I go back to the living room, turn at the banquette. Yes, Damon could have seen Trussardi retrieve the code, could have watched him open the safe and take out the gun. But how can I use Damon’s testimony to create doubt without damning my client? Or without damning Damon? One of them did it, the jury would reason. I don’t like either result.
I sense a presence in the room and swivel. “Raquella.”
“This is fortuitous,” she says. “I was about to summon you.” She wheels to a corridor behind the dining area. I follow her to the elevator.
Back in her apartment, she gets right to the point. “Stop your inquiries into matters that are not your business, Miss Truitt.”
I think of the words I saw on my windshield the night I fell ill: Stop digging.
She leans forward. “Some things are best left in the past, Miss Truitt. I understand that, he understands that.”
“Did he talk to you last night?” Are brother and sister in some secret conspiracy?
“You ask too many questions, Miss Truitt. You need to learn to let some things go.”
“Is that a threat?”
“Make of it what you will.”
“You’re afraid I’ll discover something that would absolve your brother, lead to his acquittal. It would suit you just fine if he were sent to prison, wouldn’t it, Raquella?”
“Absurd,” she hisses.
“Do you know anything about the drugs that were delivered to Laura?”
Raquella sniffs. “How would I know?”
I look at her, hunched sideways in her chair, and suddenly I understand. “So many years in a wheelchair. It must be painful.”
She makes no reply.
“Perhaps Laura got the drugs for you, Raquella? A little cocaine to ease the pain.”
“Leave!” she shouts, arm raised. “Now.”
I turn at the door. “This is the second time you’ve thrown me out, Raquella. I won’t return for a third. But I want you to remember this: before this case is over, I will know everything.”
A flash of fear crosses her features. Good, I think.
In the garden, Botero’s sculpture looms before me, enormous of thigh, pendulous of breast, vacuous stare malevolent. Once she made me laugh. Now, for some reason, I feel revulsion.
CHAPTER 34
IN THE END, I DECIDE to go to Cy’s party. I need a break from the mess my office calls “Jilly’s Trussardi Obsession,” and I need to scotch the rumors that I’ve suffered a near-mortal blow. I’ve regained most of the weight I lost and booked into the spa this morning to get my hair cut and my nails painted in my new signature black. Before my bathroom mirror, I dab a spot of blush on my still-pale cheeks, put on bright lipstick, and tell myself I don’t look bad in my low-cut black dress and heels.
I wedge my Mercedes between a Bentley and a Ford, and stride across the gravel of the parking area and up Cy’s crumbling walk in the long rays of the dying sun. I pull my shoulders back and toss my hair as I push the bell. I’m back and here to stay.
Lois greets me at the door. She’s a new woman—jaundice gone, face shining, decked out in a chic red-linen shift and sandals. “Jilly, we were so hoping you’d come,” she says brightly. “How are you? Cy says you’ve suffered a tiny contretemps. Obviously, you’re over it—you look wonderful.” As she speaks, she draws me into the crowded great room and through to the back terrace.
Cy’s house is old by Vancouver standards. It’s big barn of a place with a two-story living room from which all the other rooms radiate. An eccentric house; nothing but a few pieces of plumbing have changed since his father built it half a century ago. The land upon which the house sits, however, is spectacular—two acres of prime real estate descending down the cliff to the Pacific Ocean. Cy jokes that the land is his retirement plan. He’ll need it. They don’t pay prosecutors a lot, even the best of them.
People call to me, smile, lean over for a buss. Whatever they’ve heard, most seem genuinely pleased to see me. The prosecutors I spar with in court, the lawyers I share the defense bench with, a smattering of judges—it’s good to see them again.
Outside on the terrace, Cy, surrounded by a coterie of admirers, mans the barbecue. I know his secret—he has the beef tenderloins prepped by a caterer so all he needs to do is warm them up—but I would never tell. I watch him hobble to a table draped in white linen and lined with salads, one arm in its brace, the other holding a platter bearing a huge slab of meat. He sets the dish down neatly beside the salads without a tremor. I marvel at the performance.
