by Andrew Pyper
She goes down fast, but he remembers all of this.
Not sinking but pulled. That’s what he sees. His cousin pulled down from the last snaking shafts of sunlight into the black, into the blind, cold depths.
PART ONE
ONE
There is nothing more overrated in the practice of criminal law than the truth. Indeed it’s something of a trade secret among professionals in the field that the facts alone rarely determine the outcome of a trial. What’s overlooked by the casual observer is the subtle distinction between the truth and the convincing of others to accept one of its alternatives.
Allow me to make reference to current events:
Later today I’m expected to complete the defense’s case in a sexual assault trial where the facts are clear and they all disfavor the position of my client, a Mr. Leonard Busch. To make matters worse, counsel for the prosecution is as skillful, determined and ambitious as yours truly. A consti-pated-looking young woman whose eyebrows form a dark, piercing “V” when she speaks and whose every word vibrates with accusation, qualities which contributed to the splendid job she did in her exam-in-chief of the complainant. When the tears started in the middle of the girl’s recounting of the night in question my opponent stepped helplessly toward the witness box, leveled a vicious glare at my client, and shushed the girl with, “It’s alright, Debbie. You don’t have to look at him,” while at the same time stabbing a trembling index finger at my man Lenny. It was a beautiful move: theatrical, maternal, prejudicial. The effect was so damaging that I was tempted to leap to my feet and make an objection against what was so obviously a purely tactical maneuver. But in the end I remained seated, met the prosecution’s eyes with what I hoped was a look of indignation and held my tongue. It’s important at such moments to remember one of the first rules of successful advocacy: sometimes one has to accept small defeats in the interest of capturing the final victory.
But victory for Mr. Busch (and more importantly for his lawyer, Bartholomew Christian Crane) did not appear to be an imminent outcome of the trial. In fact, as the Crown’s evidence was paraded plainly before the court, the prospect of an acquittal seemed a fading likelihood unless our defense could come up with an ace. Nothing short of a miracle would do judging from the set faces of the jury who, although thoroughly screened to exclude socialists, feminists, and those who believed O.J. did it, knew a bona fide creep when they saw one. So as I raise my head from the pillow and blink my eyes open to the abusive light of a Toronto August dawn I search my mind for a savior for the otherwise doomed Leonard Busch.
And nothing comes to me. But this is not unusual, given the time of day. The left ear buzzes, the right ear hums, my brain swollen inside its skull and tickling the nerves at the back of my eyes. Roll my head from side to side and let the whole mess slosh around. It’s on occasions like these (i.e. the beginning of every day) that I thank God I live alone, for the fact is I find it difficult to tolerate close contact with others under the best of circumstances, and utterly impossible before nine. This may have to do with my particular habits and addictions, or it may not. But no matter if I’ve been drinking the night before or sipping herbal tea (if I ever have sipped herbal tea), I have woken with hangover symptoms every morning since I started practicing law. That was five years ago. Of course, many of these mornings do follow evenings of one kind of self-abuse or another, but my condition no longer seems to depend on it. Waking up in a state of physical and mental suffering is simply a side-effect of my vocation. And just as the butcher endures his bloody aprons or the garbageman his stinking fingers, I have learned to live with it.
I raise myself stiffly from the white expanse of a singly occupied king-size bed and scuff over to the kitchen counter where, piled into a crystalline white anthill, my inspiration sits. Reduce its mass to a circle of powdery residue in two sinus-burning whiffs and with this I am able to swiftly conclude that the only chance Leonard has is Lisa, the accused’s eighteen-year-old girlfriend.
