Brovak rose, groaned, reached for his stogie–he was having trouble moving, it looked like a severe hangover. When he lit up Wentworth began to hiccup.
The receptionist peaked in, with the mail and newspapers. “Wentworth, you’ve had several calls from the media.”
“Later, I’ve got a zillion things.” Hic.
“Maybe you want to look at this.”
She left him the Province, with its loud, accusatory question: “Multi-million Bribe for Judgeship?” A subhead: “Parliament in Uproar.” One photo depicted LeGrand’s affidavit, another the cover page, legibly signed by one Wentworth Chance. The hiccupping accelerated. The enterprising editor of the Garibaldi newsweekly quoted Arthur as saying, “This is a very delicate matter.”
He pulled a bottle of Zap from his pack, drank slowly. Ten seconds later, another hiccup.
Brovak yawned, limped to his sofa. “Put up the don’t disturb; I need an hour’s kip. When are you going to bring in some bread, kid? Pomeroy’s five-star hospice is draining the general account, and I’m up to the knuckle with spousal payments.” He closed his eyes.
Wentworth mentioned the Vogel receivable of $30,000.
“Maybe it’s time to reconsider that raise you promised five years ago.”
“We’ll have a partners’ meeting over it. Augie’s winging in from Thailand today. Max won’t be long behind.”
“He’s in Europe for the next three months.”
“I’m on your side, kid, count on me.” He rolled over, tucked a cushion beneath his head.
“One at a time, please. Yes, you, in the grey fedora.” “Mr. Chance, can you tell us how you were able to trace the suspect?” “Pecker tracks, gentlemen. Next?” “Sedgwick, New York Post. Does it bother you, sir, that you worked in the same office with this pervert?” “It would be wrong for me to let personal feelings…”
The picture shattered as Wentworth, his hiccups coming like clockwork, pedalled around Nelson Street to the law courts entrance, where a pack of reporters was waiting. Maybe they won’t recognize him in helmet and goggles, he’ll try to slip past them. And he did, sneaking into the entrance hall. But then: “Yo, Wentworth.” Charles Loobie.
“Pressed for time, Charles.”
“One question: what’s going to be your strategy when Kroop goes berserk?”
“Do I look worried?” Hic. When he was tense, like now, they sometimes went on for hours. Something about an oversensitive glottis, a doctor had told him.
“I got a remedy for those,” Loobie said.
“Tried them all.”
“Stand on your head for two minutes sipping soda water through a straw…”
“Got to run.” Wentworth had a remedy for Loobie. Imprisonment. Where was he on October 13? In the lounge he took some water down slowly. Thirty seconds passed. Hic.
In the locker room, he removed his wet trousers, borrowed an ill-fitting pair from the firm’s locker. Pomeroy’s; he recognized the gaily coloured suspenders. After robing, he made his way to gallery six, where a dozen firstcomers were lined up outside court 67 to stake claims on prime seats. The witness-room door was ajar, and he could see Abigail with Astrid Leich, who was saying, “Oh, yes, I’m quite certain…” Abigail, looking queasy, closed the door on him.
Haley was in an interview room with Florenza LeGrand, who was wearing tons of eye shadow, wrapped cellophane-tight in something she hadn’t bought at Dress Mart. Gold locket, an emerald ring where once there’d been an opal. She was ignoring Haley, reading a glossy. Silent Shawn was in a corner chair, his thumbs hooked into his braces. “We’re busy,” he said.
Flo studied Wentworth’s ill-fitting robes, looked down at where his pant cuffs ended above his ankles. “Cute outfit, Wentworth.” She knew his name! She rose languidly, as if stoned, pulled her Gitanes from her bag, slung on her coat, and brushed past him, too close for comfort. He smelled something earthy, spicy, exotic.
Shawn rose with a groan and followed his client. “Bye-bye,” Haley said icily, and turned to Wentworth, making like she was holding a pistol on him. “Kroop’s back.” She aimed, squeezed the trigger.
“I hope Brovak warned you about the diagnosis.”
“What do you mean?”
“Scabies venerealis. Antibiotics don’t help.” Hic.
“I’ve got a remedy for those. Stick your head in a bucket of ice water and hold your breath for fifteen minutes.”
