Kill All the Judges

by William Deverell

  “This is on O’Malley’s website?”

  “No, the Liberals.”

  Politics served up raw, exactly as he’d anticipated. And bound to get worse. Cud’s trial was likely to end just before election day, generating headlines that could hurt Margaret’s chances. Thank God he wasn’t defending him; that would be the cruellest irony.

  Ignoring the ringing phone, they ate dinner in front of the television, waiting patiently through the accidents, assaults, and fires for a by-election update. That began with a mindless, depressing streeter. “Sorry, I don’t actually know who’s running.” “None of them are going to reduce taxes, they’re all the same.” “I’ve voted NDP for the last forty years, and I’m not going to stop now.”

  A pundit: “That last gentleman may find himself a little lonely, Jim, if the NDP’s numbers stay stagnant. The latest polls have the Greens moving up three points.”

  “Yahoo,” Margaret cried.

  “But Chip O’Malley’s six-point lead may be insurmountable. A lot will depend on the first all-candidates tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, Floyd, next up, another mad cow scare…”

  Arthur snapped to attention when he heard, “Also, strange developments at the trial of a poet accused of murdering a high court judge.” Arthur sank into his chair. Cartoon characters tried to sell him toilet paper.

  “Do you know what this is about?” he asked.

  “I didn’t have time for the news.”

  Feeling hollow, Arthur watched an athlete shilling for a lending institution. Finally, here was Pomeroy, in flapping gown and dark glasses, dashing from a courtroom, skidding to a stop, racing for the stairs. Another camera followed him out the door and halfway down the block.

  “It’s still not known where Mr. Pomeroy disappeared to,” said a breathless correspondent standing outside the law courts. “His partner, Maximilian Macarthur, later appeared in court to say he didn’t know where he went. The case has been adjourned until tomorrow. Back to you, Jim.”

  Arthur stayed in his club chair, sipping tea and drumming his fingers as Margaret checked the phone messages. He’d lost his appetite, left food on his plate. He wanted to go away someplace and hide.

  “Okay, three calls from Cud, each time drunker. Tabatha, very teary…”

  “Tabatha!”

  “She’s afraid Felicity will get pregnant, the baby will need a father, please defend him. Several calls from neighbours and nosy parkers. And Max Macarthur is anxious to talk to you.”

  She passed him the phone. He dialed Max at home.

  “Arthur, thank God…”

  “Good evening, Max, and before we waste any breath, no, I will not defend Mr. Brown.”

  “Did I ask that? Damn it, Arthur, give me a chance to ask how you are.”

  “Had a very good day, enjoying that most spiritual of rural pleasures, the sweet feel of axe cleaving wood. Split three cords. For the next week I will be framing an addition to the greenhouse. You and Ruth must visit some weekend, imbibe the bracing tonic of smog-free air. Now what about Pomeroy? He cracked up, is that what I’m to understand?”

  “Some kind of panic attack, according to his therapist. I knew he was rough shape. I had no idea he’d gone over the edge.”

  “So he has been found?”

  “He ran all the way to the West End, to his psychiatrist’s office. She put him in a private facility for the behaviourally challenged that’s costing us the equivalent of the national debt. There’s a cocaine complication.”

  “Good lord. You’ve talked to Caroline?”

  “Yeah. It’ll be hard on the kids.”

  Post-marital stress. Brian’s drunken carolling had cried out a warning wantonly ignored. Arthur remembered marital stress. It can drive you to drink, it can make you crazy.

  “We’re going to tell the press he suffered a nervous collapse, it’ll gain the poor bugger some sympathy.”

  “One presumes Cud took the whole thing with his usual good spirits.”

  “He was berserk. Brian’s name was taken in vain. Your name, ah, was also mentioned. As a possible solution to this mess.”

  Arthur remained silent, he could feel Max squirming. Let him defend Cud.

  “Abigail Hitchins also asked about you. She has enormous respect for you, did you know that? Says you’re the only male human being she does respect, in fact–the rest of us are overweening, patronizing, testosterone-pumping pigs. Despises Kroop. You won’t get a fairer prosecutor, she’s a civil libertarian. Anyway, she’s got a crisis, eighty-five jury panellists twiddling their thumbs and about fourteen witnesses set to go, including six business tycoons, their wives, and two prominent writers. She complained about that to the chief.”

