by Peter Kirby
“Five days later I heard on the morning news that Freddy was killed. They found his body in a locked cell with his stomach sliced open. The authorities tried to say that it was suicide, like Freddy did hara-kiri to atone for his sins. Bullshit. Coluso got the job done. He had got the guards to look the other way, maybe even supply a key, and he had got some ambitious punk to do him a favour. We could have had the conviction overturned on appeal, maybe. I still believe we could have. The trial was a farce. The kid was stitched up and delivered to Coluso because it was in everyone’s interest.
“The morning I heard the news, I was ambushed by a news crew outside my office, and I got carried away. I said things on camera that I really believed, that the kid had been set up, that the court and the police all had a hand in doing it, and that the system was dirtier than a Bombay sewer. And guess what? Two days later, I got a letter from the Bar saying that I had been accused of conduct unbecoming of a member of the profession. They decided to make an example of me, a young punk lawyer that doesn’t follow the rules. I went through three lawyers, all good ones, some even honest, and they all said the same thing. I should apologize. I should get down on my hands and knees and beg for forgiveness. And maybe, they said, maybe, if I was to grovel enough, I would only be suspended for six months. I fired each of them in turn and defended myself.
“Big surprise. I got a registered letter in the mail. My case has been considered: gross misconduct showing a character wholly unsuited to the practice of law. I was permanently disbarred. End of story.”
It was dark outside, and Star got up to turn on lights. As she walked by Desportes, she touched his shoulder, the same way she did with Kyle all the time.
“So now you know,” he said. “That’s my cv.”
Star didn’t know what to say. She settled on, “I’ll get some food going.”
Desportes got up from his chair and dropped into the armchair.
“Food would be good,” he said.
Vanier checked the display on his cell phone and pushed answer. Then he pulled the car to the curb, killed the engine, and listened.
“Inspector Vanier, it’s Melanie Trudel.” She sounded businesslike, not the television personality.
“Hi.”
“I did what you asked. I reviewed all our footage from the riot.”
“And?”
“He’s on it. There’s a couple of clear shots of Mr. Barbeau and of the man who met him. The boy looks fine. He doesn’t look hurt.”
“I told you he wasn’t. Can I get a copy?”
“Inspector, I told you I would think about it. I did. There’s an important issue at play here. Journalists can’t take sides. I can’t become an arm of the police.”
“Madame Trudel.” They were back to formal. “It’s my life were talking about. They’re going to hang me out to dry unless I come up with something. And not just me. My partner. She doesn’t deserve that. If you saw Barbeau, you know that he wasn’t harmed at the station. Can’t you just drop a DVD in a brown envelope, and I’ll pick it up? Or a print of the guy who met him? One face shot, that’s all.”
“No, Inspector. You’re going to have to do what everyone else has to do.”
“A search warrant? You know that’s impossible”
“Not a search warrant. Just watch the six o’clock news. And have a DVD ready to hit record.”
“You’re running the story?”
“It’s news, Inspector. That’s what we do.”
“Thanks.”
“No thanks. It’s my job. Don’t forget to record it.”
The phone clicked dead. It was four o’clock. He punched 1 on the speed dial, and Alex answered on the first ring.
“Yo!”
Alex had good days and bad ones, and Vanier could tell them just from the tone of his voice. Today was a good day.
“Hi Alex. You at home?”
“Yeah. Just chilling.”
“I need you to do me a favour? Can you set up the DVD to record? I’ll be home shortly, and there’s a story on the six o’clock news I want to record.”
“Cool.”
“You can do that?”
“Sure thing. See you later.”
“And can you stick around in case there’s a problem?”
“It’s a DVD, Dad. I told you before, it’s simple.”
“Stick around.”
Then he called Saint-Jacques and told her to watch the news and record it. He was going to call the Chief, and the guys from internal, but decided against it. He’d watch it first. If it was good, there would be plenty of time to spread the news. He felt hopeful for the first time in a week.
What should have been a twenty-minute drive took well over an hour. Another water main had burst with the spring thaw, and downtown traffic was gridlocked.
When he got home, Alex was kneeling in front of the television playing with wires. Since Alex had moved in, the closest Vanier had got to the television set was six feet away waving the remote. The area in front of the screen was littered with video game consoles and wires, spare consoles, and game cartridges. Alex sat back on his ankles in the middle of the chaos and used the remote to do a trial run. It worked.
Vanier poured himself a whiskey and sat down facing the television.
Alex asked, “So you want the whole thing?”
“Sure.”
At six o’clock, Vanier got up for a refill. They watched as the titles played and the camera focused in on Melanie Trudel reading off the headlines: riots in Egypt, tensions in the Gaza, another suicide bombing in Pakistan, more bad economic news from Europe, and then: “In a CTV News exclusive, there is a major development in the Hochelaga police brutality investigation.”