He walked off. The perfect line would come too late, after he replayed the scene, recasting himself as master of the pointed barb. He could see Florenza below, leaving. She almost bumped into Cud and Felicity coming in. It looked like he said something to her as she paused to light up. She smiled, waved, floated down the street. Shawn watched through the glass, coatless, unwilling to test the weather outside.
Felicity, obviously in one of her pouts, overtook Cud at the top of the stairs, went straight to Wentworth. “He called her ‘Goddess.’ It was totally not cool, and embarrassing.”
Cud shrugged from his poncho. “‘Keep them guessing, Goddess,’ that’s what I said. A message. I’m saying, Hey, baby, we’re in this together, let’s pull together.”
“She gave me this smirk.”
“I’m sorry, but that lady and I share a little past, one hot night on the same wavelength; she reads me, I read her. Where’s Arthur?”
“He asked me to handle a few minor witnesses until he gets here.”
“No way, man, we hold everything off until he shows. You don’t have the experience, Woodward.”
“Oh, you are so insulting,” Felicity said, and turned to Wentworth. “He doesn’t mean that, honestly.”
“No offence, but Arthur’s the guy I personally hired. I’m wondering if he ain’t taking this case serious enough. Maybe he’s decided it’s a duck shoot, he doesn’t want the jury thinking he has to bust his ass over it. That how you see it?”
Wentworth answered with a hiccup, a stray one. They were letting up.
“I use a tablespoon of Alka-Seltzer with honey,” said Felicity, who’d morphed into a better humour. “Oh, you should’ve been with us last night, Mr. Chance, when the power went out. Cud had to do a reading by candlelight in the Cinco de Mayo Bar and Grill. It was, like, transcendental.”
“I had the place rocking.” Cud took Wentworth’s arm and drew him away. “Let’s try this on for size. When I hear Raffy scream, I jump out of bed, rush outside in time to see the perp run across the lawn, through the rose bushes, or whatever they’ve got, and over the wall. But I catch a look at him, and he resembles me, same brawny build, which is why Astrid picked me out in the lineup, right? The Mexican guy, Carlos, what’s his complexion, could he pass?”
Wentworth showed him a picture he’d copied from the Net last night, Carlos Espinoza handcuffed to a Mexican cop, both of them grinning at the camera. Bronze-skinned, thin-waisted, an unbent, aquiline nose, jet black hair. Cud’s hair was light, almost sand-coloured.
Cud frowned over the picture, disappointed. “Well, there were only a few outdoor lights. That neighbourhood snoop, how was she gonna see details? Let me continue. I figure I’ll jump in a car and follow him. And I zoom out in the Aston Martin just in time to see him running down the street. And I…maybe I slip on a wet patch–did it rain that night?–or if that doesn’t work, I swerve to avoid a cat or dog…and bang, I hit that tree. Think it’s got legs?”
Wentworth made no effort to respond. “Look invisible. Astrid Leich is in the far witness room.”
A girl came by with a copy of Karmageddon. “It’s for my mom’s birthday.” Cud didn’t look so invisible signing books and CDs.
Abigail exited the witness room, took Wentworth aside, grimacing, slugging from a bottle of Mylanta. “I’m not going to let the chief know my pain. Bertha Rudweiler’s death has confirmed for him the essential weakness of women. What’s up with Arthur?”
“Riding in at high noon. I’m the whipping boy for the morning.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have sen
t that fax to an open mailbox.”
It would be easy to blame the boss, to claim he was acting under orders. But Wentworth Chance wasn’t made of custard filling, he won’t squeal even if they apply electrodes.
“There’s a chance we won’t go ahead out of respect for her ladyship. The chief wants to see us in chambers.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Hardly anyone got invited to Wilbur Kroop’s sanctum; why was junior counsel being so honoured? Maybe he wanted to take his shots at Wentworth out of view of the jury. That’s fair. He’ll stand tall, die bravely. “Give me liberty or give me death.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Abigail was looking oddly at him.
“Um, nothing. Okay, let’s go.”
Haley was not among the invited; Wentworth took satisfaction from that, giving her a pitying smile as he walked by. She won’t have the pleasure of seeing Wentworth get slapped around.