  Kroop. Whose snarling image came, causing a tremor. “Were God himself to command me on penalty of everlasting hellfire, I would tell him to light the kindling.”

  “Let me finish. Kroop is threatening to proceed without defence counsel unless I find someone…”

  Arthur interrupted again. “Fortunately, your firm, though small in numbers, is deep in talent. Four of this nation’s finest barristers, a reputation well deserved. Not least among them the brilliant Max Macarthur. Ah, I remember well how the young slugger pinch-hit for me in the Shiva trial.” Arthur had injured himself in a drunken spree halfway through that notorious cult murder.

  “I’m flying to The Hague on Sunday. I have a month to interview ninety-three witnesses for the International Criminal Tribunal. John Brovak is lead counsel on the Ruby Morgan appeal, which is set for a week. Augustina Sage is at a Buddhist retreat somewhere in the jungles of Thailand recovering from yet another failed relationship.”

  “You have that young fellow, what’s his name?”

  “Wentworth Chance. He’s much too green, Arthur. But here’s the deal–we’ll give him to you; you couldn’t get a brighter junior. You can have Brian’s office, his amazing secretary–”

  Arthur broke in once more. “What I suggest you do tomorrow, Maximilian, is insist that Kroop reset the trial for three or four months hence, at which time many skilled counsel will have lined up for such a headline-grabbing trial. Please keep me apprised of Brian’s condition. Poor fellow. Overwrought. Well, big day tomorrow, I’ll want to rise early.”

  “If I can get Kroop to put it off till Monday, that gives you and Wentworth tomorrow and the weekend to–”

  “Max, I wouldn’t dream of taking it on without months of preparation. I have already managed to make a fool of myself on Garibaldi several times, I’m not prepared to repeat the experience in a court of law. Must run. Ta-ta.” He disconnected.

  Into the silence that followed, he said, “Only a moron would expect a barrister to step into a major trial on three days’ notice.”

  Margaret shifted uncomfortably in her chair, spoke softly. “He did make a pass, Arthur. I rebuffed him.” More silence. “Maybe Cud can’t help it. He suffers from an unregulated sex drive; I think you resent that.” Arthur blushed, he felt shamed, a little queasy, he didn’t like this conversation–so he answered the phone, which he’d sworn not to do.

  “Arthur, so glad I got through.” Abigail Hitchins. “Max told me you might be able to bail us out.”

  “Max told you–” He began fuming.

  “I’ve got to get this trial in, my witnesses are raising a row, fat cats, friends of the Attorney General. I haven’t got an airtight case, I’m in a weakened state, this is your chance, beat me up. It’s in your client’s best interest–”

  “He’s not my client.” He subsided again into a funk. He wanted a drink. That innuendo by Margaret still smarted, like a slap in the face.

  “Listen, Arthur, with all the fooferah, all the publicity, with Bry imploding like that in court, the Attorney General, the whole government, is pulling out the stops so justice is seen to be done. The case is so sensitive that the minister has bribed the Legal Services Society to pay you triple senior counsel rate. Complete disclosure, no hidden rabbits; I’ll sit on my
fanny while you cross-examine at will, and I’ll produce any witnesses you want to have a go at, even if I have to subpoena them from Outer Mongolia. We can make a fresh start on Monday–Kroop has indicated he could bend that far. The episode shook him. He’ll be easy meat for you.”

  As she carried on, offering the moon and the stars, he felt suffocated by the pressure: family, friends, neighbours, all of Garibaldi, various arms of the government, the entire free world was on his back. And now someone was arriving, doubtless another petitioner, maybe the Pope. “Just a minute, Abigail.”

  He joined Margaret at the front door. A tall, skinny young man was bending over a mountain bike, unhitching a pack and saddlebags. “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted dinner or anything.” A squeaky tenor, a bobbing Adam’s apple. “I ate on the ferry, so don’t worry about me. I’m not going to barge in; I brought a tent. If that’s okay.”

  That was met with silence, which caused him to talk rapidly. “I brought Mr. Pomeroy’s file, which is pretty thin, and some Internet printouts about the main witnesses. I thought you’d want to discuss strategy before I go further.” He seemed to strangle on his words, had to clear his throat.

