Denial

by Beverley McLachlin

  “Sorry, I forgot to fill you in. Richard called. He did some digging, found out that Nicholas is into the bank for almost a hundred thousand. So you see—there’s only one solution. Kill Grandma before she can change her will.”

  Jeff’s news jolts me. I should have unearthed this when I interviewed Nicholas. I let myself be charmed by his good looks and smooth story—starving musician trying to get out from under Daddy’s thumb. “He conveniently left that information out,” I mutter.

  “It’s only natural that he would—it deflects suspicion from him.”

  “Okay,” I say, picking up the pace, “but we have no idea whether Olivia intended to leave the society a pittance or a substantial sum. To judge by what she left the charities already in her will, it was a pittance. A minor adjustment.”

  “Sure, he minimized what he thought his grandmother might leave the society. But he also said something else: It’s expensive, getting the law changed. Those words suggest that Olivia intended to leave the society something significant. Anyway, we need to find out,” says Jeff. “Talk to the Black and Conway lawyer she had over the day she died.”

  “Richard has been trying to get through to them. Seems everybody is perpetually out.”

  Jeff sails on in pursuit of his mythical reasonable doubt. “Motive is number one in the case against Nicholas. Number two: the means. Nicholas may not have had a key to Olivia’s house, but he knows the house like the back of his hand. I bet he’s been crawling around her basement since he was a toddler, knows about the loose window, maybe even loosened it himself. So, having decided to dispatch Grandma, he removes the entire window, lets himself in the house, and goes upstairs. Deed done, Nicholas returns to the basement, slips out, and puts the window back in.”

  “Still a few problems,” I say.

  “Show me.”

  “First, he loves his mother. He wouldn’t do this and let his mother go to prison in his stead.”

  “Never underestimate the ingratitude of children, Jilly. Besides, if Mom is convicted, Nicholas stands to take the whole estate, not just the residue. So what’s not to like?”

  “Second problem,” I persevere. “If Vera won’t take a two-year plea deal, then I can guarantee she won’t let us suggest that her son did it. Don’t forget, in the end we take instructions from the client. We can’t hang Nicholas out as a possible suspect unless she agrees to it.”

  Jeff gives me his I can’t believe you said that look. “We’ll convince her, Jilly. All we need is a reasonable doubt. There’s no chance the police will ever charge Nicholas, or that, if they did, they’d get a conviction. As you point out, there are too many flaws in that theory; the beauty of this is that we don’t need to prove Nicholas is guilty to win. We just have to show that there’s a doubt that Vera did it.”

  “Jeff, I don’t know. I believe Nicholas when he says he didn’t kill his grandmother. You didn’t see him. He strikes me as a thoughtful, introspective, decent kid. He loved his grandmother. Visited her regularly.”

  “You’re going soft, Jilly.” His words hit me like a slap. Prerequisite number one for a defence lawyer—never believe anyone. “Nicholas visited his grandmother regularly to pick up his hundred-dollar bills. And of everyone we’ve looked at, he has the most to gain by the events that have transpired.”

  I sigh. “We won’t rule it out for now. But I hope something better appears on the horizon.” I drum my fingers on the table. “What about her friend, Elsie Baxter? Elsie wanted a bequest for the Dying with Dignity Society.”

  “But for that she had to keep Olivia alive. So no reason to kill her.”

  “You’re right. It doesn’t fit. But we still need to talk to Elsie.” I remind myself that the trial is less than two weeks off.

  A knock on the door, Debbie. “It’s Corporal Vetch on the line, you were calling him?”

  “I’ll take it in my office.” Better to leave Jeff out of my worries with Danny Mah. “But Debbie, could you arrange a meeting with Elsie Baxter?”

  She nods and I retreat into my office, pick up the phone.

  It’s a myth that defence lawyers don’t have friends in the police force. Stanley Vetch and I are old pals, dating to a case where I defended his buddy on charges stemming from a police shooting in the course of breaking up a barroom brawl.

  After a few pleasantries I cut to the chase. “Stan, I’m worried someone I defended on a drug charge has it out for me. I’ve been told my name has crossed the dark web in connection with my possible demise.”

