You enjoy your life, Arthur. You earned it.
Confidentially yours till the end of time,
Ray
P.S. I forgot to mention the little detailing touch that would have made the whole thing credible had those shufflers in Tirana done their job. “No problem,” they said, “we learn at CIA school all best enhanced interrogation methods.” I forget the exact wording we’d agreed on for Abzal’s note, something like this: “My darling Vana, how sad I am that I can never return to you and my beautiful children. I must stay in hiding forever. I love you, and will always remember you. I did it for my country. For both my countries, Bhashyistan and Canada.” Then after they terminated him, we’d mail that goodbye kiss from some international haven for escapees, crooks, and deadbeats, like Costa Rica.
P.P.S. Somewhere along the line, expect to bump into a guy named Vlad Mishin, he’s one of the best. He’s so fucking transparent, though, I don’t know how he gets away with it.
Arthur added more logs to the fire, and fed the pages into it, then wandered off to join Savannah and Zack. They were laughing, not fighting, over some obscure and improbable word, gruffish. Arthur studied the Boggle cubes. “You could have added ‘ible’ to ‘gull,’” he said.
“Son of a bitch,” said Zack. “I missed it.”
“So did I,” said Savannah.
“So did I,” said Arthur, and went out to feed the goats.
38
Gerard Laurier Lafayette bent low into the wintry blast as he followed a snow blower to the Centre Block steps. On this third Tuesday of March, Ottawa’s enduring winter seemed bent on eclipsing the thirty-year snowfall record, 175 inches. “Three inches to go!” trumpeted the Ottawa Sun. The headline smacked of lewdness, reminded him of penis-extension spam.
Only two protesters had ventured out today. “Global warming is a Lie,” proclaimed one sign. “You’re an Idiot,” said an opposing view.
As Lafayette gained the front portals, a parliamentary officer, a supporter of Nouvelle Réforme, greeted him with inordinate enthusiasm. “Give ’em hell in there today, sir. The whole country’s behind you.”
Perhaps an exaggeration. Arguably, thirteen seats failed to demonstrate massive public approval, particularly since five had been filled by post-election crossovers from the Conservative Party. But enough to confer on Lafayette, to the astonishment of all, including himself, the title of Leader of the Official Opposition.
The Tories, leaderless and floundering, had eleven members now, tied with the NDP and Bloc. The Greens had outpolled them all, but lacking a regional base gleaned only four seats — a respectable showing, however, for Madam Blake, her reward a front-bench desk to the Speaker’s left. Dominating Parliament was a faceless swarm of 258 Liberals, in flood across both sides of the chamber.
Lafayette was confident those numbers would halve after four years of Cloudy McRory’s wayward efforts to govern. A patient scholar of politics, Lafayette would wait for the inevitable turning of the tide.
He was met in the foyer by several of his aides, who formed a phalanx to guide him through the mobs seeking entry into 253-D, where the Royal Commission on Issues Relating to the Dispute with Bhashyistan had been in boisterous session for the last three weeks. Lafayette might pop in if time permitted — today’s sitting promised some sport: Beauchamp was on the stand.
As he doffed his coat in his office, his chief political adviser swivelled a computer monitor toward him. “You may find some material here for Question Period, boss.”
YouTube, with its library of fatuous visual collectibles. “A production from Bhashyistan Revolutionary Front Studios,” proclaimed the intro, which dissolved into a familiar pulpy face, the insufferable Mukhamet Ivanovich.
“Welcome, all freedom-loving people, to new, improved version of beautiful Bhashyistan. Today, we are showing President Erzhan in action, praise Allah, may he long reign.” Erzhan had recently got a hero’s welcome in Ottawa, his testimony before the royal commission marked by a fawning display of solicitude from his interlocutors. After an exchange of consuls, he’d spirited his family back to Igorgrad.
“Here is President Erzhan cutting ribbon for friendly military base near Igorgrad to protect borders from foreign interlopers.” Various views of the country’s new leader shaking hands with Russian officers and Gazprom apparatchiks amid wild applause from onlookers, then moving to a microphone to laud “friends too long ignored.”
“Here also sharing spotlight is Prime Minister Ruslan Kolkov, long may he also reign.” A red-bearded giant from the Siberian steppes, favourite son of his Kremlin overseers. Thus had that miserable nation been restored to its historic role of satellite.