Vanier and Alex had to wait through ten minutes of news and five of commercials until Trudel came back to the story.
“CTV News has uncovered footage that casts serious doubt on allegations of police brutality made by Serge Barbeau, a Hochelaga resident who was found barely conscious in an alleyway after a riot to demand his release. Mr. Barbeau later alleged that he had been beaten by police officers from Station 23 while he was under detention. He had been released from detention shortly before being found in the alley. CTV News has now discovered video footage that appears to show Mr. Barbeau leaving Station 23 with no visible signs of a beating. Anthony Haltern has this report.”
The screen cut to a reporter standing outside Station 23 looking directly into the camera. “Melanie, we all remember the riot that occurred just over a week ago in Hochelaga. The central figure in that riot was Serge Barbeau, who was later found unconscious and bleeding in an alleyway just two kilometres from the station. Mr. Barbeau claimed that he had been severely beaten while in police custody and only released because of the pressure from the protesters who had gathered outside the station. He said that he was dazed and walked away, before collapsing from his injuries in an alley just south of Sainte-Catherine Street. We’ve reviewed the footage taken by our video-photographers outside the station and found what appears to be Barbeau emerging from the back of Station 23 and looking, frankly, fairly good. Not like someone who had just undergone a severe beating. Let’s watch the footage.”
The screen switched to footage of the station parking lot. Barbeau walked into the picture from the left and, in case anyone missed him, an animator had drawn a large white circle around him.
Vanier watched as Barbeau walked in the direction of the camera with the same grin on his face that Vanier had wanted to change. Then Barbeau saw someone he recognized, walked up to him and gave him a high five. The other man reached out and threw a bear hug around the kid. Then the camera caught a two second shot of the man’s face.
The image on the screen cut to the studio, where Haltern was sitting around a desk with Trudel.
“Anthony, based on what we see in the clip, is it realistic to
think that Mr. Barbeau’s injuries were the result of a beating he received in police custody?”
“I have to say no, Melanie. I don’t know what happened while he was in custody. But this much seems very clear. The beating that put Barbeau in hospital most likely happened after he was released. Even if we can’t see broken bones, we know that Barbeau’s nose was broken, and that causes a lot of bleeding. As you saw yourself, he wasn’t bleeding. We’ve been trying to reach Mr. Barbeau all day for his comments, but neither he nor his lawyer have returned our calls.”
“Thanks, Anthony.” Trudel looked into the camera. “Now it’s time for a look at the weather.”
Vanier pushed mute on the remote and jumped to his feet. “Shit …. Ha!” he said, over and over, advancing on the Jameson bottle.
“Dad, that’s great. You’re off the hook.”
“I’m off the hook, my lad!”
Vanier pulled out his phone to call Saint-Jacques, but her call came in first.
“It’s fantastic, boss! That does it … doesn’t it?”
He sensed the doubt, in her voice. “What the hell else do they need? The kid was fine when I let him go.”
“It proves you didn’t …. ” She stopped herself, as though to admit that proof was needed would acknowledge that she had had doubts. “What do you think happened?”
“I’m going to find out. We need to talk to the guy that gave him the bear hug. The kid was set up to make us look bad. Someone wanted to screw me over. So we start with the guy in the crowd. Who is he?”
“We can tour the photo around Hochelaga. Someone’s bound to recognize him.”
“We’ve got work to do, Sylvie.” It felt good saying that. “But first we’ve got to get our jobs back. I’ll call the Chief and get back to you.”
“But I was just packing to leave. A week in the sun.”
“You’re kidding right?”
“I’m kidding. Call me back.”
He reached Chief Bedard at his office.
“Sir. Did you see the six o’clock news on CTV?”
“You think I have time to watch television? I’m working.”
Vanier explained the story. Then he said, “We need to identify the guy who met Barbeau. Saint-Jacques and I can start tomorrow. And someone needs to question the kid before he comes up with another bullshit story.”
“Luc, wait. Not so fast. There is an internal investigation going on, and you’re suspended until it’s complete. If what you say is true, they should be able to wrap it up quickly. But it’s going to take a day or two. And I can’t reinstate you before it’s completed. That wouldn’t look good. I can’t pre-judge the outcome of the investigation.”
“You’re not pre-judging the outcome. It’s clear. The kid walked out of the station without a mark on him, wrapping his supposedly broken arm around his handler. We need to speak to both of them.”
“I’ll have internal bring Barbeau in for questioning tomorrow. And we can start looking for the other guy. Luc, you need to be patient. You’re not back on the job until the investigation is over. Got that? Take it easy for a day or two, that’s all.”
It was no use arguing. He hung up before the Chief could say anything else.