  Stan listens carefully as I flesh out the details before replying. “I can understand that you feel frightened, Jilly. If it’s any reassurance, the incidence of criminals killing defence lawyers is zero to zilch. They need you guys and they know it. They may vent and bluster, but nothing comes of it.”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself.”

  “However, let me do this. First, I’ll have my people do some digging, see what they come up with. Second, I’ll put a patrol on—undercover surveillance of your office and your condo. Drive-bys at random intervals. Looking for anything out of the normal. Wish I could do more. But in the circumstances—”

  “Thanks, Stan. Greatly appreciated.” I give him my condo address.

  “Got it. Call me if anything alarming happens. I’ll give you a special number. And if you’re really worried, why don’t you take a few weeks off, go somewhere nice?”

  Is Stan telling me I need a break, or is he suggesting that it might be best to get out of town for a while? Either way, it’s not a bad idea.

  I think about all the times Mike tried to induce me to take a trip, and my inevitable response—too busy—and I picture his lopsided smile when I present the idea of a getaway to him. Maybe I’ll ask Debbie about my calendar, but before I can, I see Cy’s name in my email. He’s sent over his witness list. Right on time.

  I press print and return to the boardroom, scanning as I go.

  Lots of police officers to say what they found and identify their reports and the statements they took from Vera and Joseph Quentin. The coroner on the cause of death. A security expert to talk about the alarm system in Olivia Stanton’s house. A couple of homicide detectives on who knows what. Maria, the housekeeper cum caregiver. Standard, pro forma.

  Olivia’s personal physician, Dr. Menon, is also on the list. What will he have to say? I note that her medical file isn’t included. Then there’s Dr. Pinsky, a psychiatrist to give expert testimony on Vera Quentin’s probable mental state at the time of the murder. I’ll need to see his report, too. Cy, slyly, has sent me the bare minimum—the list without the backup.

  But it’s the last name on the roster that stops me cold: Joseph Quentin.

  Presumably he’s being called to testify about the lead up to and aftermath of Olivia’s murder. Context, as modern jurists put it. But still, I’m appalled. Joseph could have said no to testifying against his wife, put up a fight, at least—there are still remnants of spousal privilege on the books. Let others supply the details necessary to shore up the Crown’s case against your wife if necessary. Where is his vaunted ethic of family solidarity, his decades-long track record of faithfulness to a difficult and depressed wife? The rub is, it’s his choice. If he wants to testify against Vera, he can.

  I throw Cy’s witness list on the table, one more piece of paper in a sea of documents. All of them are on our computers, categorized and accessible at the touch of a finger. But we’re lawyers, and paper brings us comfort. Our fingers course through the stacks, retrieving this piece or that, as we discuss our options and mull our tactics.

  Jeff looks up. “Witness list?”

  I nod. “I need to talk to Joseph. More precisely, wring his neck.”

  Jeff reaches for the offending list. “Wait, Jilly. What do you think that will accomplish? Joseph Quentin is seasoned and smart. My bet is that he is doing this because he thinks it will help Vera’s case. What is the jury going to think if he refuses to testify, as only he can? That he’s hi
ding the truth to protect her. Much better it he takes the stand and convinces them that this charge is all a terrible mistake or, at least, paint Vera in a sympathetic light.”

  “I know,” I concede. “Still, he might have asked me if he should go along with Cy’s request, at least might have told me he intended to do so. It seems so duplicitous, so disloyal.”

  “This is about getting Vera off, not about family loyalty.”

  “It’s also about Cy. We need the details, the back-up medical reports.”

  I feel a sense of weariness. This time it will be different, I told myself when I embarked on this case. This time Cy and I will get along, like civilized lawyers representing opposing sides are supposed to get along. Officers of the Court playing their assigned roles, nothing personal. I was wrong, again. With Cy and me, it’s always personal. A suspicion crosses my mind—Is Cy using Joseph? Did he offer him the plea deal, but demand he testify if it didn’t work? I shake my head. I don’t want to go there.

