Kill All the Judges

by William Deverell

  “Please describe it.”

  “Gold or imitation gold, with a big oval stone, kind of yellowish-orange.”

  “An opal.”

  “Could be.”

  Arthur nudged Wentworth to write all this down–he seemed inordinately fatigued. There was Vogel in the back, the old farmer bamboozled by Clearihue. Arthur didn’t know how to build that defence, a murder to abort a judgment. Clearihue lived a twenty-minute walk from Whynet-Moir, so there was opportunity and motive but not much more.

  Detective Sergeant Chekoff took the oath. Bull-like, with a razor-resisting muzzle, a suit that hadn’t known pressing for a week. An old-style cop from the ranks, not a bad fellow, though an exemplar of the Peter Principle and out of his depth here.

  Roused from bed by his dispatcher shortly after 3:00 a.m., he’d “jumped” into his car and “raced off” to 2 Lighthouse Lane. Given that Gaynor easily beat him there, this effort to imply he leaped buildings with a single bound seemed suspect–maybe he’d got lost or stopped for a coffee and doughnut. Two more detectives arrived on his heels and were directed to Astrid Leich’s home. Then came the forensics unit, another ambulance, two more patrol cars, sirens howling, neighbours congregating.

  In the LeGrand manse the windows remained dark, only a few exterior lights burning. While officers fanned out along the deck and directed beams onto the rocky shore, Chekoff buzzed the front door. Twice. Three times. Then he was summoned to an area of the deck where a metal chair lay on its side. Officers were gaping down at a “human form, male, partially clad in a dressing gown.”

  At this point Abigail began to thrust exhibits at Chekoff: pictures of the house exterior, the yard, the decks, the fallen chair, the sprawled body thirty feet below, shots of intrepid climbers lugging up the corpse on a stretcher. House plans, a landscape architect’s drawings, diagrams showing distances, elevations.

  The fingerprint people went inch by inch over the railing and fallen chair but found nothing to place Cudworth near the critical area. Towels were seized from around the pool, as well as a bottle of Hennessy VSOP, nearly empty. Cud’s prints were lifted from the bottle and the door. No clothing strewn about, though Cud claimed he and Flo had stripped by the pool.

  Chekoff made another fruitless effort to arouse someone, knocking and yelling, “Police!” Probably because he knew these were the diggings of local nobility, he’d shied away from radioing for a search warrant or attempting forced entry. Instead, he posted two guards on the grounds until morning.

  Unfortunately, Chekoff’s only instructions to the constables, both rookies, were to forbid anyone leaving the house, and before he showed up again at 8:00 a.m. they’d let the maid and gardener in and given fawning admittance to Florenza’s father, Donat J. LeGrand, as well as an entire medical-legal entourage. Chekoff and his crime scene team were guided to a bedroom doorway where “I observed Ms. LeGrand in bed, apparently ill, and under treatment by a doctor and a nurse.” He did not venture in.

  He was then led to a drawing room and introduced to “a lawyer named Shawn Hamilton, whom I identify as sitting right over there.” Shawn nodded, unsmiling. “As a result of that conversation, I did not make further inquiries of Ms. LeGrand, but I produced a search warrant and told them I intended to enforce same.”

  That search turned up nothing but Cud’s cigar butt, overlooked by the maid, who had already done the living room, dining room, and tidied up what the caterers hadn’t. Assuming her employers were still abed, she hadn’t entered the main bedroom. The gardener was also on duty, raking leaves.

  Chekoff looked uneasy as he related this fiasco, especially with Kroop muttering under his breath. Arthur could read his lips: “Nincompoop.” He caught the forewoman’s eye and couldn’t help smiling–but he felt sorry for Chekoff.

  The sergeant next made inquiries of the Haitian maid, Philomène Rossignol, who escorted him to her suite. The bed had been tidily made and its linen washed. She’d set aside a backpack and male toiletries for whoever was the rightful claimant.

  The judge ordered a break, and Arthur nudged Wentworth, who was staring at the protruding bottom of a junior prosecutor bending over the counsel table. “Wentworth.”

  “Oh, sorry,”

  “I’ll want a transcript of Leich’s 911 call. And ask Abigail to produce the maid for cross-examination. Rashid too, while we’re at it. I’ll want you to interview them first.”