  “Who are you?” Margaret asked.

  He removed his goggles and gloves, put on wire-rimmed spectacles. A stringy fellow, late twenties. “I’m blowing it. I’m Wentworth Chance. I hope Max said I was coming; he was supposed to. Excuse me, but I’m a little nervous meeting you, Mr. Beauchamp. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve got a whole drawer of clippings about you.” He couldn’t seem to look at Arthur directly, as if he were blinded by the sun.

  “For God’s sake, Arthur, just do it,” Margaret said.

  “Come inside,” he said, still bruised by her insinuation he was a jealous and incapable lover. Well, the courtroom was one venue where he wasn’t impotent. He’ll show her.

  He retrieved the phone. “Abigail?”

  “Still here.”

  “I shall want your undertakings in writing.”

  HOTEL PARANOIA

  Where was his damn manuscript? Obviously stolen, this rehab asylum was full of thieves. Brian will outsmart them yet, he has backup disks secreted back in 305 of the Ritz. This morning he’d demanded a Mac laptop and got a used PC. Who knew what diseases it had? He threw it at a nurse, who ducked, and it crashed and died against the wall.

  They pumped clozapine into him, the house drug, and the headmaster–the Facilitator, they call him, his stage name–asked him to apologize to the nurse. Brian explained he wasn’t aiming at her, that the computer was infected with deadly viruses.

  Now he had nothing but a pen, a device he was unused to, and his hand was so shaky he couldn’t read what he’d written. A scrawl. Something like, “Help me escape.”

  Hollyburn Hall, this infirmary was called. Hotel Paranoia. A rich benefactor must be paying for it. Overstuffed furnishings, balconies overlooking mountains and rushing creek, five-star food, staff always in your face. Downstairs, a big stone fireplace around which his fellow inmates gathered to confess to the Facilitator. Brian refused to partake. They’re not getting any information from him.

  He’d taken a leap of faith with Dr. Epstein, that’s why he was here. She thought Brian had talent, his manuscript was eccentric but entertaining. To please her, he agreed to go to Hollyburn. He’s not crazy, but she doesn’t know that. He’s one step ahead of her.

  He didn’t tell her about the ring, the opal scintillating with the colours of flame and desire. He keeps it in a zippered pocket of his wallet. Occasionally he will take it out and hold it to the light to divine its secrets, its arcane messages. One day it will reveal them, one day it will tell all.

  He gave a phony address when signing in, he didn’t tell them about his safe house at Main and Keefer. He can make a run there anytime, slip out at night, flag a cab, fetch the zip-lock bag from his room and be back in two hours. Nearly an ounce, enough to get through a week of facilitation.

  Florenza LeGrand, that’s where he’d left off. He scribbled, “Raffy was prowling outside the maid’s room as we were making love. Then he just…just disappeared.” Bursting into tears on the witness stand, is that how it will be written? He hasn’t told anyone about Lance Valentine’s visit to Flo at her château. That’s their secret. He’s not going to say anything about Carlos, he promised.

  Groggy with anti-psychotics, he was having difficulty decoding his writing, its hidden meanings. He rose, slid open the glass door to his balcony, stepped out into the drizzle, looked over the railing, two storeys down. If he aimed for those rocks he could smash his head open.

  He decided not to do that yet. One of the custodians had just opened the door, lugging in a suitcase, a garment bag, and a large cardboard box. Custodians just come in, there are no locks. “Miss Wu is here to see you. Do you mind if I look at this stuff, Mr. Pomeroy?” Ms. Wu came in, grim, unsmiling.

  As the custodian went through the bags, she drew Brian to a corner of the room. “The manager of the Ritz phoned to say you’d abused his clerk and he wanted you gone. I brought your clothes, toiletries, books, computer, printer, a box of manuscript, and five backup disks I found hidden in crevices.” She looked severely at him, then added, “Plus there was something else.”

  Brian drew close to her ear. “Did you bring it?”

  “I flushed it.” She continued to glare at him until the attendant left, then said, “Covering up for your sins is not part of my job, Mr. Pomeroy, and I don’t intend to be deported because of them.”

  “You don’t understand. They think I’m insane.”