Alex had disappeared into his room, and Vanier had to play with two remotes to get back to the start of the clip. He played it back five times, but didn’t learn much more. He ejected the DVD and replaced it with the one Garguet had given him. Now that he knew what he was looking for, it made some sense. He watched from the beginning, scanning the gathering crowd, and there he saw the man with the raincoat appear. He was in the crowd, but apart, not yelling chants but just surveying things. He kept his back to the Hells’ camera most of the time, but then put his phone to his ear and relaxed into a chatting on the phone stance while the crowd got thicker around him. When the call finished, he turned and moved out of sight of the camera and only reappeared for a few seconds just before the kid came out. It was as though he knew Barbeau was on his way.
Vanier watched and re-watched Garguet’s video, trying to figure out what it meant. Garguet was identifying who had picked up Barbeau. Vanier wondered why he hadn’t given him more. Maybe that’s all there was, or maybe Garguet just didn’t like helping the police. In any event, all he had to do was to identify the guy in the raincoat.
Vanier ejected the DVD and put it back into its plastic case, then called Saint-Jacques. She picked up on the first ring.
“We’re not back on the job yet, are we?”
“He called you?”
“No. I’m not that important. When you hung up I started thinking. There’s no way the Chief would reinstate us unless he’s bulletproof on it.”
“Christ. You’ll go far, Sylvie. You’re already thinking like a boss. He wants Internal to close their investigation first, and that’s going to take a day or two. You still have time to get to the airport.”
“I wish.”
“Sylvie, if you want a break, take it.” He could sense the fatigue in her voice. False hopes are exhausting. “Nobody will blame you.”
“I’ll blame myself.” She sounded like she was close to tears and wanted off the phone before she lost it.
“Sleep on it. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
There was only one occupied table inside The Gentleman’s Club, the rest had chairs standing on them while a frail Hispanic woman pushed a vacuum around with less enthusiasm than a guy checking phone booths for spare change. Joe Lacroix, Denis Savard, and Paul Brasso were sitting at the table.
“Go clean somewhere else, fuck,” Brasso yelled as the woman pushed the vacuum in their direction. “We’re working here.”
She changed direction without acknowledging him. Brasso was fingering the note Joe had found on his windshield. He’d read it four times already.
“Like I said, Paul, I didn’t call yet.”
“Good. Who the hell wrote this?” said Brasso, picking it up, as though squinting at it more closely would reveal something different.
“We’re the only ones know it was at the Alpine Gardens,” said Denis.
“Obviously someone else knows. The question is who?” said Brasso.
“Who else is looking for Barbeau?” asked Joe.
“The police? His mother? Journalists? Shit, everyone’s looking for the bastard,” said Denis.
“It’s none of them,” said Brasso. “This letter is blackmail. Someone is trying to shake us down. Shit, I need to talk to the boss.”
Brasso fished his cell phone out of his pocket and punched numbers. “And tell her to shut that goddamn machine off,” he said, pointing to the cleaning woman. Joe got up and walked over to the woman.
On the phone Brasso explained the letter and listened. Then he put the phone back in his pocket. Joe and Denis were waiting.
“The boss says we’ve got to find the guy who left this and bring him in. And we have to do it pretty damn quick.”
“Jesus,” said Denis. “Where do we start?”
“I’ve got an idea,” said Brasso. “Someone else was looking for Barbeau. Some girl showed up at the lawyer’s place the other day looking for him. We should talk to her.”
“How do you know?” asked Joe.
“Dufrene called the Colonel right after her visit. I was there when he took the call.”
“So who’s the girl?”
“Don’t know.” He pulled out his own phone. “Maybe Dufrene knows.”
Brasso spoke to Dufrene for less than two minutes and wrote down a name and a number. Then he put the phone down and picked up Joe’s letter.
“It’s the same fucking number,” he said. “The girl who visited Dufrene left a business card, her name is Clara Furlow, and she has the same phone number as the note you got, Joe. Jackpot!” Brasso smiled.
“So how are we going to find them?”
&nbs
p; “Watch me,” said Brasso as he punched redial on his phone.
Dufrene answered.
They had eaten supper mostly in silence. Desportes seemed lost in his memories, and Star didn’t know how to make small talk. Kyle just ate and read. The phone rang when Star was clearing dishes, and she jumped. Desportes picked it up.
“Yeah?”
“Oh, hello. Can I speak to Clara Furlow?”
Desportes was puzzled. “Who’s calling?”
“She asked me to call her. Is she there?”
“How did you get the number?”
“It was on the business card she gave me. Can I speak to her or not?”
Desportes handed the phone to Star.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Furlow? It’s Maître Dufrene. Remember me? You’re working with the school board, right?”