  Arthur went out to the gallery to check his messages. Nothing from Margaret. It still smarted that she’d chastised him, but when he thought back, yes, he could see how his jests about her campaign, about Ottawa, might have smacked of smirking faithlessness.

  Nicholas Braid had called. “I guess you’re not there. A couple of locals are out in the barn, they told me you hired them to build a pedestal for that monstrosity in there. A Mr. Stonewell and some fellow he calls Dog, they assured me they have permission to use the Fargo to haul the cement. Nicky vouched for them, so I gave them the keys, hope you don’t mind.”

  Arthur uttered a profane lamentation; the Fates had it in for him. He dragged himself back to court 67, looking for Wentworth. A junior prosecutor, buxom and freckle-faced, had him in close encounter, trapped against the jury railing. Finally, he moved back to his station, flushed.

  Arthur said, “Well?”

  “She said yes.”

  “Who said yes to what?”

  He stammered. “Oh, um, Abigail, she’ll produce the maid and Rashid.”

  Chekoff stepped back into the box, smoothed his rumpled suit, and described his wanderings around the grounds with a photographer, illustrating the tour with photos. Exhibits P-33 through P-39 showed views of Leich’s balcony from the vantage of the fallen chair, an unobstructed distance of sixty metres.

  They next went to the other side of the little nipple of an inlet, to 5 Lighthouse Lane, Leich’s house, where photos were snapped in the opposite direction. “I had a conversation with Ms. Leich following which I escorted her to headquarters. There she attended a lineup of eight men as depicted in Exhibit 54, in which the accused is shown wearing a placard with number six. I instructed Ms. Leich to write down the number of any person she’d seen from her balcony at approximately three a.m.” And of course she wrote down number six.

  “That’s the man,” she’d said–hearsay, but Arthur didn’t object, didn’t want the jury thinking he was hiding an awkward truth.

  He rose to cross-examine, wondering why the jury seemed distracted–they were watching Felicity Jones return in a pout. She retook her seat between Cud and Mrs. Brown, quickly withdrew her hand when Cud tried to press it.

  “Let’s try to understand this, sergeant–after you discovered the body you made no attempt to enter the premises?”

  “Okay, I called the chief and he spoke to some other people, I don’t know who, and he called back to tell me to button down the place and post guards until the daylight hours.”

  “The night before, responding to Ms. Leich’s call, you arrived well after my client ran the car into the tree.”

  “I had to do some checking, see who lived at 2 Lighthouse Lane.”

  “Prominent people–is that why the investigation was put on hold?”

  “From what I could determine, there was no one at home, and it looked like it could have been…” Hesitation.

  “Suicide?”

  “Well, it had some of the earmarks.”

  “Suggesting that Ms. Leich didn’t see what she claimed to see.”

  “We were keeping all options open.” Sullenly.

  “In your search of the house, did you find any copies of Mr. Brown’s poetry books? Liquor Balls, Karmageddon.”

  Chekoff pondered. “Can’t say we did.”

  “Not in the maid’s room either?”

  “I have no note of that.”

  Shawn was writing his own note. Arthur wondered if he’d gone so far as to remove evidence. He played with a thought that Shawn might be representing not just Flo LeGrand but, more su
rreptitiously, friends in Ottawa, friends who wanted things hushed up.

  “Odd to think that my client, even intoxicated, would drive off and leave behind his belongings–unless, if he was doing any thinking at all, he intended to come back. Did that thought strike you?”

  That, in retrospect seemed a foolish question, and Arthur got the answer he deserved. “Maybe he had a reason to wanna get out of there fast.”

  “As I understand it, Ms. LeGrand was under instructions not to talk to you.”

  “That’s about it, counsellor.”

  “Does the name Carlos Espinoza mean anything to you?”

  “Can’t say it does.”

  Again Shawn was writing, an indication Arthur was on the right track. “Are you aware that fourteen years ago Ms. LeGrand had a lover in Mexico by that name?”

  “I may have heard something about that.”

  “And what did you hear?”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, we’re not interested in scuttlebutt.”

  “But I daresay, milord, we are interested in knowing who killed Rafael Whynet-Moir.”

