Kill All the Judges

by William Deverell

  “Yes, well…You must be Mr. Chance? Can we talk?”

  “About what exactly?”

  He rose, extended a perspiring palm. “Thomas Drew. Tom to my friends. Her Majesty’s Service.” He produced a card embossed with the Canadian crest. Office of the Prime Minister. Just his name, no title. “I may have some useful information.” Close to his ear: “About someone you may wish to add to your list of suspects.”

  Wentworth blinked. This was too eerie. It is time to meet our final suspect.

  He deposited Tom Drew in his cramped office (incorrect feng shui, according to April, poorly designed). He held his curiosity in check long enough to pop across the hall to greet Augustina Sage, who was sipping herbal tea and going through her backlog in a dreamy, desultory way. A touch of grey in that curly mat of hair. Still pretty in her forties, thinner, cut off from the world at her Buddhist retreat–yet another effort to figure out why she was prone to self-destructive relationships.

  “I don’t want to hear about Brian’s problems, Wentworth. I don’t want to discuss him at all. I don’t want to hear about dead judges, either, and I don’t want to hear about your lurid trial.”

  “Okay, well, welcome back.”

  “I have achieved a level of holiness that I intend to maintain as long as I can, despite knowing it will all go to shit after five days in this madhouse. At which point I will completely fall apart, join a lonely hearts club, and try to get laid.”

  “Good luck.”

  “Bless you. Peace.” A bowed head, a Buddhist salute, palms pressed together.

  Tom Drew was standing by a window, examining the fire escape, as if calculating a means of escape.

  “So, Mr. Drew, what exactly do you do for the prime minister?”

  “Let’s say I look after certain security issues.”

  Wentworth could smell his sweat. He didn’t think a high-level cop should sweat. “You’ve come from Ottawa to tell us something?”

  “I thought we might share some information.”

  “Don’t expect many answers from me.” Wentworth was emboldened by the man’s nervousness.

  Drew sat, contemplated, then bluntly asked. “Who do you think murdered Rafael Whynet-Moir?”

  “Who do you think?”

  “Can I have your undertaking that this is off the record, Mr. Chance?”

  An undertaking–a very solemn matter for a lawyer. How would Arthur respond? Wentworth decided to play along. “Okay, but I have to share this with Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “Understood. Whynet-Moir served as Jack Boynton’s parliamentary aide some years ago.”

  “We know that.”

  “Yes, and in return for a judgeship, he paid a substantial bribe to Jack Boynton. No question. Can we put that to rest?”

  “Okay.”

  “Our information is that an intermediary was involved. Have you considered that?”

  Wentworth nodded.

  “And have you considered that this party might have a motive for murder, to cover up his corrupt role?”

  Wentworth was chafing at the way this Tom Drew was giving information under the guise of interrogating him. “Okay, I assume we’re talking about some bureaucrat?”

  “I’m afraid that’s not the case. In fact…well, I may as well tell you that our investigation has been seriously compromised by such rumours.”

  “Compromised in what way?”

  Drew cleared his throat. “Frankly it would help us get to the bottom of this if, ah, certain persons refrained from making allegations that the go-between was in government service.”

  “Certain persons like Mr. Beauchamp?” Drew winced, as if in affirmation. “Who was the go-between?”

  “Perhaps the deal was brokered by a certain solicitor–have you considered that? Someone not unknown to the LeGrand family?”

  Again, this clumsy interrogative phrasing. Wentworth waited him out.

  “There may be evidence to suggest this solicitor accepted a substantial broker’s fee. Do you have any idea whom I might be referring to?”

  Wentworth wondered if Tom was secretly recording this. “You tell me.”

  “Maybe a lawyer representing a member of the LeGrand family?” The list had just been narrowed to Silent Shawn Hamilton. “Would you care to guess the amount of the fee?”

  “Well, no, I’d like you to tell me.”

  “Would you be surprised if it’s in the high six figures?”

  “How high?”

  “Three quarters of a million has been mentioned.”

  “By whom?”

  “We are acting on information, Mr. Chance.”

  “From whom?”

  “A person of high repute in the, ah, court system. I can say no more.”

  Judge Dalgleish Ebbe? That would add a touch of plausibility, but it didn’t make Wentworth any less skeptical.

