. Damon rises shakily, sinks back to his seat, unable to believe what he’s heard.

  “Order!” cries the clerk.

  I glance at Cy. It’s his right to have the jury polled; for a moment I think he’s going to exercise it, but he inclines his head. Not this time. Orrest thanks the jury and takes her leave. Behind us, the crowd disperses. It’s over.

  Cy is pushing himself up on his crutch, taking the aisle in a single stride. I offer my hand and a nod, but he looms over me. “Travesty of justice,” he hisses. “I taught you too well, Jilly Truitt.” He swings round and heads for the door. “Don’t worry,” he calls over his shoulder. “We’ll pick him up on new charges before long. Just pray he doesn’t kill again next time.”

  The force of his venom paralyzes me. Get over it, Cy, I think. But deep inside it hits me: he won’t. My kindly mentor is no more; an implacable adversary h
as taken his place.

  I feel a tug on the sleeve of my gown, turn.

  “Ms. Truitt.” Damon’s hand trembles as he pulls it away. “Thank you.”

  “We got lucky,” I say. “Today, by some miracle, you got the rest of your life back. Promise me you won’t throw it away.”

  He struggles for sound, nothing comes out.

  “I know you can do it, Damon. You have everything to live for.” I glance at the bar that divides the lawyers from the audience, where his parents wait, faces wet with relief.

  “I won’t let you down, Ms. Truitt.” His voice is uncertain but his eyes are bright.

  I nod and watch him return to his parents and head toward the door.

  Abruptly, all is quiet. I feel the letdown coming on as the adrenaline dissipates. I turn to Jeff and notice lines on either side of his mouth I never saw before and wonder how things are at home. “How’s Jessica?” Jessica is a fragile flower, too delicate to be the wife of a trial lawyer.

  “Last time I looked, her jeans were still on the hook.”

  “Jeff, I’m giving you an order. Float plane, the Island, Deep Cove Chalet. Tomorrow. On me.”

  He gives me a wan smile. “If you say so, boss.” I watch him make his way to the elevator, twin briefcases rolling behind.

  Alone behind the wheel of my Mercedes, I nose up the parking ramp and south. I go two blocks before it hits me—I’m headed in the wrong direction. It’s my routine when a trial is over to head south to Shaughnessy and Mike. He pours me a glass of wine, sits me on his love seat, listens as I recount what happened, moment by moment, hour by hour, day by day, not revealing whether I won or lost until the very end. Ah, he will say if I’ve won, that calls for a toast. Or if I’ve lost, I think you need a hug. Debriefing, decompressing, the restoration of normalcy.

  Except Mike isn’t there anymore, not for me, anyway. I’m heading back to Yaletown when my cell phone buzzes.

  Maybe it’s Mike, I think as I fish into my bag for my phone. Stop dreaming, Jilly, it’s over with you and Mike. The screen tells me it’s Edith Hole.

  Edith is my social worker. An orphan needs many people in her life. One of them is a meta-manager charged with the basic task of seeing that the orphan has a roof over her head most, if not all, of the time. When they found me on the street—in my imagination it’s always just the street—Edith took me in. When the minister and his wife died, Edith found me a new home. When I got thrown out of the next home for altering my second foster father’s food in unmentionable ways, Edith found me another home, and another and another, until finally she discovered the marvelous Maynes, who in their own inimitable, neglectful, but affectionate way, saw me through high school and university.

  I think about letting it go to voicemail, but then some latent urge to connect with the closest thing I have to a birth mom surfaces. I pull over.

  “Edith, how are you?”

  “Fine. Just thought we should have lunch—it’s been forever.” Her familiar tone, even and infinitely patient, wraps around me.

  “Sure. I’d like that.”

  “Trafalgar’s Bistro,” she says. “Next Saturday, twelve thirty? Call me if you can’t make it. Otherwise, I’ll be there.”

  I think of my calendar, nothing but blanks where it says Saturday. “Great, Edith. See you then.”

  Suddenly I’m tired. I nose the car back into the traffic and head home.

  CHAPTER 11

  I LIVE IN THE MOST beautifully situated city in the world, the travelogues like to brag—only Rio gives it a run for its money. Yet too often I could be in any gray place, nothing but fog and cloud and the sleet of rain as I navigate the soaked asphalt. No beaches, no ocean, no mountains. Just one bleak street after the other.

