Needles

by William Deverell

  Cobb told Tann of the meeting with the judge and Smythe-Baldwin that afternoon. “Are you free to come, Miss Tann?”

  “Sure. It’s Jennifer. Where and when?”

  “Two o’clock. Meet me at the courthouse outside Mr. Justice Horowitz’s chambers.”

  “Mr. Cobb, I don’t know why I was picked to junior you — except maybe because I’m Chinese-Canadian, and Ed Santorini thought I’d give the trial some balance.”

  “Balance?”

  “You know — all you white hordes coming down on some poor ignorant Chinese immigrant trying to make his way in a new country.”

  At the top of the courthouse steps, M. Cyrus Smythe-Baldwin, seeing Cobb send his taxi away, waited like a reception committee, beaming at his adversary.

  “Well, if it isn’t Colonel Sanders,” said Cobb, trotting up the stairs. “What’s the good word, Smitty?”

  “The good word is innocent,” said Smythe-Baldwin. “You seem chipper, Foster, for a man whose task is to try the impossible.” Smythe-Baldwin, ruddy, stout, goateed, and immaculate in his three-piece black suit (Colonel Sanders with a Canadian accent, dressed for mourning), reached an arm around Cobb’s shoulders with almost fatherly affection. “And so, after ten years of public service, you have joined the rest of us workers scratching the soil for a few seeds.”

  “The seeds have been well picked over,” Cobb said, “by the big roosters.”

  Smythe-Baldwin smiled grandly. “What they’ve handed you to prosecute, my young friend, is known to us roosters as chaff.” He leaned toward Cobb’s ear, and his voice became conspiratorial. “I take it some sincere thought is being given to your entering a formal stay of proceedings so that we may all go about our honest ways and relieve the hard-pressed taxpayer of an unnecessary and wasteful trial.”

  “I have a case against your man, Smitty. All I ask is a chance to get him on the stand and drill him a little bit.”

  “Whether the good Dr. Au takes the stand is his choice, fortunately, and not yours. It grieves me that I must remind a practitioner of your ability and experience of the simple civil rights that are enshrined in our jurisprudence.” Smythe-Baldwin’s arm was still about Cobb as they entered the building, the door being held open by one of the old lawyer’s juniors.

  The commissionaire inside the doorway snapped to attention as the lawyers walked by. Smythe-Baldwin greeted him like an old friend: “Eric, you are looking very well. I trust your kidneys are treating you a little better.”

  “Yes, sir,” Eric said. “Good to see you again, sir. And you, Mr. Cobb.”

  The entourage, small but led in kingly fashion by Smythe-Baldwin, glided through the corridors to Mr. Justice Horowitz’s chambers. En route, clerks, sheriff’s officers, and court reporters in turn enjoyed the beneficence of recognition by the senior counsellor.

  At the door to the judge’s chambers, Cobb stopped short. He felt a sinking sensation in his chest cavity. On the street, or in a casual bar, or at a country dance — anywhere but in a courthouse — Ms. Tann would have looked . . . well, appealing. In fact, she was delicately attractive — slender and tall, with dark Oriental eyes and straight shining black hair that hung loosely to about mid-waist. She wore huge hoops in her ears, a loose embroidered blouse, and a full-length skirt of rough materials that, to Cobb, looked suspiciously homespun. The whole effect was uncomfortably bohemian, in his view.

  “Hello,” she said, “I’m Jennifer Tann.” There was something mocking about her smile.

  “I’m Cobb.”

  “I suspected.”

  She did a bird-like twist of her head, looked over Cobb’s shoulder, and squinted at Smythe-Baldwin.

  Cobb introduced them, and Smythe-Baldwin’s broad face opened up in a wide smile. “And what,” he asked, “is a lovely young lady like you doing in a place like this?”

  Tann raised her eyebrows. “My God,” she said softly, then shook her head.

  A dark cloud of embarrassment settled over the men, relieved only by a strangled little chuckle from Smythe-Baldwin’s junior and some mumbled words from Cobb: “Um, she’s going to be with me for the trial.”

