“But always,” DiPaulo whispered.
“Monsieur?” the woman asked.
“Oh, excuse me,” he said. “It’s nothing.”
What if Samantha had a hunch about Jason? And this was her signal, a call to his conscience. The real reason she was so desperate for him to be called as a witness at the trial.
“The pillow. You can use it, perhaps?” the air hostess asked.
DiPaulo hadn’t realized he’d been holding it in his lap. He put it behind him.
“Lie down,” she said. “I will put the blanket over the top of you. It is more comfortable like this. No?”
He felt the softness of the pillow on the back of his head. A wave of warmth rolled across his skin as the blanket draped over him.
DiPaulo heard a cranking sound.
“This will be feeling nice,” the woman said. Cool air came from above. He smelled a hint of something. Was it perfume?
At last his eyes drifted shut. Now, even he could sleep.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I’m sitting in the lawyers’ library at the 361 University Avenue courthouse—the building where most of the action in this book takes place. It’s a beautiful, round room in this city of mostly straight streets and square blocks. And a place I’ve been so often—anxiously reviewing my notes before court begins at ten o’clock, frantically looking up a case during the too-brief lunch break, or quietly slipping in with my laptop to work on a few chapters of writing when my court day is done.
Being here makes me think of two colleagues who died in the last few years. Much too young. Ken Danson was a defense lawyer with great energy, a rapier wit, and a strong commitment to his practice and clients. Paul Vesa was a Crown Attorney with whom I tried many cases. He had a lovable penchant for bad puns and a true belief in the integrity of the law. Neither was a close friend, but I miss them both, as does everyone who works in these courts. More keenly, perhaps, on a day like today.
I have many people to thank for getting me through this second novel. I’ll not bother you with the details of their contributions, for which I’m content to thank them personally. Here, in no particular order, are their names: Douglas Preston, Ricki Wortzman, Alan Bardikoff, Ann Birch, Glen Gaston, Kate Parkin, Howard Lichtman, Kathy McDonald, Cheryl Goldhart, Kevin Hanson, Alison Clarke, Amy Cormier, Amy Jacobson, Eddie Greenspan Q.C., Tom Klatt, Deb Klatt, Corinne LaBalme, Michael Levine, David Flacks, Barbara Silverstein, Andras Schrek, and Shel Whitteker, my local bookseller in Haliburton, Ontario, where we have our cottage.
Special thanks to my editor Sarah Crichton and to all the people at the Levine Greenberg Literary Agency who represent me. In particular Elizabeth Fisher, who has done so much to sell my books worldwide.
My agent, Victoria Skurnick, and I have now been together for three years. I know, I know. Every author always writes in their acknowledgments how they love their agent. Makes pretty boring reading. The thing about Victoria is that, as well as being brilliant, tough, and loyal (yes … all the things writers always say), she’s one of those rare people with great integrity right to her core. A special person in my life.
My two families—my law partners Alvin Shidlowski and Jacob Jesin—and my wife, Vaune Davis, and our three remarkable children have stuck with me through the birth pangs of my sophomore novel. For that, of course, I am most grateful of all.
Robert Rotenberg
Robert Rotenberg is the author of Old City Hall, available in John Murray paperback. He is also one of Toronto’s top criminal lawyers, defending, as he likes to say, ‘everything from murder to shoplifting’. He lives in Toronto with his wife, Vaune Davis, and their three children.
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