  “Can you see, Mr. Chance, why this lawyer might want to do away with Judge Whynet-Moir?”

  “Are you a cop?”

  “Let’s say I’m close to important people, for whom I handle sensitive issues.” He began to talk rapidly, heightened colour showing in his round pink face. “Let us hypothesize that after Jack Boynton died of a stroke, Whynet-Moir was the only person who knew of the go-between. Let us assume Whynet-Moir was under suspicion and that we were about to question him. His obvious tactic would have been to deflect blame by denouncing the intermediary. And…you can figure out the rest.”

  This stank. Who in high places was he protecting?

  Drew rose. “I’m afraid that’s all I’m permitted to say. I have to catch a plane. Pleasure to meet you.” Once again he proffered a damp, soft hand, then departed.

  Wentworth figured he’d heard a lot of bullshit. In which case, maybe he’d just met someone involved in the murder.

  FEMME FATALE

  Arthur lowered himself with a comfortable grunt into his preferred chair, a wingback facing away from the bar’s distracting offerings. After a week at the Confederation Club, he’d finally staked a claim to this chair, a claim recognized by members and enforced by staff.

  The maître d’hotel, who liked to fuss over him, set out linen, cutlery, and his regular welcome basket: tea, menu, and newspapers. “The garden salad and the lamb stew, please, Manfred.” That should satisfy Margaret, the rich food critic, when she cross-examined him tonight from…where will she be? Moose Hills, Mosquito Flats, Mud Creek, maybe one of those logging camps where they heckle her.

  “The trial goes well, sir?”

  “Ups and downs.” He wasn’t in the mood for small talk, preferred to wallow in his resentment at Kroop, the Grinch who stole Saturday. “I need you,” Margaret had said. “I’ll be there,” he’d assured her.

  But maybe Florenza LeGrand won’t fill the day. Maybe she’ll be mute on the stand, be cited for contempt, the trial aborted. Maybe she’ll claim to have been asleep or passed out, a witness to nothing. But the more he thought about it, the more unlikely that seemed. Had she been insensible, Silent Shawn would not have issued a gag order.

  From somewhere, tinnily, came a familiar Bach fugue. When those bars repeated, he realized it was his cellphone, and he went salvaging in the wilderness of his cluttered briefcase.

  Wentworth, with an excited, disjointed account of an off-the-record dialogue with a “spook from Ottawa,” keen on fingering Shawn Hamilton. Arthur made him start from the top, coherently.

  “I did a search on Thomas Drew; he’s a real person, some kind of political aide to the Prime Minister. Some pooh-bahs in Ottawa want to shut you up, or misdirect you.”

  “In such a brazen way?” Dispatching a trained monkey on a five-hour flight to snitch on Silent Shawn Hamilton–even on the murky playing fields of political connivance, that seemed extreme. “Maybe they do have the goods on Shawn.”

  “Oh, God, I read him completely wrong.”

  “Wentworth, I’m just speculating.”

  “I blew it. I have to think through this again. I actually thought D
rew might be the perp.” His high, cracking voice.

  “Calm down.”

  “Sorry.”

  Arthur fretted through his lamb stew about this political hack’s bizarre visit–especially outlandish given that Margaret was running neck and neck with the chicken-plucking candidate for Drew’s party. Reluctantly, he phoned the Green campaign office to compare notes with Eric Schultz, who knew the backroom boys of Ottawa.

  Schultz was in session with his finance team but took the call, orating in his burp-gun manner. “Bad news is that we’re skint, Arthur, in deep hock. O’Malley’s got money to burn. TV attack ads. We’re naive, we’re environmental scaremongers. The good news is we’ve evened up, it’s decimal points either way. But they’re holding on to their core vote; it’s like chipping away at a brick wall. All depends on the all-candidates. And your trial, of course, they’re still making hay about Blake being up a tree with Brown. Innuendo, guilt by association.”

  That’s why Arthur had been reluctant to call him, the pressure, the constant nagging about the trial, its political implications.

  Schultz had some background on Drew: ex-Alberta oil patch overseer, long-time soldier in the election trenches, rewarded with a job in the PM’s office, generally regarded as useless. “What did he have to say?”