The thirty-inch TV in the chief’s room seemed totally out of place, as did the library of DVDs. Otherwise it was right out of Dickens, gloomy and cluttered, wall-to-wall books and musty law reports. Old English masters on the wall. A small-wattage bulb under a flower-patterned lampshade. A yellow pool under a lit brass desk lamp, spotlighting a gnarled, hairy hand signing papers with a fountain pen. A hulklike form on a high-backed throne. His gown and vest were on a hook, and he was in shirtsleeves. Yellow suspenders. Smiling…
“Miss Hitchins. Mr. Chance. Very kind of you to join me. Please sit. That chair is more comfortable than it looks, Mr. Chance.”
Wentworth took it, feeling discombobulated. He had trouble drawing his eyes from a desk photo of a steely-eyed young man in a 1950s haircut, beside him, a smiling woman, Kroop’s late wife. She’d died in an accident forty years ago. He’d never remarried.
“A sad day, milord,” Abigail said. “Madam Justice Rudweiler was a powerful voice on the appellate bench. I know you had enormous respect for her.”
“And for a very good reason. She regularly upheld my rulings. Hmf, hmf.” He didn’t seem to be mourning that much. “Bertha had little time for modernist ideas that divorce laws from ancient authority. Old-fashioned, you might call her, but her breed is fast disappearing.”
If he was baiting Abigail, the ultimate modernist, she wasn’t rising to it. Wentworth dared throw in his two-bits’ worth, a mindless bit about Rudweiler’s reputation for hewing to principle.
“Well said, young man.” Wentworth sneaked a look at Abigail, who seemed equally amazed at this display of bonhomie. “But where is my friend Arthur Beauchamp? Are we to expect he’ll be wandering by at some point?”
Wentworth sought to leave the impression Arthur had been called away briefly on vital matters. He didn’t mention fishing.
“Normally, of course, we would adjourn to mourn the passing of our sister Rudweiler, but that would be unfair to our jury, given all the interruptions they’ve endured. You’re up to it, Miss Hitchins?”
“Raring to go, milord.”
“Whom do you have left? Obviously the deceased’s spouse, and Miss Leich–whose Hedda Gabler, by the way, was among the finest I’ve seen–and did I hear there may be two others?”
Abigail said she’d added the maid and guard to her list.
“Surely they won’t take long.”
“The Crown’s case could be wrapped up by day’s end.”
“And you, Mr. Chance? How long do you anticipate the defence will take?”
Wentworth was bold: “Well, sir, if the Crown’s case doesn’t shape up by the end of the day, I’m sure you’ll hear Mr. Beauchamp move for a directed verdict. Otherwise I can’t honestly say what he plans to do. It depends on those two main witnesses.”
“Then it’s best we press ahead. But I propose–and I’ll hear you on it–a slight digression from the usual timetable. I have in mind that we plough ahead this week until all the Crown witnesses are in. That means sitting tomorrow, Saturday. Defer our weekend by a day, with Sunday and Monday free. Happily, that would allow me to attend to my state duties in the nation’s capital. Then we can all be back here on Tuesday. Does that seem practicable?”
Tuesday, election day. Wentworth strived to frame a complaint. Words didn’t come.
“I see no alarms being raised, hear no howls of protest. Excellent.” He rose. “Thank you, both of you; you’ve been most considerate. Now shall we all return to the tasks at hand?”
Wentworth walked out in a daze. Ebenezer Kroop had been visited by the Ghost of Judgments Past, or maybe by Bertha Rottweiler, and had evolved into a repentant, kindly human.
Judge Ebbe was again in the gallery, giving him the evil eye, still smarting from Wentworth’s insinuation of guilt. Sitting behind him was another familiar face…He jumped, startled, recognizing her, a ghost from his own recent past…was that really April Fan Wu? Shouldn’t she be in Hong Kong? Wait…sitting beside her was an even scarier visitation, Brian Pomeroy, looking totally cleaned up. The nicotine-stained moustache was history. Blue suit, blue silk tie, tailored off-white shirt. The blank stare said he was not at any advanced stage of recovery.
As Wentworth bore down upon them, April looked up from a clipboard, smiled her ultra-cool smile. “Either your legs have grown or you’re wearing someone else’s trousers.”
“They’re mine,” Pomeroy said. “Did you find the ring? Check the pockets.”
“Why are either of you here?”
“The info feed into Hollyburn Hall is zero,” Brian said. He held a pad of lined paper, a sharpened pencil. “We’re getting close to the final chapter. I don’t trust the court reporter.”