  “What the sergeant may have heard is of absolutely no probative value. I will not have this court used as a forum for backhanded attacks on reputation.”

  “Nor should the court erect a shield against relevant inquiries that involve reputation.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, your lack of deference to this court has not gone unnoticed.”

  Arthur had the old fellow going, and he was thinking of adding fuel, but Abigail was now trying to enter the fray. “Milord, if I may…”

  “You may not. I do not need to hear from you. The question is entirely unseemly and is disallowed. It’s four o’clock, we’ll adjourn.” He swept out, slammed the chambers door. Arthur felt badly about putting the fellow in a sour mood when he was soon about to enjoy accolades with his rubber chicken.

  As the courtroom buzz settled, Arthur turned to see a familiar but unexpected presence. Provincial Judge J. Dalgleish Ebbe, who, after he’d been passed over for elevation to the Supreme Court, had foul-mouthed Whynet-Moir in a cocktail lounge. Arthur riffled through his papers for the 2006 Law Society complaint, reread Ebbe’s claim that His Lordship and his spouse were major contributors to the Conservative Party, and that Whynet-Moir bribed the justice minister, the late Hon. Jack Boynton, to get the appointment.

  Ebbe didn’t, or wouldn’t, look at Arthur as he joined the exit queue. Odd that he’d take time out from sentencing vandals, brawlers, shoplifters and other minor miscreants to come here. His curiosity must have been piqued by Arthur’s broad hints about hanky-panky in high places.

  Schultz’s comment came back: Can’t blame him for being bitter.

  THE OWL AND THE HOOKER

  “Thirty days in the lockup will cure you of your insolence. Mr. Chance, you will have to carry on for the defence as best you can. Hmf, hmf.” Wentworth rose with a scornful smile. “With pleasure, milord…”

  The reverie was shattered by a whining power saw, carpenters below, working overtime, it was after five o’clock. Wentworth had stopped in there, saw three neckless long-haired heavyweights setting up the sound system for tomorrow’s grand opening of the Gastown Riot, heavy metal with Blood’n’Guts.

  His stomach was growling; that lunchtime chowder hadn’t much staying power. With Loobie’s steak sandwich and his three whiskies and tip, $48.27. This newshound was a leech.

  He rubbed his eyes, tried to focus on his to-do list. Newly added to it: Judge J. Dalgleish Ebbe. What was his interest in this case? Maybe he was just waiting like a vulture for the boss to give Kroop a heart attack so he’d get shortlisted again for the high court. “And get me all you can on Boynton,” the taskmaster commanded after court recessed, “misdoings, misappropriations, skimming from expense allowances–every politician leaves a trail. Google him, or whatever one does.”

  He awoke his computer, returned to the transcript of the Naught inquest, just couriered; he was at page 30 of 280. There was no one to share the burden, no one to replace the beautiful Oriental spy, he had to do all the filing. He sighed, took a deep breath. He will bend, won’t break.

  This evening’s mission: debrief Minette Lefleur–they’re to meet a couple of hours from now. He skipped to page ninety-three, her testimony. It didn’t amount to much; she saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, but was devastated that such an awful thing had happened to this well-respected client of her licensed massage business.

  The other key witness was Joe Johal, Honest Joe, the Chevrolet-Pontiac dealer, who encountered Naught on the houseboat ramp. “Evening, judge,” he’d said as they passed in the night. Naught looked unsteady, Johal had picked up a strong smell of alcohol. Counsel at the inquest made something of Honest Joe having lost a breach of contract before Naught, but no one could pin anything on him.

  The receptionist had stuck a few Post-it notes to his phone, calls to be returned. Haley, half an hour ago, saying she was free after court on Friday and delighted to accept his offer for a cocktail in lieu of the dry-cleaning bill. He hoped she wouldn’t expect dinner as well, payday wasn’t until the end of the month. She seemed totally forgiving, but there was something about her–he couldn’t pin it down–that made him uncomfortable. An earthiness, a forwardness. Close up, she smelled of jasmine.

  “Mr. Jobson,” read another Post-it, “will be at this number until 5:30.” He racked his brain. Right, Clearihue’s lawyer at the Vogel trial. Wentworth had left him a message.