Leonard Busch himself is fifty-two, barrel-chested, butter-nosed, and the owner of Pelican Beach, a nightclub located in a former auto parts warehouse stuck beneath the cement buttresses of the Gardiner Expressway next to the harbor. It’s one of those hangar-size places that boasts “co-ed” beach volleyball in February, wet T-shirt contests in April and Ladies Night every Tuesday (a free rose and half-priced tequila until midnight, at which point the “ladies” are in generally good enough shape to be hauled back to a stranger’s futon). Leonard ran the whole vile affair from his office suspended above the d.j. booth with mirrored windows overlooking the seething dance floor. It was there that he conducted his business, where “business” means the counting of receipts, the consumption of Ballantine’s on the rocks and the interviewing of girls seeking waitress positions. Early evidence from a number of them indicated that Leonard took these opportunities to ask questions of dubious purpose (“Are you wearing any underwear right now?”) and to squeeze bottoms in the interest of determining the applicants’ qualifications.
All of these details, however unseemly, were not of any particular concern to me. But Leonard’s fondness for plying certain female staff with liquor, taking them for early morning drives down to the docklands and heaving himself on their half-comatose bodies was substantially more troubling from a legal perspective, especially given that one of his dates came forward the next day and insisted that Leonard Busch, her employer and friend (“At first I thought he was kinda sweet”) had taken his pleasure with her without her consent. Indeed, as she testified, she would’ve been unable to voice her permission even if she’d wanted to as her brain had been made so mushy with booze she could only slap her palms against his back and try to remember the names of the teddy bears in her old bedroom at her parents’ house.
Shower, shave, stick a hastily assembled margarine sandwich into my breast pocket for the rare moments that hunger visits, and head up Spadina and over Queen Street to the courthouse. The air is unseasonably chilly but I only half notice, concentrating instead on the approach to take with dear little Lisa. More stupid than the prevailing standard among mall-vixens of her vintage, she was not only foolish enough to be Leonard’s sole long-term lover, but to be in love with him as well. Attended every day of the trial, finding a place in the back row and trying to make eye contact with her beloved every time he rose to be shackled and led away to his cell. Initially I thought the girl might be a potential asset to our case, but when asked about it, my client dismissed the idea.
“Forget it. She’s fuckin’ nuts. Besides, my wife don’t know about her,” was Leonard’s exact phrasing.
It wasn’t clear to me how Mrs. Busch would be more upset over the disclosure of a mistress than the conviction of her husband as a rapist, but I said no more about it.
Until today. When I arrive at the court I descend to the basement holding cells, shake my head at Leonard and voice my suggestion through a hole in the Plexiglass wall between us.
“We got anything else?” he asks.
“Not a thing.”
“Then talk to her. But I dunno what she could say to help. I didn’t even see her that night.”
When the court convenes the judge begins by asking if I’m prepared to deliver final submissions. I advise him that I require a brief adjournment to make a final survey of the defense’s evidence before concluding the case. The judge orders us all back following lunch. I have three hours.
After the few courtroom spectators mill out into the hallway I snake up behind my prey and, bending low enough for my nose to be filled with the lemon styling gel of her perm-crinkled, bleach-yellowed hair, whisper an invitation for her to follow. Without a word she steps behind me to an interview room at the end of the hall where she sits and I lock the door with an echoing clack. Shuffle over to the chair opposite hers and settle myself in its cup of orange plastic.
“I’m not going to waste any time here, Lisa, because frankly we don’t have any time to waste,” I start with a beleaguere
d sigh. “Can you appreciate that?”
“Yes, Mr. Crane.”
There is a tingle of pleasure with her voicing of “Mr. Crane.” (I am still young and vain enough to enjoy the sound of my surname spoken by others.)
“Then let me tell you that I’d like you to be the final witness in this trial. I’d like you to tell your side of the story, Lisa.” Inhale deeply. “That Leonard couldn’t have committed the crime of which he is accused, because he was with you on the fourteenth of August. That’s what I’m asking you to do for me.”
“But I can’t say that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s not true.”
In one movement I stand, kick my chair back and send it sliding over the waxed marble floor into the wall behind me.
“You can say whatever you want, Lisa. Let me show you.” Lean forward over the table so that my face is all that she can see. “Open your mouth.”
“What?”
“Just open your mouth.”
The mouth opens.
“Now, say ‘This whole thing is my fault.’”
“No—he—”
“Just say it!”
“This whole thing is my fault.”