  “Moving on,” I say, rubbing my neck. “How long do you think the trial is going to take?”

  “At least a week for the Crown’s case, maybe more. Then we’re up. At the moment, we have one witness—Vera—if we decide to call her.”

  “A big if. But you’re right; Vera is it. We don’t have anybody else.” Yet. I remind myself. “Right now, this case will be won or lost on cross-examination of the Crown’s case. And—assuming we need to call her—whether the jury believes Vera.”

  “So a week, possibly two for the trial.”

  We scan our schedules, discuss how to put off the trials and appeals and motions that already crowd the fourteen days in question. I was telling the truth when I told Joseph Quentin that my schedule was choc-a-block and I couldn’t take his wife’s case. But took it I did, and other files must yield. I feel my dream of a vacation with Mike slip away. It’s okay, I tell myself. Stan’s probably right and there will be time down the road for Mike and me.

  “I’ll be with you for the opening and from then on when I can,” Jeff says.

  “I’ll see if Alicia can fill in when you’re not there,” I say.

  “Good luck, her Provincial Court roster is full.”

  “Wouldn’t it be lovely if we had metamanagers who ensured we’re never double-booked?”

  Jeff gives me a look. “Her name is Debbie, and you never listen.”

  No—a simple word, easily uttered. Why can’t I learn how to say it?

  CHAPTER 16

  I’M LEAVING A MESSAGE WITH Cy’s office about the missing reports when Damon Cheskey blows in with the news that he has been admitted to law school. “Not this fall,” he says, “next year. I need to get a few courses up this winter. Plus make some money to support myself.”

  He’s looking trim in jeans, a tee, and a sports coat. His blond hair, fashionably cut, swings over his forehead. He grins as he plunks himself down in my chair and crosses one ankle over the other knee.

  Damon didn’t always look this good. When I picked him off a legal aid list two springs ago, he was an addled skeleton in a prison suit, about to go down for twenty years. Now he’s free and, despite a few hiccups, taking on the world. That rare thing—a success story in the annals of criminal law. I study him, pick up the wild look that still lurks behind his eyes.

  Fingers crossed. I’ve invested a lot in Damon, and like it or not, I care. The news that he’s going to study law brings satisfaction. Even if he seems to be gravitating to the enforcement side. I think of the human trafficking section of VPD, where Deborah Moser may now be employing him.

  “Congratulations,” I say. “I mean it. It’s not easy to get into law school these days. Especially if you haven’t completed your undergraduate.”

  Damon sits before me, shining with suppressed excitement. He’s fearless and takes the world at a gallop. Law school appears to be no exception. Set the hurdle, take it at a rush, blinders firmly in place to ward off any risk of deflection.

  “Not to brag, but apparently my LSAT blew them away.” Damon blushes.

  I think of how good he was at devilling for cases in the post-acquittal interregnum when I appointed him boy Friday at the office. “I’m not surprised you did well. Can I take you out to lunch to celebrate?”

  “Can’t say no to that offer,” he replies.

  I suggest a four-and-a-half-star restaurant called Bauhaus around the corner on Carrell Street. “Upscale German,” I say, thinking of Damon’s Mennonite origins. “To remind you of home.” I go on, before remembering that his mother no longer speaks to him and home is a distant memory.

  He doesn’t seem to mind. “Great,” he says.

  We hit the sidewalk and a barrage of duelling signs. DEATH WITH DIGNITY: EVERYBODY’S RIGHT, reads one. LIFE IS SACRED: NO TO EUTHANASIA, reads the other. The bodies holding the placards stop glaring at each other just long enough to flog their signs at Damon and me. I wave and smile as I pass.

  “It’s this case I’ve got. Vera Quentin,” I tell Damon.

  “Joseph’s wife?” Damon asks quickly. “The Fixer?”

  “Nothing gets by you, Damon. Yes, the very same.” I glance back at the protesters. “I’m surprised it took them this long.”

  As we swing through the heavy door of Bauhaus, it occurs to me that the venue may remind him of less pleasant things than his mother’s cooking: the crime scene of his first takedown during a drug altercation is just down the street and around the corner. With a little help from his friends, notably moi, Damon has come a long way in a short time.