  “It was off the record, Eric. We gave an undertaking.”

  Schultz grumbled at that, passed the phone to Margaret, who sounded tense and weary. “I’ve lost fifteen pounds, nothing fits. It’s like an episode of Survivor. Three more days.”

  “And then we celebrate.”

  “Then we sleep.”

  “Darling, about tomorrow, I have some distressing–”

  “It’s okay, Arthur. It was on the news. I’m fuming at that judge.”

  “I made you a promise.”

  “You’re absolved.”

  “I feel wretched.”

  “Oh, nonsense. I’ll see you at home on Sunday. I’m taking a day of rest, if you can call it that. There may be some press following me around. We’ll have to do Reverend Al’s service, that’s a given. A few teas and klatches. Oh, and I guess there’s that party for Lavinia and Nick. Well, we’ll just have to find some time together.”

  She carried on stoutly like that, determined to let Arthur off the hook, refusing to hear regrets or apology. So he let the matter be and entertained her with tales of the trial, the muff by Leich, the star-struck judge, Cud with his swaggering demands for financial redress. But he was depressed on disconnecting, burdened with a sense he’d failed her.

  A trio of codgers, armed with martinis, sat down to watch the news. “Tellie, old boy.” Manfred clicked on the TV and turned up the volume to aid the hard of hearing.

  “Bangladesh is going under again,” one said.

  “What?”

  “Bangladesh.” Shouting over the newscaster. “A thousand homes washed away.”

  “Global warming.”

  “No way to stop it. Head for higher ground.”

  “Here’s that poet character. Screwed the judge’s new bride in the hot tub.”

  “Don LeGrand’s daughter.”

  “Bit of a whore, they say.”

  “Bad seed. Happens in the best families.”

  Footage of Cud flashing a victory salute at the camera. Here was Astrid Leich avoiding microphones. Here was the British Ambassador himself, walking from the law courts, looking fat, Wentworth at his shoulder like a pilot fish. He couldn’t hear the announcer over the shouted commentary.

  “What?”

  “Hanky-panky!”

  “Hank who?”

  “Bought himself a judgeship!”

  Brian Pomeroy appeared on screen, staring bleakly from a taxi window, sylphlike April giving the driver directions.

  “Wouldn’t kick her out of bed. Who’s in the car?”

  “Lawyer who flipped out.”

  A rerun of the famous scene of Pomeroy galloping down Nelson Street, his gown flapping in the rain like a loose sail. Arthur must banish him from the courtroom, he’s a menace, Polyphemus reincarnated. Cyclops! Cruel one! who didst not fear to eat the strangers sheltered by thy roof.

  It had forgotten to rain today, so Arthur took a brisk morning walk to Gastown, down Hastings and Water Streets, enjoying the sweet, damp smell of coming spring. He’d already seen snowdrops. Crocuses soon, then daffodils in vast bounty. Skunk cabbage blossoming in the swales. He must get back to garden and greenhouse, there’s much to do. Spring comes two months later in Ottawa…

  Outside the Leap of Faith Prayer Centre a scrawny man bleated a greeting. “Hallelujah, brother!”

  “Yes, indeed, hallelujah.” Arthur didn’t accept his tract but read the posted announcement. Sadly, he will miss Pastor Blythe’s revving up on Sunday.

  Upstairs, at reception, he was greeted by the seraphic smile of April Fan Wu, whose continuing role in this spectaculum confused him. Arthur had recently fired her for spying; why ought she be trusted now? Her sponsors, the LeGrands, had obviously pulled strings with immigration, and no one seemed concerned that the office madman had rehired her. Wentworth had explained they were short-staffed, insisted she was “on our side.” The artful young lady seemed to have beguiled him.

  “I can’t deny I’m a little astonished to see you back, April, but welcome.”

  “I am sorry I deceived you. I had always dreamed of immigrating to Canada, and I took stupid risks. I’m really not such a shady person, Mr. Beauchamp, and I’ll prove my loyalty.” She shook his hand with a penitent smile, then added, enigmatically, “There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same.”

  Arthur would have to work at that one. “I understand you’ve been babysitting Brian. For some reason he seems accepting of that. I do not want him in court today.”

