by Anne Emery
“Should we try the intercom?” Brennan asked.
“It’s either that or skulk around in the woods like a couple of demented bunny killers.”
I pressed the button and heard a loud squawk. Then a recorded voice came on and said: “Please enter your code number now.” I looked at Burke. He shrugged. I punched in four numbers at random and heard the recorded message again. We waited, but nobody came to speak over the system. We hovered by the gate, uncertain how to proceed. Then we saw the door open a crack, and a pair of binoculars emerged. We could hear strains of music from inside before the binoculars were withdrawn and the door slammed shut. All I could hear of the music was a strong male voice singing the words “in pieces.” Then the intercom squawked again, and we heard another recording: “This is private property. Please do not trespass. This is private property.”
“What now, Brother Brennan?”
“We can hardly be storming the place.”
“No. We have no authority and no convincing reason to be here. At least for now. We’d better take our Bibles and beat a dignified retreat. So, what do you suppose goes on in there?”
“Isn’t it obvious? They hunker down behind fortified windows and listen to Handel.”
“Handel?”
“Didn’t you hear it? The bit from the Messiah. ‘Thou shalt break them with a rod of iron. Thou shalt dash them in pieces like a potter’s vessel.’ Some of that scare-the-shite-out-of-’em Old Testament thundering that can be so effective if brandished with conviction.”
†
On Wednesday I was in Tim Hortons at the corner of Young and Robie with Constable Phil Riley. I didn’t want him to know I was interested in Tulk, so I had brought the paperwork for a case I could legitimately chat about with him. After we had hashed over the file, I brought up the real object of the meeting. Riley provided the segue when he recounted a tale of a car thief who stole a very expensive, noticeable vehicle and drove straight to the nearest Tim Hortons drive-through.
“What kind of a loser comes to Tims in the course of committing an offence?” He shook his head.
“I’ve even heard of people trying to rob Tim Hortons.”
“Are these bozos blind?”
“Is there ever a time when you guys don’t have at least one cruiser on the scene?”
“Never been known to happen; it’s all co-ordinated from headquarters,” Riley explained.
“Now it’s Christian bookstores,” I said. “Pretty soon a guy won’t be able to stick up one of those, either — I wandered into the His Word bookshop the other day and saw somebody I could swear was one of yours.”
“Oh, you mean Tulk.”
“Yes, right. He was a cop, wasn’t he?”
“Was. Is no more.”
“What’s the deal?”
“Warren turned into a bit of a zealot.”
“So they threw him out?”
“No, he wasn’t kicked off the force. Just encouraged to find another line of work. They let him hang on until he had set himself up with something else.”
“Which was?”
“He went into a seminary, or whatever it is the Protestants do. He studied to become a minister of some kind. Baptist, maybe. He’s a preacher, and he runs that bookstore.”
“So he was a zealot.”
“So they say. I never worked with him. I heard he had strong views on certain kinds of crime and behaviour. Other crimes, he wasn’t so tough on.”
“Like what?”
“Well, apparently what turned the tide against him wasn’t one of the cases where he came off as a hard-ass. It was the opposite. The department suspected him of soft-pedalling an investigation, holding back evidence. The prosecution collapsed in mid-trial, and the Crown blamed him. That was the beginning of the end for Warren.”
“What case was it?”
“Remember that woman who was charged with an assault on her foster child? A spanking case. It was in the papers.”
“It sounds vaguely familiar.”
“Well, her name was Sybil Kraus. Warren was the investigating officer. After coming down hard on public drinkers, dope smokers, johns, and hookers soliciting in public places, he lightened right up when he got this one. Obviously agreed with her approach to child rearing. Spare the rod, spoil the child. Beat the sin out of them, that kind of thing.”
“Or beat it farther in.”
Chapter 11
Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been thirty years since my last confession.
Summer was upon us, the sky was blue, the days were long and hot. I took as much time off as I could during the latter part of July, whenever I didn’t have a court appearance or an appointment with a client. The kids and I spent lazy days at the beach, or took short trips out of the city; sometimes we were joined by Lexie, Kim, and Brennan.
But my work schedule overtook me by the first of August, and on Thursday, August 1, I was sitting with a dozen other lawyers in provincial court. It was arraignment day. My client was charged with car theft, dangerous driving, and driving while impaired. I gabbed with my colleagues in the courtroom until the session got under way. I hoped my case would be called early so I could get back to the office; of course, every lawyer in the room felt the same way. I listened without much interest to the roll call of the wicked and the weak, nearly dozing off, until one name caught my attention. Vincent Negus. A name that had come up in my investigation? Vegas Negus, that was it. I perked up and waited for him to make his appearance. But he was a no-show. A lawyer I didn’t recognize stood and told the court that Mr. Negus was believed to be out of the country, possibly in Mexico. The Crown prosecutor asked for an arrest warrant, in a tone of voice that suggested there was little hope of bringing Negus before the court any time soon. The arraignments continued. Then they called a case of Ed Johnson’s. He wasn’t in the courtroom, either. The prosecutor rose and addressed Judge Ivan Thomas: “I had a call from Mr. Johnson, Your Honour. He was taken ill this morning, and is unable to be with us. His client was arrested and given a promise to appear. He is here today. I understand he has spoken to Mr. Johnson about an adjournment. The Crown has no objection.”