  Over Bundsalat Damon catches me up on his roller-coaster life. No, he didn’t turn himself in over the killing of crime kingpin Kellen, he whispers, after looking to see if anyone is listening. I wince; I had something to do with that. Why throw away your life in jail, if you can do some good in society? I comfort myself. They’ll never come after him now. The crime has been filed under local improvement; the implicit message, Let it lie, whatever Kellen got, he deserved. Still, the shadow will follow Damon into law school and beyond. I decide not to tell him.

  “How’s police work?” I ask as our mains arrive.

  He cocks a blond brow. “You know about that?”

  “Deborah Moser is an old friend. She called me, told me she was thinking of hiring you for undercover work.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Don’t worry. I gave you a glowing reference.”

  He puts his fork down. “Thanks, Jilly. I appreciate it. Along with everything else you’ve done for me.”

  “Deborah said she might put you on a human trafficking case. Little girl named May I ran into one night at a legal clinic.”

  “Listen, Jilly, I can’t really say anything. If you’re looking for info, you’ll have to ask Deborah.”

  I’m a little taken aback but respect his loyalty. “So, how does it feel, being on the side of the angels for a change? A kid who used to run from the cops, now one of them.”

  “Feels okay, actually. Same game, different sides. I mean, I know a little about how the underworld operates. Of course, I’m not really a cop. Undercover operator is the term they use.” He chews contemplatively. “This sauerbraten’s excellent.”

  “The police wouldn’t get far without their unofficial helpers. Their strings of paid informers, the undercover agents who roam the back alleys on their behalf.”

  “I’m not in the alleys, Jilly. Not on this job. I’m in my bedsit in front of my computer trolling the dark web. Amazing what you find there. Crime changes much more quickly than the law.” He settles his cutlery on his plate, and I feel a dissertation coming on. “Once upon a time, criminals met in private to do business, and the police had to infiltrate their meetings with spies to catch them. Then the telephone came along, and the criminals moved their business to the phone. The feds passed wiretap legislation to put a dent in that, but that’s what it was, a mere dent. And then, miraculously, in the nineties, the internet happened. The answer to every criminal’s prayer. Full of coves and corners a
nd secret places where criminals can communicate free from fear of detection. That’s where I come in.”

  “Fascinating, Damon, the way you sum it up.” His eyes shine as he talks. He’s loving this work. “You work alone?” I ask.

  “Yes and no. Every police department has its cyber specialists—the geeks of law enforcement. They troll the web, look for markers of covert activity. And they train people like me. When I hit on something, I report back. We hunker down with our laptops and chase the prey together.” He stops smiling. “I shouldn’t give away all our secrets. I forget that you earn your living defending these people.”

  “You’ve got me wrong, Damon. Sometimes I actually help a victim. Or try to. Pro bono, to boot.” Like you, I don’t say.

  “And how is Danny Mah a victim?”

  I sit up, surprised. “What do you know about Danny?”

  “He’s not the petty criminal you think he is.” His face closes. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

  “It might be important for me to know, Damon,” I press. “I mean, personally.”

  He leans toward me over the table, his voice drops. “Yeah, Jilly. That’s what I’m afraid of.” He hesitates. “I’m on the other side, now, Jilly. There are some things I can’t say. Even to you.”

  I repress a surge of anger. You owe me, Damon, I want to say. Big time. This could be a matter of life and death. But I can’t say it, because to say it would require an explanation, and to give that explanation would be to betray Danny Mah for real.

  I tell myself to relax. It’s just a rumour. Like Stan said, there’s probably nothing to it. If I were really in danger, Damon would let me know. Besides, I need to accept reality. Damon’s working with the police now and has his own ethical obligations.

  I pay the bill. We fill the air with chatter as the waiter clears up and we prepare to leave. We go through the motions, but we’ve lost the connection. Our secrets sit like a foggy cloud between us, impossible to dissipate or to penetrate. Damon, who in the past has shared every secret with me, however terrible, has moved on and away.