Good News, Bad News

by WHS McIntyre

  Andy agreed to meet me over lunch, something he was in the habit of eating al fresco, and well away from his office. Or maybe that was only when his old boss came a calling. We bought sandwiches at a nearby delicatessen and took them for a stroll in The Meadows, a large green space that was good for picnics, dog walking and impromptu games of football during the day, and an excellent place to get mugged at night.

  ‘If you think I’m going to ask my client to stand up in court and take the rap for this, you’ve got a second think coming,’ Andy added, for the avoidance of doubt.

  We paused the conversation to take bites from our sandwiches. Mine was Italian meatball. It tasted just like any other meatball sandwich to me, but I supposed there was only so much a cook could do with ball-shaped meat no matter from which country it was said to originate.

  Unlike my relatively simple sandwich, Andy had taken an option that contained way too many fillings. He jumped back, stomach arched, as a red, slimy object slid out and splatted onto the path.

  ‘What I don’t get is that you actually think I’d sell out my client,’ he said, kicking the fallen foodstuff into the grass at the side, in case the woman heading towards us pushing a pram hit it and went into an uncontrolled skid.

  ‘Oh, I see,’ I said. ‘This is the gratitude I get? I take the boy off the street, teach him everything I know, release him into the world of . . . what is it you do here?’

  ‘We call it the law, Robbie. You should try it sometime. And if there is one thing you did teach me, it was never to sell out a client. “Always do what you think is best for the client and never mind what anyone else says.” That’s what you told me.’

  It certainly sounded like me, but I would have been talking about not selling out Munro & Co. clients. Andy didn’t work for me anymore. I didn’t mind him selling out other people’s clients if it helped mine.

  ‘It’s not a case of selling anyone out, Andy. Your client has pled guilty. No-one can change that, not even the Crown, that’s what’s so beautiful about this arrangement. Everyone’s a winner. Your client will still have the benefit of her early plea, all she has to do is go into the witness box and say the cocaine was hers and that the others had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘But that wouldn’t be the truth.’ Some things never changed about Andy.

  ‘The truth? That’s what you’re worried about? This is the law. What is—’

  ‘Don’t bother giving me your Pontius Pilate, quid est veritas? speech, Robbie. The truth is the truth.’

  ‘Okay, let’s suppose it is.’

  ‘How can we suppose it isn’t?’

  ‘Would you shut up for a moment and listen? What does the truth matter?’ Andy almost dropped the rest of his sandwich. I waited for him to reassemble it before continuing. ‘In the general context of this case, who cares what the truth is? These girls were going to have a party with some recreational drugs. They weren’t planning to blow up Linlithgow Palace.’

  ‘You say recreational drugs, Robbie, I say cocaine: a class A controlled substance that’s illegal to possess in this country.’

  ‘And don’t you think all three girls have learned their lesson? Why does my client have to lose her career over it? Has it made her any worse a lawyer? Don’t you think there are High Court judges who know how to roll a five-skin spliff or snort a line of coke occasionally?’

  ‘If you do the crime, you do the time.’

  ‘You mean if you get caught doing the crime.’

  ‘Okay, maybe I do. Maybe lawyers who are stupid enough to get caught aren’t smart enough to be lawyers and should take the consequences.’

  ‘I know you don’t mean that,’ I said. ‘The consequences for Antonia Brechin far outweigh the crime.’

  ‘Drugs are harmful.’

  ‘So are rugby, hillwalking and drawing cartoons of prophets.’

  ‘And you’re all for the legalisation of drugs are you, Robbie?’

  I munched thoughtfully on a bite of meatball sandwich. ‘I don’t think I could afford the downturn in business.’

  ‘Money. Is that the only reason?’

  ‘Well, there are all those drug enforcement officers. They’d lose their jobs. And what about the gangsters in organised crime? The ones who keep the retail economy alive? Who’s going to buy all the bling and fast cars if there’s no drug money to throw about?’

  ‘If you’re not going to take this conversation seriously, there’s no point in discussing it any further,’ Andy said, taking another tentative nibble.