“Lovely! You see? You just said this whole thing is your fault, when we know that it’s Leonard’s. And therein lies the lesson of the day: it is possible to tell a different story from that which we know.”
I move back from the table and cross my arms in my football coach pose, the whole time holding the girl’s black-pupiled eyes in mine. “And you’re going to say he was with you that night. That you two met as you usually did, that he drove you down to the docks as usual, that you had sex in all the usual positions until around three, at which point he drove you uptown and dropped you off a couple blocks from your house as per usual.”
“But that’s not true,” she attempts, lower lip trembling and voice cracking wide open. “Mr. Crane, that didn’t happen. Not that night.”
Then the tears start, a shaking torrent, and I know I’ve won. In my experience, tears are a strong sign of a mind willing to be changed.
“You’ve forgotten your lesson already, Lisa! Listen to me. Listen to me now.” Move forward again so that the closeness of my voice cuts off her sobbing. “I wouldn’t want you to make a very big mistake because you failed to appreciate the seriousness of the situation, so let me make this extremely clear. We—you and I—are going to save Leonard’s life. Because if Leonard goes to jail, he will die. And you will be his murderer—his murderer—because you didn’t do the right thing today.”
I allow a slight smile now, a suggestion of my full and sympathetic understanding. “You do love Leonard, don’t you?”
“Yes,” she nods. Blinks.
“And you want to have a life together with him?”
“Yes.”
“But you can’t have a life with him if he dies in prison, can you?”
“No.”
“And you know that right now you’re the only person in the world who can save him, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Then there’s only one thing to do. And you have to do it, Lisa.”
She’s drying up now, dragging her nose along her sleeve. The steely glare of purpose fixed in her eyes.
“Okay,” she says.
“Good girl. Now, Lisa, let’s get this story straight.”
Having been granted permission by the court to call a final “surprise” witness (the judge had little choice, given the risk of an appeal if he denied me), I summon Lisa to the stand. As instructed, she has reduced the redness in her face by applying a damp cloth to her cheeks and has steadied her carriage with the half tab of Valium I supplied her with at the end of our interview. Moves forward from her seat in the back with concentration, one foot at a time, raises a hand and swears on a leather King James to tell the truth, the whole truth, etc., etc. Peers down at me, all big eyes and lipstick. The jury leans forward. A surprise witness, their faces say. What’s she going to say? I’m not sure myself.
“Tell us what you want to say in your own words,” I instruct her softly. “Just tell the court what really happened, Lisa.”
And then she does it. A clear chronology, point by point, blow by blow. Even better than as rehearsed, as she ends up throwing in a few details which lend greater specificity to the tale, including my personal favorite, “Leonard had a tough time getting it up that night because one of his kids had strep throat and he was really worried.”
Can a traumatized, frightened, confused eighteen-year-old lie like that under oath in a court of law? With a little push and some coaching, she certainly can. She can introduce reasonable doubt into the minds of jurors who previously had none, deliver freedom to a man who otherwise had no right to it. All of this just by opening her mouth and using the magic words.
Of course I understand how this sort of thing gives rise to the concern that my role in these proceedings shows a lack of ethics. And how then an argument could be made in sharp response, the one that lawyers always make to justify assisting the guilty for a fee: that everyone has the right to be presumed innocent in a free and democratic society, and that every opportunity must be afforded the accused to meet the charges made against him, etc., etc.
But I will not make such an argument. Not because I believe it to be false, but because philosophy makes no difference and truth is none of my concern.
In short, to appreciate the meaning of Leonard Busch’s victory you need not trouble yourself with “principles,” however you may understand such a prickly term. So too can you stay well off the foggy moors of “honor,” “mercy,” “justice,” whatever.
All you need to know is this: I won.
TWO
Law firms always have two names. For example, the one which I’m a member of is formally known as Lyle, Gederov & Associate. But its name among defense lawyers, court clerks, judges, bike couriers, repeat offenders and Crown Attorneys who work in this town is Lie, Get ’Em Off & Associate. The suggestions of the name are clear. It is also clear from the record of its success that Lie, Get ’Em Off & Associate is among the finest criminal law firms in the country. And there’re only the three of us.