  “Insanity is a state of mind.”

  Brian fell back on his bed. The cowboy paintings he’d grown to love had been replaced by impressionist landscapes. Soothing decorous slush.

  “Mr. Beauchamp has taken on the trial.”

  That’s something Brian hadn’t written. He felt empty, as if something had been stolen, plagiarized.

  “He wants to know where the ring is.”

  “Around a rosie.”

  “Cudworth says you have it. Florenza LeGrand’s opal ring.”

  “You’re not my type, you’re gay. Don’t expect me to give you a ring.” He shuffled through the cardboard box. “Where are my reference materials? My Widgeon manuals?”

  “I’ll have them sent. You’ve received a number of personal messages from friends. Your former wife called to ask about your condition. What shall I tell her?”

  “I’m burning up as I descend from outer space.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I love her.”

  “I shall be working for Mr. Beauchamp while you are treated for your illness. If that is what it is.” Maybe she suspected he was faking it. Maybe he was. Maybe he wasn’t. Keep them guessing.

  He escorted her downstairs, past the fireplace, everyone watching, nudging, suspecting. At the door, he asked her to report back.

  “About what?”

  “About their plans. The people spying on me.”

  “Who’s spying on you?”

  “I think you know who. I think you know very well who your paymasters are.” He had her dead to rights, he could tell by her startled reaction. “Is Caroline coming to see me?”

  “She didn’t indicate that.” She turned and walked quickly to a waiting taxi.

  He began to cry. They were staring at him again as he ran upstairs. Tears smudged the manuscript as he removed it from the box. The pages slipped and scattered across the floor. There was no point in finishing this book. He’d lost control over his story. Arthur Beauchamp had control over it now…

  THE THIRD FIDDLE THEORY

  Arthur sat glumly on a porch chair on this miserable Saturday afternoon, his bags packed, waiting for the rental car. Wentworth Chance was prancing about the apple orchard like a nervous colt–the gangly fellow was ever in motion, stretching, fidgeting, twitching, as if afflicted by a strange muscle disorder.

  Margaret had already said her goodbyes, was off to a rally in East Sh
ipwreck, then the all-candidates debate in Duncan. Her slight of two evenings ago still rankled. He muttered, “As if I’ve an obsession with”–seeking the right phrase– “performance issues.” Too many courtroom battles, he’d wasted all his juices, saving nothing for the bedroom.

  Nick came running down from the milking shed, shrine of the teasing Estonian goddess. “Good luck, Grandpa, all the woofers are rooting for you too.”

  Arthur ruffled his hair. “You’re in charge now. Show your dad a good time.” Nicholas Senior was coming, sans Pamela, and would be staying for the week. He’d been on the phone to his son a few times, apologetic, making amends.

  “I better get back to my chores.” A hug–Nick actually hugged him!–and he hastened back to the shed.

  Arthur resented having to forsake Blunder Bay to do the chores of court. He wasn’t looking forward to a week in crowded, jarring Vancouver, already in a flag-waving fervour for the Winter Olympics two years hence. It had become foreign territory, this town where he’d been born, raised, enrolled in private schools, where he’d studied law, married, divorced, fought cases for forty hard years. Where he’d been an impotent, raging alcoholic.

  His main libation was tea, and many pots of it had fuelled him over the last day and a half as he muscled through particulars and witness statements, as he planned courtroom strategy with his fussbudget junior. Three days was an obscenely short time to prepare for a murder trial, but in compensation Hitchins had promised him virtual rule of the courtroom. That will help keep Kroop on the sidelines–though doubtless the old boy will find excuses to nag and nettle him. His free reign, not Kroop’s hollow threat to proceed without counsel (and definitely not Margaret’s critique of his bedroom expertise), persuaded Arthur it was now or never, carpe diem. After a long delay, witnesses tend to reconstruct memories. Such changes cement. Eyesight improves.

  Wentworth won marks by picking up on Arthur’s antipathy toward the client and offering to be his handler. He even took an anxious call from Cud, arranging to spend time with him tomorrow. He was a willing mule for any task, sharp enough, but would occasionally fall into some manner of spell, daydreaming perhaps, or overcome by the radiance of the god he served. An annoying tendency to hiccups whenever Arthur lit his pipe.