  I came to a halt at a green iron bench, polished off the final portion of bread and meatball, wiped my mouth with the paper wrapper and tossed it into a nearby waste bucket.

  ‘Sit down,’ I said, and we did. ‘I didn’t come here for a debate on the war on drugs. I came here to ask you to persuade your client . . . What’s her name again?’

  ‘Freya. Freya Linkwood.’

  ‘Well, why can’t Freya, who has already pled guilty on your advice, do her pals a favour? What difference will it make to her?’

  Andy was still struggling with his sandwich. If I’d thought keeping meatballs in situ between two slices of bread was tricky, goats cheese, sun-dried tomato, roasted peppers, pesto, rocket and olives took things to a whole different level. Eventually he gave up. After one final swift bite, he dropped what was left into the bucket. Chewing, he looked at his watch, then up at me and swallowed. ‘This is not about saving your client’s career, is it? This is about saving your own skin.’

  I cracked open a can of Irn Bru, took a swig, nearly stifled a burp, and pretended not to understand.

  ‘You should have pled guilty to the lesser charge when you had the chance, Robbie. I heard your client tell you to plead when she was in the dock, but you ignored her direct instructions. Now if she’s done for dealing drugs, and struck off by the Law Society or, worse, sent to prison, who do you think will be to blame for that?’ He twisted the top off a plastic bottle of mineral water. ‘It’s as clear-cut a case of defective representation as I’ve ever heard of.’

  I was beginning to wish he hadn’t finished his messy sandwich, because I could have taken it from him and rubbed it in his hair. ‘The decision to plead not guilty was tactical and based on my legal expertise and experience of court practice and procedure. What’s the point of hiring a defence lawyer if you’re not going to follow his advice?’

  ‘Even if that advice is hopelessly misguided?’

  My tactics were only misguided because Andy had refused to let his client play ball. If all three girls had hung tough the Crown would have had major problems attributing blame. I tried a smile. The friendly approach was more likely to succeed than would a war of words. ‘Andy, listen to me. If your girl—’

  ‘Freya.’

  ‘How hard would it be for her to say the stuff was hers and that the others knew nothing about it? I’ll bet she wouldn’t even need to give evidence. All you have to do is provide me with an affidavit. I’ll run it past the Crown and they’ll probably ditch the whole thing in five seconds flat.’

  Andy’s mumbled reply was drowned by an almost simultaneous swig from his plastic bottle.

  ‘Sorry, I didn’t catch that.’

  He took another drink and screwed the cap back on tight. ‘The Crown has already asked Freya to give an affidavit.’

  I felt the retreating Italian meatballs threaten to about-turn in my stomach and mount an attack on my throat. ‘Saying what?’

  ‘That Freya knew about the cocaine in the flat, and so was technically guilty of possession, but that Antonia Brechin was the buyer and was intending to supply it.’

  I slumped, shoulder blades thumping against the bench’s metal-slatted backrest, and gazed up through the crooked branches of an ancient elm tree into a sky that was clouding over about as fast as Antonia Brechin’s hopes of a legal career. ‘I don’t understand. Why would you do such a thing?’

  Andy was up on his feet again, staring down at me. ‘Because it’s the tr
uth.’

  ‘Don’t give me that. The truth is that you’re sticking the knife into my client, probably because of all the hard times Bert Brechin used to give you in court when you were training. You need to remember that it’s not him who’s going to be booted out of the law, it’s his granddaughter.’

  ‘Is that what you really think?’ Andy turned and started walking back the way we’d come. ‘Have you any idea who Freya’s father is?’ he asked, once I’d caught up with him.

  I knew that, mythologically speaking, Freya was a Norse goddess.

  ‘He’s Russell Linkwood, the senior partner of The Linkwood Rattray Law Group.’

  ‘He’s not Odin, ruler of Asgard, then?’

  ‘Njördr was Freya’s father in Norse mythology, but Russell Linkwood might as well be a god so far as my future career is concerned. When his daughter was arrested, he didn’t know what to do other than he wanted the whole thing dealt with in-house, and with as little publicity as possible. It turns out that of the hundreds of lawyers he has working for him, I’m the only one who’s actually appeared in a criminal court.’