Categorically speaking, criminal lawyers are known as the freaks of the legal profession (who’s ever noted the eccentricities of a real estate or tax solicitor?), and Graham Lyle, law school gold medalist, oft-mentioned potential appointee to the bench (perennially rejected as too “risky”) and $375-an-hour leader of his field, is freakier than most. An excitable, octave-spanning vocal range, and a face so defined of bone, gentle of mouth and long of lash it is difficult not to be disturbed by its prettiness. Add to this a flair for fashion which runs to pastels, chunky jewelry, cravats and polka-dot bow ties, along with a habit of calling his scum-of-the-earth clientele “darling” or “sweetheart,” and you have Graham, a raving queen whose superior intelligence, Peter O’Toole good looks and pure wickedness put him in a different league from the rest of the competition. More to the point, I like Graham. As advocates we are of the same mind. I often recall what he told me at the close of my first solo trial after I’d misled the court on the prior criminal record of my client, a deception which led to his acquittal. “There are no such things as lies,” he said, leaning back in his chair and giving me a wink. “There are only misperceptions.”
Graham Lyle’s partner, the other freak of the place, is Bert Gederov, a second-generation Russian immigrant who has somehow retained a threatening hint of his ancestors’ accent. His body—hunchbacked, broad-assed, arms swinging from his shoulders like sides of pork—is the physical manifestation of pure hostility. Even in moments of relative calm his face conveys an impatience and brutality which has assisted in winning him case after case before “pussy judges” at the expense of “dumb-shit Crowns.”
For whatever psychological reasons, Bert Gederov is the sort whose primary means of social interaction is intimidation. What’s truly impressive, however, is that
he manages to inspire fear in others through his mere presence and only rarely through actual exhibitions of viciousness. He speaks little outside of the time he is paid to, and when he does it is to utter obscenities and crushing insults at the most vulnerable subject available. Recall the bully from your school days. Remember the shuddering of the bowels, the sudden slackness of the facial muscles, the lung-seizing paralysis the sight of him could inspire? Yes? You’re now one step closer to knowing Bert. Still, although he is cruel, misogynistic, racist, flatulent, and nauseating dining company, Bert is a lawyer for whom I have nothing but the greatest respect.
As for the “& Associate,” that’s me. And here I am, staring at myself in the Barristers’ Water Closet mirror having washed off the sweat smeared across my cheeks by Mr. Busch’s grateful lips. Turn a little to the left, a little to the right, check the profile out of the corner of my eye. Conclude that I’m not looking too bad, particularly when you consider the few hours of sleep I’ve had over the last five of my thirty-three years. But I can also acknowledge that time is beginning to show: gray in the face, premature gray at the temples and sides, gray clouds drifting into the blue of my eyes. A lot of gray about me these days, but that’s fine. Gray suits me. And I’m thinking that very thought as the beeper at my waist erupts to inform me that I’ve been summoned to an emergency meeting at the boardroom of Lyle, Gederov, and that both partners are to be in attendance.
As I walk the short distance north from the courthouse to the office on University Avenue, my face warming in the reluctant sunshine, my mind mulls over the last part of the beeper’s small screen message: WE’VE GOT THE LOST GIRLS. Graham’s touch.
I’d heard of the case listening in on the chat in the court cafeteria (defense lawyers pay the kind of attention to news of homicides that corporate lawyers do to the fortunes of the Dow Jones). Something about two fourteen-year-old girls who’d gone missing a couple months earlier and were now presumed dead. Police were said to have “encouraging leads,” which meant they had their man and were just buying time to accumulate enough physical evidence to make an arrest. Somebody had passed me the newspaper while we were waiting for the judge to return from lunch and on the back page of the front section were side-by-side pictures of the victims, the kind of bland, backgroundless portraits taken for high school yearbooks. Just two missing teenaged girls captured in a flat frame. The sort of thing you see in newspapers almost every day: smiling, chins raised, careless.