“It’s rare that Mr. Johnson misses a court date,” the judge responded. “I expect we’ll see him here next week. We’ll adjourn the matter till then. Next?”
My car theft case was called shortly after that, and I was back at my desk fifteen minutes later. What was wrong with Ed? He was never sick. Hungover, yes, but that wouldn’t keep him from his work. Well, I was not about to phone and wake him up if he was under the weather.
On Friday afternoon, I got a call from the prothonotary’s office, telling me the Court of Appeal had handed down its decision in a case of conspiracy to import narcotics. Just as I left my office building for the Law Courts with my briefcase in one hand and a paper cup filled with coffee in the other, the skies opened, and I was soaked in a matter of seconds. I ditched the coffee in a trash can, hunkered down, and speed-walked to the waterfront court building.
In the reception area, I shook off the water and stood for a moment to catch my breath. I heard someone come in behind me and turned around. Justice John Trevelyan, with not a drop of rain on him, so he must have come from the indoor parking garage. He was the last person I wanted to see. It was his decision I had appealed, and I had enumerated fourteen grounds of appeal in my factum. Grounds of appeal are worded like this: “The appellant submits that the learned trial judge erred in admitting the evidence of so-and-so; the learned trial judge erred in his interpretation of section such-and-such.” Trevelyan was a good judge in civil trials, commercial litigation, and the other areas of law that made up his practice before his elevation to the bench, but he was out of his league on the rare occasions he took on a criminal case. I figured my appeal would succeed and his decision would be overturned. But maybe not. He looked tanned, relaxed and, for him, almost cheerful. Had he heard about the decision already? Was it in his favour? Or was he so confident that he
just assumed it had gone his way?
“Good morning, Your Lordship.”
“Good morning. Mr. Collins, isn’t it? Yes, I recognize you.”
“That’s right.”
“Dreadful day out there. But they say the farmers need it, so who are we to complain? Can’t expect sun every day.”
“You look as if you’ve had a bit of sun yourself, sir.”
“I have indeed. I just got off my boat an hour ago. We sailed to the Bras d’Or Lakes and back. I took two weeks off, had perfect weather and had a marvellous time.”
“Great.”
I had him in a rare good mood, and I felt emboldened to follow up on something that had slipped my mind until this minute. I wondered whether he remembered the client he had passed on to Dice Campbell years before. Matilda Lonergan, the woman who had spoken up for Corey Leaman at one of his criminal trials. Ross Trevelyan had not mentioned bringing the name up to his father, and I suspected he had never raised the subject at all. He may have forgotten; he was buried in other work. But more likely, Ross saw it as yet another pointless distraction from the damage claim, and not something to pester Trevelyan père about. Whatever the case, I had the man himself in front of me.
“Justice Trevelyan, I came across a name that might be familiar to you. Matilda Lonergan.”
A couple of seconds went by before he answered: “Miss Lonergan was a former client of mine. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that her name came up in something I’m working on.”
He treated me to a probing stare. “I can’t imagine how that is possible. The poor woman died in 1981.”
“Oh. Well, I could be on the wrong track entirely. Would you happen to recall whether she ever mentioned —”
“Anything she ever mentioned to me would be covered by solicitor-client privilege, but somehow I suspect you have her confused with someone else. I have to go.”
He left me and pressed the elevator button. Not going to the prothonotary’s office? Perhaps he hadn’t yet been told that the decision was in. Or he was in no hurry; it was not a matter of concern. I went in to pick up the decision, scanned it and saw that the Court of Appeal had accepted thirteen of my fourteen grounds of appeal. Trevelyan’s decision had been reversed, and my client had been granted a new trial. The judge was not going to be a happy man.
I stuffed the decision in my briefcase and left the building. It was still teeming rain, but it looked as if it might be brightening up in the west. Maybe there would be a break in the downpour soon. I decided to stop in at Perks next door for a coffee.
I sat at a table, took out the Court of Appeal decision and read it again. They had come down hard on Trevelyan; phrases like “with the greatest respect” didn’t disguise the fact that, in the court’s view, he had screwed up.
“What’s that?”
I looked up to see Ed Johnson, dripping rainwater on my table.
“Decision from the Appeal Division.”
“Good?”
“Good for me, bad for somebody else.”
“Who?”
“Trevelyan.”
“Serves him right. He never set foot in a criminal court before he was appointed a judge; it was beneath him. So, what else is new?”
“Not much. Good to see you alive and well, Johnson.”
“As opposed to?”
“Being too sick to come to court.”
“I’m never sick. When was this?”
“Yesterday. Arraignment day. You weren’t there.”
“Oh, yeah, right.” Then his tone sharpened. “You were there?”