  ‘Another thing you have to thank me for,’ I said.

  ‘Yeah.’ He held up the bottle of water. ‘Cheers.’

  ‘So you’re under a little pressure,’ I said, while he took a drink. ‘I can understand that.’

  ‘A little pressure!’ he spluttered.

  ‘Yes, but it’s no excuse to have your client grass on her mates.’

  Andy replaced the cap on the bottle and gave it a final tap with the flat of his hand. ‘She’s giving an affidavit to the Crown, Robbie, whether you like it or not. And if she is called to the witness box, her evidence will be entirely in keeping with it. If not, she’ll be guilty of perjury, one way or another.’

  ‘Thanks, Andy, I know how it works. What’s the deal?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘She must be getting something in return. You’re not telling me she’s going to swear an affidavit that sticks her friends right in it without expecting something in return.’

  Andy cleared his throat and looked straight ahead. ‘If the case goes well . . .’

  ‘You mean if her friends are convicted?’

  ‘Freya will be given a letter from the Lord Advocate’s office saying that she fully co-operated with the Crown.’

  ‘And I suppose that will iron out any little wrinkles she may later have with the Solicitors Disciplinary Tribunal?’

  ‘Combined with her early plea of guilty, yes. And before you say anything, don’t blame me for getting the best possible result for my client.’

  ‘No, Andy, there was a better possible result.’

  ‘Try for a not guilty?’

  ‘There were three girls in that flat. Who was to say who was really to blame?’

  ‘Every snowflake? Too risky. Do you know what I do at Linkwood Rattray, at least when I’m not being forced to roll around in the dirt of the Sheriff Court? Alternative dispute resolution, that’s what. And if I’ve learned anything from my time spent mediating, it’s this – never take risks. There is always a safer middle ground.’

  And perhaps he was right. Maybe there was an easier, less risky way. But where was the fun in that?

  26

  Joanna was late home that evening and caught me in the kitchen slaving over a hot stove. Before they’d gone into the garden to continue construction of the world’s largest rabbit hutch, I’d served Tina and my dad fish fingers, boiled potatoes and peas. Now I was in the process of creating a Spanish omelette using my daughter’s untouched vegetables.

  Joanna slapped my backside and gave one of my bum cheeks a squeeze. ‘That’s what I like to see, my man in the kitchen making me nice things to eat.’ She stared down into the bowl I was stirring. ‘Is it supposed to look like that?’ She gave me a kiss on one of my higher-up cheeks. ‘I was on the phone to my dad at lunch time. Do you want to hear the good news?’

  ‘Is it going to be followed by bad news?’ I asked.

  ‘How did you know?’

  ‘It’s been one of those good news, terrible news days.’

  ‘Tell me yours,’ she said.

  ‘No, you first.’

  ‘All right. The good news is that we’ve got detailed planning permission for our new house.’

  ‘And the bad?’

  ‘It’s going to cost at least three hundred thousand pounds to build.’

  ‘Three hundred thousand! How can it possibly cost three hundred thousand pounds? I’ve seen the plans. It’s a three-bedroom cottage, it’s not the Taj Mahal.’

  Joanna left to take off her coat. ‘And that’s not counting all the work my dad and his men would do for free,’ she said on her return. ‘The Council want a new private access road put in. They say that your dad’s service road is inadequate if there’s going to be more than one car coming in and out onto an unclassified road that’s near to a bend. Then there’s the drainage system and water supply, they both need to be completely upgraded and new pipes laid, and there’s also a problem with the electricity. They were going to take a spur off your dad’s supply, but that’s not going to be good enough for Scottish Energy. I think they’d prefer it if we installed our own nuclear power station and linked it up to the National Grid.’

  I was glad Joanna could still see the funny side of things. The thought of an indefinite spell living in my dad’s back pocket wasn’t a pleasant one.

  I poured the eggy mixture into a sizzling hot frying pan.

  Joanna sat down at the table and propped her head on the heel of a hand. ‘What are we going to do? I’ll never get a mortgage that size on a PF depute’s salary and as for you . . .’