  But today, as I drive through Stanley Park toward the bridge, the clouds lift and the sun shafts through. The North Shore Mountains emerge in all their snow-capped splendor. Whatever I find at the Trussardi residence, savory or unsavory, at least the view promises to be spectacular. At a red light, I input the address on my GPS and study the map that will guide me through the labyrinth of trails linking the mansions of the North Shore. Trussardi repeated his offer of dinner when we arranged today’s meeting, and I reluctantly accepted. Forget professional niceties, I told myself. I want to win this case. If that means breaking bread with my client to get him to open up, then so be it.

  It takes less time than I expect, so with fifteen minutes to spare, I pull into a cul-de-sac uphill from my destination and fish the envelope Cy gave me from my bag. I open the flap, take the photos out, and note the time and date stamped on each—Saturday, May 4, 2014, 5:38 p.m.—before inspecting them one by one.

  I am used to looking at photographs of crime scenes. They are never pretty, never fail to punch me in the viscera. What was once alive is now dead; what was once human has been utterly, irrevocably dehumanized. Even when the victim is a monster, like Kellen’s enforcer, the still flesh packs its punch. But these photos are worse. The forensic pathologists have likely already assigned words to what the photos show: female, Caucasian, well nourished. Tied at the hands and feet. Bruises to the face, hips, and upper thighs. Cause of death: bullet entering base of the skull, exiting left temple.

  Those are the words. But it takes pictures to tell the story of a death. IF YOU CAN SAY IT IN WORDS, WHY PAINT? a banner on the art gallery once proclaimed. These photos paint, and the picture is evil.

  Who could have done this? I push the key into the dash and rev the motor. And why?

  The Trussardi house descends the rocky cliff in a graceful cascade of glass and cedar. It is unobtrusive, tailored to blend seamlessly into the landscape of red-streaked boulders and evergreens. I park my car in the drive and follow flagstone steps down to a massive door carved with Salish motifs. I push the brass bell and wait.

  A beautiful woman appears in the doorway.

  “Miss Truitt?” she asks. “I am Carmelina, the housekeeper. Please come with me.”

  Housekeeper indeed. More like Sophia Loren. She moves like a cat, hips swaying, as she leads me through the upper gallery. Paintings glow like lighted jewels on the white walls, and cabinets of pale wood and glass line the wall at the end of the room—no doubt they house the famed Trussardi collection of Indigenous boxes and baskets. Nearby, bathed in a cone of discreet light, green men in a clamshell row toward some mythic nirvana.

  I follow Carmelina’s long legs—despite the intermittent gloom, she is wearing shorts—down shallow steps to the living area. Through walls of glass, I glimpse English Bay, gray-streaked orange in the lowering sun.

  Vincent Trussardi is standing on the terrace, back to me. Taking in the view, I think, and then his fist comes down on the railing. He utters a low animal moan that makes me catch my breath.

  Carmelina hesitates, then slides the half-open glass door aside. “Miss Truitt has arrived,” she says, pushing a sculpted wave of dark hair from her face.

  Vincent turns, and his shoulders relax as he settles his mask of equanimity back in place. “Excuse me, Miss Truitt, I am remiss.” He waves to the chair next to his. “Please, do be seated.”

  “Thank you,” I say, sinking into the chair.

  “May I offer you a refreshment?” Carmelina hands me a stemmed glass before I can answer.

  “Nice place. Nice things.”

  “You mean the art, my collections.”

  “Everything.” My eyes follow Carmelina’s retreating figure, then swivel back to Trussardi.

  “Given the choice, I opt for the aesthetically pleasing.” He takes a small sip of wine. “Even in housekeepers. Why live with the mediocre if beauty is available?”

  I think of the crime scene photos—not much beauty there. “Before we go further, Mr. Trussardi, I need to be certain that you want me to act for you. There are many excellent defense lawyers available in this city. You aren’t bound to me.”

  He eyes me curiously. “Are you saying you don’t want to take my case?”

  �
��No,” I reply. “But you cannot be unaware of the fact that I have been linked to a cousin of your late wife.”

  “If you are referring to the photograph of you holding hands with your fiancé on the steps of the cathedral, yes, I am aware. And I am not in the least concerned.”

  “You should know that he was never my fiancé. And we are no longer together.”

  He sets down his glass. “Miss Truitt, it would grieve me to think that I may have come between you and your—friend.”

  “No,” I say. “It’s more complicated than that.” Why should he care? Most of my clients don’t give a damn about my personal life.

  “If there’s something I can do to help . . .” He lets the words hang. “Forget I raised it.”

  The words I usually find to fill moments such as these do not come. We stare out over the sea. The sun is on the horizon; it lowers, begins to sink. When it is no more than a sliver of red on the edge of the ocean, he breaks the silence.