“Obviously. That’s how I know you weren’t. While I have you here, I’ll ask you this. A name came up in court, a name I heard in connection with Dice Campbell and the festivities over which he presided. Maybe you know —”
“How the hell would I know? I had nothing to do with . . . with Dicey’s excesses, and I am fucking tired of hearing about the guy. Okay?”
“But —”
“Piss off! I have to get to court.”
He left Perks without getting anything. A couple of other lawyers I knew came in then, ordered tea and coffee, and sat down for a chat. I looked outside and saw that the rain was letting up, so I said goodbye and headed for the office. I heard footsteps behind me. I turned around to see John Trevelyan, his face like a thundercloud. The holiday was over. I gave him a quick nod, turned and resumed walking. But he caught up.
“There you are, Collins!” He must have come looking for me. “You’d better be letter perfect each and every time you step into my courtroom from this day forward, Collins, or God help you.” What, it was my fault he botched the case? I was just doing my job, and doing it well, but I had made an enemy who had the power to make my life hell in any case I tried before him from this day on. He had another message for me as well: “And I don’t want to hear the names of any of my former clients uttered in public again. Do you hear me? There are defamation laws in this province, and there’s nothing I would rather do than use them against you. Now get out of my way. I’m in a hurry.”
What was that about? Was it my simple question concerning Matilda Lonergan? Couldn’t be. I hadn’t uttered her name in public, and what would be defamatory about it if I had? Or was he warning me, not about his client’s reputation, but his own, in case I got oiled up and decided to crow about my triumph all over Halifax? I was pleased with the success of my appeal, but it wasn’t my style to strut around the city boasting.
Trevelyan stalked away and turned up George Street. I returned to my office and began the paperwork necessary to get my client his new trial. Then I met with one of the clients in the crumbling condos fiasco. After that I was free and clear.
It was a long weekend and a quiet one for me; Tom and Normie were with their mother. But Blues Night was coming up on Monday, and I was looking forward to that.
This was the first time Charlie Trenholm had hosted Blues Night. He had a house full of kids from two marriages, so usually there wasn’t any space for a jam session. But tonight the kids were going with his wife, Carrie, to stay with Carrie’s sister in the Annapolis Valley. We had the house to ourselves. Except we didn’t. When I pulled up at Charlie’s, he met me in the driveway. The wife’s sister had fallen ill, and the family trip was off. That wasn’t a problem for Functus, however, because Charlie had an alternative plan. He had recently bought a big old house in the fishing village of Three Fathom Harbour on the eastern shore. He and Carrie were going to take their time fixing it up. In the meantime it was empty, it had power, it still had all the old furniture, and it was the ideal spot for Blues Night in the summer. We waited for all the band members to arrive, then headed across the Macdonald Bridge, through Dartmouth and out to Three Fathom Harbour in a convoy.
We stopped at a grocery store, a liquor store, and another spot, which we hoped would remain unknown to police, and loaded up on everything we would need to eat, drink and smoke as we wailed the blues into the wee hours of the morning. Once we started, neighbours got wind of the party and dropped in. Locals and commuters, male and female, young and old, everyone joined in the party. It was a blast.
Ed Johnson seemed to have forgotten whatever had set him off the week before at Perks. He and I spent much of the evening talking to a young woman named Crystal. After complimenting us on our music, she sought our legal advice on a plan to go in with her boyfriend and another guy and girl on the purchase of a house trailer in suburban Dartmouth. Our advice was simple: don’t. Ed had a better idea: dump the boyfriend and hook up with Monty Collins. “All his women get a house of their own, so there will be one for you. He can afford to take you around the world and bring you back, he looks damn good when he’s dressed up, and if you leave him, he’ll play the blues harp under your window so even if you don’t want him anymore you’ll get a free concert off him.” In other words, Johnson was his usual self.
I awoke in the morning in a sleeping bag beneath the rafters of an unfinished attic. Right, I rem
embered, Charlie Trenholm’s house in Three Fathom Harbour. The night came back to me: I had been singing, blowing the harp, drinking, talking to a fisherman, talking to a young girl. My eyes darted around the attic. Nobody here except me and Ed Johnson, snoring away on the other side of the room. Good. No drunken coupling with strange women this time out. I closed my eyes and started to fall asleep again when I heard a pounding downstairs. The door. Charlie would take care of it. But the pounding didn’t stop. I heard people running around downstairs, I heard toilets being flushed. What? I got up and looked out the attic window. An RCMP cruiser was parked in the yard. Christ, a raid! Did I have anything on me? I patted my pockets. No. The next thing I knew, Charlie was in the room calling my name.
“Monty!”
I didn’t say a word, in case the Mounties were right behind him. But he came in alone.
“RCMP. They’re looking for you.”
“Me? What for?”
“They won’t say.”
“Where are they?”
“Downstairs hall.”
“Is there anything lying around that shouldn’t be here?”
“Not anymore.”
All down the toilet. As if the Mounties didn’t know what was going on when they approached a house and heard the toilets flushing. I had no choice but to go down and face the music.
A female officer stood in the doorway. I looked out and saw her partner standing by their car. “Montague Collins?” she asked.
“Yes?”
“Could you come with me, please?”