Wentworth had to check his own sanity. Okay, he was in court 67, all normal, sheriffs, clerk, prosecutors, Silent Shawn, the jury filing in.
“April, why aren’t you in Hong Kong?”
“I renewed my visa.”
“She’s come back for the climax, Wentworth.”
“I have taken him out on a day pass,” April said.
“Order in court!”
Wentworth got a frustrated out-of-the-loop look from Cud as he returned to his battle station. Cud had a dread of Pomeroy–nobody warned him a madman was defending him for murder, that was his refrain. Wentworth hoped April could keep the senior partner under control; he might erupt, pull some crazy act.
Abigail stood to call the next witness, but Kroop stilled her with a raised hand. “Before we proceed, Madam Prosecutor, there is a matter I wish to discuss with the jury.” He scanned them with his dark, cavernous eyes. The union organizer, Altieri, was looking distrustfully at Cud for some reason.
“One would have to be blind and deaf,” Kroop said, “not to be aware that on a matter entirely unrelated to this trial, the media have, regrettably, mentioned the deceased in connection with an alleged financial transaction. None of that is admissible in this court, and will play no part in your deliberations. I hope I make myself clear.”
Heads nodded. Everyone on that jury had heard about the four-million-dollar bribe.
Now the chief’s bulk shifted as he turned to Wentworth, who was suddenly impaled by his eyes, intense like the eyes of a cat stalking a rat.
“It would appear that Mr. Chance here, the seemingly unassuming gentleman at the end of the counsel table, let slip to the press a document they eagerly seized upon for their headlines. In doing so, Mr. Chance, you demonstrated wanton disregard for the high ethical standards of the legal profession.”
Wentworth was frozen, partway out of his chair, hands raised as if to ward off a blow, his face a map of shock and consternation.
“Properly I should call upon you to show cause why you should not be cited for contempt, Mr. Chance. Were we not so severely pressed for time, I would have no hesitation doing so. I do, however, intend to report the matter to Law Society with a recommendation for your suspension.”
Wentworth finally made it to a standing position, the blood rushing from his face.
“Sit down. The matter is close
d.”
He almost fainted into his seat. He could barely hear Kroop addressing the jury, the tone courteous now, confiding, as he apologized for disturbing their weekend plans. Wentworth turned, looked around for support; it wasn’t coming from impassive Silent Shawn. Judge Ebbe was grinning.
He felt the creeping edge of panic. Why had he just stood there and let the sadist humiliate him in front of everyone, in front of the press, accusing him of deliberately leaking that document? Arthur would have waded into him.
“Asshole.” Wentworth heard it, and probably so did most spectators, but the obscenity didn’t travel well to the bench. The chief perked up his ears, though, and as he searched the gallery, he scowled on seeing Pomeroy in the back row, the jeering expression.
Wentworth held his breath. He could tell Kroop was itching to confront Pomeroy, flail him into admitting he’d uttered a slur. He looked at the wall clock, then Pomeroy, then again at the clock. “Call your next witness, Madam Prosecutor.”
FOWL MURDER
Arthur was pleased with himself, he’d survived the power outage, braved the frigid weather, conquered the Salish Sea, and he was going to make it to court in time. A generous endowment had coaxed Stoney to truck him to the ten-fifteen ferry, and now he was in a taxi, speeding by the lush farmlands of Tsawwassen and Ladner. Tomorrow was Saturday, he’d have the weekend to reinvigorate himself for the finale, his jury speech. He’d have to dig deep to find pity for Wilbur Kroop, whose illness had set the schedule askew, and who must now abandon hope of schmoozing with the Governor General on Monday.
Nonetheless, it would be a hectic weekend. With the election only a few days hence, he’ll not enjoy much ease, nor will he be kicking back with his old cronies Ovid, Milton, and Bach. He must not miss the candidates faceoff on Saltspring tomorrow afternoon. Also, Lavinia was returning to Estonia in a few days, so Blunder Bay has to wish her bon voyage. Poor Nick will be desolate, but he’s leaving too and will share top billing at the farewell party.
This weekend will also see the Garibaldi winter season’s major cultural event, the official unveiling of Hamish McCoy’s act of penance, the supposed Venus. As seen from the aft deck of the ferry, her body was still hidden in sheeting, but there was a promise of beauty above, a pair of gracefully curved wings, taut as the wings of a braking goose.
Kill All the Judges Page 29