  ‘I know, I know.’ A self-employed, Legal Aid lawyer with an overdraft, looking to build his own house in the country, wasn’t the sort of business the banks were after. ‘What if we asked my dad to extend this place? He could add a couple of rooms and give us all a bit more space.’

  ‘This is no time for sick jokes,’ Joanna said. ‘Anyway, what’s your good news, bad news story?’

  ‘It’ll wait. Let’s eat first,’ I said, prising the edges of the omelette up around the circumference, letting the uncooked egg flow underneath.

  ‘No, it can’t be that bad. Come on, tell me now.’

  ‘It’s to do with Antonia Brechin’s case.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘They’ve dropped the summary complaint.’

  ‘Okay, that’s good news. And the bad?’

  ‘They’ve amended the charge to intent to supply and put her on an indictment.’

  ‘I see.’ Joanna left it at that.

  I took the frying pan off the hob and stuck it under the grill to finish off with some slices of cheese on top. After that I dished it up and had just taken my first mouthful, when Tina crashed through the back door. ‘The hutch is finished!’

  The hutch and the promised acquisition of a rabbit were the result of two previous pet disasters. First there had been Goldie the goldfish, who’d contracted an ailment so severe that even a teaspoonful of single malt to the gills couldn’t resuscitate it, followed shortly thereafter by Hammy the hamster, who my dad had put outside for a breath of fresh air, forgotten about and found the next morning, ice-welded to the bars of its cage after a shower of rain and a particularly sharp frost.

  ‘Do you see this, Tina?’ my dad said, clumping into the kitchen and setting a collection of tools down on the draining board. ‘Your dad makes us do with fishy fingers, boiled spuds and peas while he dines on only the finest . . .’ He came over to the table, looked at my plate and recoiled. ‘What is that thing?’

  It was true the omelette had neither folded over properly nor slid off the frying pan quite how I’d intended, still, I felt it was vaguely discernible as a Spanish omelette.

  ‘An omelette, eh? They tell me they’re not all they’re cracked up to be,’ he said, and Tina joined in enthusiastically with her grandpa’s uproarious laughter, not sure what wa
s so funny and not caring. ‘We’ve put the roof on the hutch and now we’re going to Sandy’s for ice cream to celebrate.’

  ‘Sit down and have a break, Alex,’ Joanna said. ‘Robbie, your dad’s bound to be tired looking after Tina all day. Why don’t you and her go and get us all ice cream?’

  Joanna was either being considerate to my old man or intent on disposing of her share of the omelette in my absence. I noticed she hadn’t actually eaten any of it yet, just given it a tour of her plate. Whichever, no sooner had I finished my meal than I was bundled into the car along with my daughter. Half a mile or so down the road the red oil light on the dashboard came on. I pulled into the side.

  ‘What’s the matter, Dad?’

  ‘The car’s run out of oil and I don’t want to drive any further in case it breaks the engine.’

  Tina was keen to see what an engine looked like, so I popped the bonnet and let her peer inside while I phoned Jake Turpie to have him send someone with a tin of oil. Jake always expected me to be available when one of his mob was lifted, which they were, frequently, and usually at very unsociable hours, so I saw no reason why he shouldn’t reciprocate; nonetheless, I was surprised when the man himself turned up in a tow truck ten minutes later.

  ‘It’s knackered,’ he said, after a couple of seconds under the bonnet. ‘It’s probably been pissing oil for days.’

  ‘Has it, Dad?’ Tina asked. ‘Has it been pissing oil for days?’

  ‘Try not to be quite so technical in front of my daughter, Jake,’ I said, not replying to Tina’s question and hoping she’d just forget the word, or think it was something to do with car engines and not bring it up a lot during polite conversation. ‘What’s wrong with it?’

  Jake looked up into the sky that had started to spit rain. ‘You really want me to tell you?’

  ‘It might help.’

  Actually, it didn’t. Piston rings and valves I’d heard of. By the time he’d gone on to crankshaft case covers, I was beginning to wonder if he was taking the Mickey and making up names. ‘I see. Sounds like it’s definitely knackered, then,’ I said, once he’d explained his diagnosis.