He sees me and comes over, braced leg swinging, butcher knife in hand.
“You wouldn’t stab me in the back, Cy, would you?” I ask with a laugh as he reaches behind to hug me.
“Never, Jilly, never. Good to see you. I told Lois you’d come.” His round face beams down at me as though he means it. “Smashing, Jilly, smashing.” He looks over at the man behind the bar, single-handedly fighting off the crush of people demanding drinks. “A glass of white wine for Ms. Truitt,” he yells. The bartender shakes his head like Cy’s an idiot.
“I’m fine,” I say. “Nice evening—lots of people. I’ll just wander for a while.”
I drift from cluster to cluster. At some point, Ben, a prosecutor from up-country, decides to do the gracious thing and finds me a drink. I accept it with a smile and chat with him for a polite interval. At a break in our conversation, I look around. That’s when I see him.
He stands near the terrace door, engaged in conversation. I scan for a woman on his arm, find none. Just guys. What the hell is he doing here? Is this Cy being cheeky? He sees me, takes a step toward me, then stops as if thinking better of it. I decide to take matters in my own hands. As I approach, he detaches himself from the group. I move into an alcove near the door, and he follows.
“Hi, Mike,” I say. He looks good to me, like he’s always looked. What a fool I was to walk out on him.
“Jilly. How have you been?”
“Rumors of my demise are greatly exaggerated.”
His face breaks into the beaky grin I remember. “We should have lunch or something, Jilly. For old times’ sake.” He looks at me thoughtfully. “How’s your case coming?”
“Trussardi? Between us, not as well as I would like. But it will soon be over. We go to trial in a couple of weeks.”
“So I’ve heard. My various aunts keep me in the loop.”
“Yeah.” I angle back to where I want to be. “I’d like to do lunch, Mike. I miss you.”
I feel a touch on my arm, but it’s not Mike. It’s one of the men I saw standing at the barbecue with Cy—an undercover cop working in Oregon, I overheard someone say—high forehead, sharp chin, trendy leather jacket.
I move back to Mike, but before I can, the cop takes my hand, closes my fingers around the stem of a glass of white wine, and gives me an intimate smile, his eye following the line of my dress. Is this from Cy? He’s about to tell me, but I’m not interested, not now. “Thanks,” I say, cutting him off, and turn to Mike. But Mike’s gone, weaving through the crowd toward the front door. I whirl back to the cop, ready to give him a piece of my mind, but he’s no longer there either. “What the hell?” He must hear me because he turns and gives a lazy wave before continuing toward Cy at the barbecue. I hear his low laughter as he shares something with Cy. What kind of game are they playing?
The party has gone sour, and I have no appetite for more. I deposit the glass the man forced on me on a small table and head inside. Halfway across the room, I stop. I should at least thank Lois, wish her a speedy recovery. I scan the crowd. “Looking for Lois?” someone asks. “Try the kitchen.”
As befits an old-fashioned house of pretension, the only way to the kitchen is through the butler’s pantry. I push open the swinging door. What I see stops me dead in my tracks. Lois stands at the kitchen counter, her back to me. Her head is tilted back and her right hand holds a bottle to her lips. Sensing someone, she spins around with an accusing stare—So what? My hand l
eaves the door, and it starts to swing shut.
Then I hear her voice from the other side. “Come in, Jilly.”
I step inside. The bottle is on the counter.
“I know, I know,” she says, moving toward me. “Just a few nips; tomorrow I’m back on the wagon. I’ve done all the counseling, all the never-another-drop stuff. But recovery—it’s hard, Jilly, so hard.”
“Lois, no.” I reach for the bottle, throw it in a trashcan that’s been set up for the party.
“You’re a good person, Jilly. I can’t let him do it to you.”
Who? Cy? I must have misheard. “Lois, what are you talking about?”
“Cy. He’s got something up his sleeve. The Trussardi case.”
“Like what?”
“A police report, an occurrence report, I think he called it.”
I feel a chill. “What does it say?”
“I can’t be certain—I overheard one of his calls. Just the other day. Something about Laura Trussardi crying in the street outside her house a couple of days before the murder.”