  Jobson picked up right away. “Mr. Chance? Glad we could catch up to each other. I take it you’re acting for Mr. Vogel?”

  “Well, yes, I am.”

  “That’s a relief, I was afraid he’d be without counsel.” That sounded sincere, but Wentworth was on guard. “I have instructions to talk.” Wentworth blinked. That was code for a settlement offer. “We’d like to close the book on this thing now that Mr. Clearihue has passed on.”

  Wentworth almost dropped the phone. “He what?”

  “The Clearihue family hasn’t issued any statements, so it wasn’t generally known that he’d been in a coma since the accident.”

  Wentworth confessed he was in the dark. The accident, Jobson said, occurred while Clearihue was checking out some timber properties in the Borneo rain forest. Sadly, he wasn’t wearing a helmet when a falling mahogany tree clipped his skull.

  Jobson wasn’t one to hedge about, he was offering to rescind the entire deal, return the title to Vogel. Each side to pay their own costs.

  Wentworth said he’d get back to him. He was too dazed to work this out right now, but he guessed Clearihue’s estate didn’t want the expense of a new trial, especially since they’d lost their main witness.

  “We’ll hear from you then, Mr. Chance.”

  “Fine, um, just a sec. Exactly when was this accident?”

  “Let me check…Yes, just over four months ago, the first weekend of October.”

  Cross Clearcut Todd off the list. Wentworth chucked the eight-hundred-page transcript; it hit the floor with a satisfying whump.

  The boss seemed to take it in stride. “Felled by a tree, you say? Poor fellow, a taste of Ceres’s revenge. ‘In solemn lays, exalt your rural queen’s immortal praise.’”

  “That’s Virgil.”

  “Very good.”

  They were bent into the wind-driven rain, walking to the parking lot. “You used that line in the Northwest Produce conspiracy.”

  “I did?”

  Wentworth didn’t want to seem smug, but he knew more about the boss than the boss did. He was enjoying a little uptick in his spirits. Magically, thanks to a mahogany tree, he’d just become a hero to Vogel and his three beautiful granddaughters.

  He sought Arthur’s advice about the settlement. “Hold out for thirty thousand in costs in lieu of punitive damages. That will amply pay your bill.” Thirty thousand! Wentworth wouldn’t have the gall to dicker that high, he wasn’t skilled in the art. The partners were always on him about his low billings.
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  They climbed into the Chrysler, Wentworth at the wheel. It wasn’t until Arthur directed him toward West Shaughnessy that he mustered courage to ask exactly where they were going.

  “To see my oldest and most valued client.”

  “Faloon. The Owl.”

  “You know that too.”

  They passed by grand gated properties hidden by tall cedar hedges; the people around here had the kind of money you don’t need to show off. Arthur pointed to a driveway, and after he announced himself at the intercom, the gate swung open to receive them. The house looked like a replica of a small English castle, block and stone, with towers.

  As he parked under cover by the entranceway, a short, swarthy man came out, arms spread wide, a face-cracking grin. Faloon. Wentworth had read about him; he used to be the world number three jewel thief. They’d never got him for his last caper, in Cannes, a rumoured fortune in uncut African diamonds.

  He gave Arthur a bear hug and Wentworth a vigorous handshake. “Your headman here must’ve got me off a hundred times.”

  “Well, actually thirteen wins and two losses, but it’s the record for most acquittals for a single client.”

  “What’s this guy, your personal encyclopedia?” Faloon led them through a palatial entrance hall into a parlour about ten times bigger than Wentworth’s flat, done in an Arabic style, colourful rugs and carpets, patterned floor cushions, settees, ottomans.

  “Claudette’s in the ballroom with her tango class, but she left some appetizers.” Cheese, grapes, sliced oranges, pita bread, miniature sausages, a feast. Wentworth was famished.

  “Mr. Beauchamp don’t partake, but I got beer, wine, or hard, or I got jake, regular or decapitated.” Wentworth took the regular to help him stay awake. “Put some of them canapés away, Stretch, you look like you been working eighth oar on a slave ship.”

  Wentworth silently concurred. He sat a hand’s reach from the tray, willing himself not to descend on it like a wolf. Arthur sat with a grunt of comfort on a plump settee. “I have a small favour to ask.”