Clara Gracey’s timidity over Bhashyistan had deservedly pink-slipped her to political oblivion — she’d lost her seat and nearly her deposit. McRory had expressed his gratitude by posting her to lead Canada’s delegation to the World Economic Forum. Politics had never suited her — she was too … was principled the word? Too ingenuous for the rough-and-tumble.
“And now we conclude with stirring tribute to our dear friends from Bonavista to Vancouver Island. No hard feelings, Canada, over recent trobbles. God willing, always be glorious and free like us.”
Cut to a motley band playing the classic former theme to Hockey Night in Canada.
Lafayette felt a hint of nausea as he observed one of his aides blinking back tears.
Arthur settled himself into the witness chair under the black, unforgiving glare of his long-time nemesis, Wilbur Kroop, retired chief justice of the B.C. Supreme Court. How he had ended up chairing the Royal Commission on Bhashyistan was a distressing mystery, the final appointment of the imploding Conservative government. Maybe it was intentional. Get Beauchamp.
C.P.G. Barclay, the commission counsel, rose and carried on in his unflappable manner, taking up where he’d left off the day before. “Mr. Beauchamp, you have conceded that on January fifteenth, two months ago, you received, posthumously, an email from Mr. DiPalma.”
“I have not hidden the fact.” One has to be honest.
“As I understand the law, Mr. Beauchamp, death terminates solicitor-client privilege under special circumstances.”
“Only when disclosure may prevent imminent harm. That is not the case here. Alive or dead, Mr. DiPalma and his reputation are entitled to my silence and protection.”
Clugg and Klein weren’t talking either, though Arthur could hardly feel he was in good company. Morbid irony resided in DiPalma’s suicide — an act encouraged by his certainty they would sell him out. Arthur too had expected they’d dump everything on DiPalma. They might yet, subject to advice of counsel, of course.
Meanwhile, their former boss, Crumwell, had been fired without even a nominal golden handshake, and was in the Seychelles, avoiding subpoena.
“I will ask once again that you reveal the contents of Mr. DiPalma’s email.”
“And I will refuse again, Mr. Barclay.” How could Arthur possibly assent to a precedent that could loosen the bonds of confidence between lawyer and client? How could he live with himself?
“I hesitate to remind a barrister of your reputation of the consequences.”
Commissioner Kroop, who’d been staring at Arthur like a hungry vulture, finally lost patience with this gentlemanly discourse. “The sender of that email is dead. Dead as a doornail.”
Arthur looked unflinchingly into the black tar pits of his sunken eyes. “The sender of that email was a client who had entrusted me with his words. An ancient code of ethics demands I honour that trust. Need I add that the solicitor-client relationship, unlike a marriage, doesn’t end when death us do part?”
A ripple of laughter, but there was also a nervous sucking of breath in this packed hearing room, with its electric air of tension.
“Dead as a dodo bird! There was a state funeral! Posthumous honours!”
“Privilege outlasts death.” Quoting none other than the heroic deceased himself, his last words.
T
he retired chief was seething, red spots glowing on his cheeks and jowls. But he found control, began with measured words. “Mr. Beauchamp, I have been granted special power to hold witnesses in contempt of court. I would be saddened to have to do so here.”
But why that tiny, pursed, evil smile? It would not be the first time Kroop had held Arthur in contempt — he’d jailed him back in the old days, over some unremembered drunken insult. After a few days in the slammer, Arthur had gone nearly mad with thirst, had practically crawled on his knees for forgiveness. He’d sworn he would never again so debase himself.
“Should I find you in contempt, Mr. Beauchamp, I warn you …” Kroop’s voice began rising. “No, I promise you, that you will enjoy the hospitality of Her Majesty for as long as it takes for your contempt to be purged!” A shout that rattled the hanging portrait of that very queen.
Kroop must have guessed — all too correctly — that there was something in DiPalma’s email that was bound to embarrass Arthur. You’re going to look like a donkey if this gets out … this time the tomato juice will be on your shirt. But of course it was the principle that mattered.
Again, with what seemed enormous effort, Kroop regained control, but the veins on his scalp were engorged and throbbing. “Very well, Mr. Beauchamp, your silence leaves me with no alternative but to try you for contempt, and it is with extreme anguish I do so.”
“I’m sorry to cause you so much pain, Mr. Commissioner.”
Kroop’s face grew redder and redder, until it seemed about to explode …
Copyright © 2009 by William Deverell
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
Deverell, William, 1937-
Snow job / William Deverell.
eISBN: 978-1-55199-322-5
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