  “It’s the last place he wants to be. Ms. Leich’s evidence has convinced him he’s the target of a conspiracy. ‘They’re setting me up to take the rap,’ is how he put it.” She pressed a key combination and a printer expelled several pages. “His latest chapter.”

  Arthur idly browsed through this farrago of comment and fiction, part novel, part a Pomeroyesque stream of consciousness, with quotes from Hector Widgeon’s witless, dreary prose.

  “‘The tardy entrance of your final suspect must not be seen as an afterthought, idly tossed off. Even the dullest of readers should exclaim Eureka! as they realize they ought to have paid more attention to the boring parts.’ That’s low, you smarmy bastard, pay attention to your own boring parts. Help me through this, April. Are you there? I’m enslaved to him and his cookie-cutter recipes.”

  A faultless transcription of an unexpected bit of self-awareness. April gave him an odd smile, knowing and sharing. Again, that sense of her peering into his soul. Others had fallen victim to her; Arthur must not.

  Wentworth emerged with two heavy book bags, tried to herd Arthur down to a waiting taxi. Arthur held back for a moment, flipped the pages, came upon this narrative: “Florenza had heard of the cagey old dog defending Cuddles. Little did Beauchamp know how well she’d prepared for him…”

  Another twinge. That sense of unreality, of being Brian’s invention.

  As they settled in the taxi, Arthur asked, “Did you remember the letters?”

  “What letters? Oh.” Wentworth went into his briefcase, produced a file folder with about a dozen hand-written or typed letters on white paper, lined paper, airmail paper. “I had to ransack my bottom dresser drawer. A lot of these are from my mom, some are from a girlfriend I had once. A few from a dating bureau I belonged to.”

  Arthur sat in silence, pondering. There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same. April’s aphorism bugged him. The view, the solution, was obvious if one made the effort to see it?

  On entering the great hall, he watched steely-eyed as Cud held court on the stairs, Socrates-like, dispensing wisdom. His bandwagon was growing, former doubters climbing on board. He’d become the adore
d teddy bear of the West Coast arts scene, his evenings spent drinking beer, slapping palms, and signing books and CDs at the Western Front and other hip venues.

  Felicity drifted around the fringe of this ecstatic mob, notebook out, and bore down on Arthur. “Help. Help. What rhymes with ardent?”

  “Retardant.”

  Cud was carrying on about how the oligarchy stifled dissent by crushing the artists. Arthur beckoned him, sliced his throat with a forefinger.

  “The masses are hungry, counsellor, I got to feed them.”

  “Not another peep for the duration of this trial.”

  Cud looked peeved. “It’s about over, ain’t it?”

  “It ain’t. Cud, please tell me how you managed to offend the entire Edmonton Local 305 of the Steelworkers Union.”

  “Uh, what’s that about?”

  “Juror number two, Tom Altieri, knows about your escapade with an underaged girl–”

  “Under…She was a woman. All of seventeen.”

  “You might start looking a little less triumphant and more concerned.” He strode off to the robing room. The view is always the same…There are many ways to defend Cud Brown, but the outcome is always the same. There are many ways to win, but the effort isn’t worth it.

  Arthur’s temper rose when the clerk told him the trial would be delayed while staff ran a video feed into the adjoining empty courtroom. The weekend had brought the crowds out: murder, wealth, sex, and politics–cheaper than the movies. He leaned over the railing, gazed down at the scurrying figures six floors below. There are many paths to the top of the mountain…He was stumped. Damn that woman.

  Coming up the stairs was Dalgleish Ebbe, back for another fix of Regina v. Brown. Here was a chance to buttonhole him, spell out Tom Drew’s insinuations, ask about his alleged role as informer. But as Arthur worked his way toward the stairs, he lost the judge in the swarming citizenry.

  The witness room door opened to cast out Abigail, affording a view within of black-stockinged legs, crossed, a dainty sandal dangling from a toe. Shawn Hamilton shut the door, but not before Arthur saw a puff of smoke, the illegal burn of a cigarette.

  Abigail took Arthur’s arm, walked with him. Arthur enjoyed the camaraderie between them, wasn’t sure why he deserved her respect. But feminists tended to react to him that way. Non-threatening A.R. Beauchamp.