Why would Laura be crying in the street just before the murder? How many secrets can one woman take to her grave?
I take a deep breath and give Lois a hug. “Thanks. I appreciate the heads-up. But I’m not too worried. Cy can’t use the report in evidence unless he gives me disclosure.” I force a smile. “I have to leave, Lois. Why don’t you see me out?”
“Yes, of course.” She takes my hand. “Let’s go.” And then she lurches to the side, stumbling.
“Lois, you’re not well,” I say. “Let me take you upstairs.”
She nods sickly, leans against me as we walk up the servants’ stairs, out of sight of the party. I lay her on the big bed in the room at the end of the hall and cover her with a throw.
“Jilly, don’t tell anyone what happened downstairs. And don’t tell Cy what I said about the report. Please. He’d kill me.”
“Don’t worry, Lois. Not a word.” It’s not the first time I’ve run into women who are scared of their husbands. Still, she’s shaken me. Sure she’s drunk, but why tell me about some phantom report? Why double-cross her husband? I pat her arm. “Get some rest.” I take the stairs and push through the crowd below and outside.
I slump behind the wheel of my car. Mike’s crooked smile fills my mind.
Lois is right. Recovery is harder than they say.
ACT
THREE
CHAPTER 35
THE FIRST DAY OF THE trial dawns bright and clear, and the crisp smell of autumn hangs in the air. I rise early from a fitful sleep, pull on my Adidas and Lycra, and head down to the seawall for a run before I meet Trussardi. Already I feel the adrenaline rush that accompanies each new trial. It’s my only remaining addiction—the addiction to risk. Despite all the disclosure, all the rules, there are always surprises, and this case will be no exception. Witnesses who say more than they should. The push in cross-examination, always calculated, but sometimes going further than safe. “The play’s the thing,” Hamlet said. The play I am about to enter—its acts, its scenes, its climax, its ultimate denouement—stretches before me in all its incertitude. Running takes off the crazy edge, leaves just enough behind.
At precisely nine fifteen, Vincent Trussardi meets me at the office, dressed in a dark suit, crisp white shirt, and understated black silk tie. At a casual glance, he looks confidently distinguished, but there are deep shadows under his eyes. I shrug a coat over my black suit and join him in the limo that waits on the street. Jeff has gone ahead in his van with the books. My job is to deliver the client safely into the hands of the waiting sheriff and hence into the prisoner’s box.
“Keep your eyes straight ahead and don’t blink,” I advise in the back seat of the limo. “Remember, you’re presumed innocent.”
He pulls his face into a look of haughty reserve. Not great either.
I’ve warned him, but the crowd outside 800 Smithe Street still hits him like a tsunami. He flinches, then, remembering my instructions, forces his chin up. Curious court watchers press between cameras and the clamoring press. “Wife killer!” someone shouts. In the background, crudely painted signs wobble in the wind: ANOTHER WOMAN KILLED. END THE SLAUGHTER. His shoulders stiffen as he steps out of the car and onto the curb.
The crowd parts to allow us through. Lights flash on every side, and reporters thrust mics in our faces. We ignore them and push through the glass doors and into the building where two uniformed men await us. I nod and watch as they escort my client through the locked doors to the cells.
I find Jeff in courtroom twenty neatly stacking files on our counsel table. It’s a big room in the bowels of the courthouse, kitted out with technology and screens and bulletproof glass. Just in case. I hear Cy’s step in the aisle and turn to greet him. Lois’s warning at the party comes back to me, but the rules of civility must be maintained.
“So we do battle, Jilly,” says Cy, swiveling his bulk to view the mass of potential jurors in the well of the courtroom.
“So it seems, Cy. ‘Once more unto the breach.’ ”
He has barely settled himself when the court clerk—a genial blond lady named Marion—puts down her phone, rises from her desk, and approaches us. “Justice Moulton would like to see you in his chambers before the arraignment and jury selection,” she tells us.
We hitch up our gowns and follow her out the door behind the bench, up the elevator, and down an inner corridor carpeted in red. On our right, a long row of pale wooden doors stretch as far as we can see. Marion pauses before one of them, raps on the door. From deep within comes a low grunt, “Open.” Marion pushes on the door and bids us follow her in.
Mr. Justice Albert Moulton sits behind his blond beech desk, leaning back in a high red leather chair. A lordly swath of white hair waves back from his handsome face. Although he exudes self-satisfaction, there is an air of malaise about him—the down-turned lip, the complexion blotched with choleric spots, the deep creases on either side of the mouth that now settle into a scowl. He motions vaguely in our direction. Cy and I take the chairs on the other side of his desk, leaving Jeff and Emily to settle uncomfortably on the red leather couch against the wall.
No greetings, no courtly exchanges. Justice Moulton gets right to the point. “Regrettably, we do not have the benefit of a pretrial conference in this matter.” He glares at us like it’s our fault when he’s the one who cancelled it. The judge sees this as a straightforward case, Marion had intoned on the telephone. “Even more regrettably,” he now continues, “this appears to be a trial that will attract a certain amount of media attention. These two circumstances place a heavy duty on counsel. Respect for the administration of justice must be preserved. I feel it only right to inform you that I will not tolerate sending the jury out for long periods while we haggle over fine points of evidentiary admissibility.”
Was that last comment aimed at me, or is it just my imagination?
“As you may be aware, my practice is to err on the side of admitting everything—let the jury see it all and then sort it out.” He singles me out for a glare. “If you insist on challenging evidence tendered by the Crown, Ms. Truitt, the objections will be dealt with outside regular sitting times.”
“Yes, my Lord,” I reply.
“Good. Now I expect my opening address to the jury to consume the afternoon. We’ll start motions at nine tomorrow. I will tolerate no grandstanding for the press. Do I make myself clear?” Another glance my way.
I nod. Any other insinuations you’d like to hurl my way?
Justice Moulton plants both hands on his desktop and frowns at Cy and me indiscriminately. “Counsel, you have my point. Now let’s get on with this trial.”
* * *
THE BOOM OF THE HEAVY door brings me to attention. I watch the sheriffs lead Vincent Trussardi to the prisoner’s box. There’s nowhere to go once the gate slams shut. A foretaste, should things not go his way, of the rest of his life. I give him an encouraging smile.
The gallery behind us is full: reporters in the front benches; family, friends, and court followers jammed in the benches behind. I glimpse Lois on the far side, here to witness Cy’s big win. She catches my eye and nods. In the aisle, Raquella sits in her chair, her face an inscrutable mask. The world thinks she’s here to support her brother, but I know she’s here to see him go down.
“Order in the court,” Marion calls. The door from the inner sanctum opens, and Justice Moulton ascends the bench. Marion announces the case. It’s jury selection time.
The game is complex, ruled by stand-asides and preemptory challenges. From a pool of sixty good citizens—give or take a few—we must choose twelve jurors. One by one the candidates come forward, give their names and occupations. We question a few. Many say they’ve read about the case or have an opinion about it or think they may know someone who knew someone involved in it. The judge recognizes this for what it usually is: an attempt to get out of jury duty. Others are avid, their smiles telling us that they’re dying to be picked. We’re wary of them, too.
Jeff and I are prepared. We’ve studied their occupations, searched for online chatter and blogs. We want a sympathetic jury, youngish, on the liberal side, university professors, social workers, teachers—these are our cup of tea. Cy, on the other hand, wants jurors from the angry right who rant about law and order and the crimes that the six o’clock news tells them lie around every corner. Throughout the morning, Cy and I do what we can to nix each other’s choices. We stand up; we stand down; we tussle. But in the end we get pretty much what we usually get—a mix that does not fully please either of us.
We manage to secure a school librarian (formerly married to a wealthy businessman), a commerce professor, a portrait artist with a shop in Granville Island, a real estate executive, an accountant, and a magazine publisher. The prosecution ends up with a mill worker, a cab driver, a nurse, a turbaned grocer, and the ubiquitous dockworker. Six men and six women, six from the right, six from the putative left. Except no one owns anyone.
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