  Composed and still smiling, Tann gave Smythe-Baldwin a hard look. “What are you doing this for, defending this butcher? He’s off centre, really.”

  What, Cobb asked himself, have I done to Santorini that he has done this to me?

  “Young lady,” said Smythe-Baldwin with icy aplomb, “every man is entitled to a fair trial in our courts. Every man is entitled to the presumption that he is innocent until proven guilty beyond a reasonable doubt —”

  “Every woman, too?” she interrupted.

  Smythe-Baldwin refused to be deflected. “These principles hold true whether the sin of the man — or the woman — be murder or smoking marijuana. That’s a lesson you would do well to learn early in your career.”

  “Well, I guess I could accept that — if everybody charged with a crime could afford the best defence that money could buy,” she said.

  Cobb broke in. “Let’s see the judge,” he said, and held open the door leading to the desk of the judge’s secretary. Smythe-Baldwin, his features now set, strode through, followed by his junior, then Jennifer Tann, who whispered as she passed Cobb: “I think I got to him, hey?”

  The secretary took them immediately to the private chambers of the judge.

  Selden Horowitz was an old hand in the court system, good at his job, and he liked to move things along quickly. He could be expected to leave the arena to the combatants.

  He rose from his desk as the lawyers entered his room, and when introductions had been made, he motioned everyone to a seat.

  “I understand we have a trial coming up in less than two weeks,” he said. “I have asked you here to see if we can iron out any problems beforehand. I will want to know if there will be any pre-trial motions, any problems with the evidence — voir dire and that sort of thing — anything we can handle in advance of the trial. We don’t want to inconvenience the jury by sending them out of the courtroom too often.”

  Cobb knew Smythe-Baldwin would use this forum to seek information about the crown’s case. Normally, a preliminary hearing would have been held and the defence would have questioned all crown witnesses. But a decision had been made by Santorini to proceed by direct indictment to trial.

  “Mr. Cobb,” Horowitz said, “do you foresee any problems?”

  “No,” Cobb said. “We may have eighteen or nineteen witnesses, not including lesser lights such as ambulance drivers and coroner’s technicians. I should assume my learned friend will not put us to the task of proving trivia. We may have to make an application to cross-examine a witness hostile to the crown. We will have some law on that, and the jury may have to be out while we argue it. There will be no issue as to any statements made by the accused to the police — for the simple reason he made none, no doubt having been recently advised by counsel. There will be some technical evidence — fingerprints, none from the accused; blood samples; the autopsy report. We will have the case before the jury within four days.”

  Horowitz, looking over rimless spectacles, gave Cobb an expression that suggested he was being over-optimistic. “It sounds straightforward,” he said.

  Smythe-Baldwin met his cue and drew a deep, audible breath. “I wish it were,” he said. “My learned friend Mr. Cobb, like a man ashamed of tarnished underclothing, is afraid to disclose his case to the defence. I presume he is acting under orders from on high, because I have known Mr. Cobb to be a generous and fair man when empowered to make his own decisions.” Smythe-Baldwin had begun speaking quietly, but his voice continued to rise. “I am confidently assured by the crown that witnesses exist who claim to have seen the accused in a window of the building where the murder was alleged to have been committed. It is egregious to suggest that the defence is not entitled to the names and the evidence of these witne
sses. You are aware, my lord, that the crown, impelled by motives that in my simple way I cannot pretend to appreciate, has deprived my client of the right of a preliminary hearing. The least we are entitled to by law and by any standard of fairness is a digest of the evidence of these so-called witnesses, and should my friend persist in his stone-walling ways, I intend my thoughts on the matter to be put on record in the courtroom — in a form in which they may be perused ultimately by a higher court, should an appeal unhappily become the vehicle whereby justice is delivered. My first course of action, however, will be to apply to adjourn the trial to some later assize, to permit the crown sufficient time to provide the material which will allow us to make full answer and defence.” Smythe-Baldwin spoke now with defiant force, and his words rumbled about the room for a long moment of time.

  Horowitz, impassive, swivelled in his chair, and seemed engrossed by the view of parked cars outside his window. “Mr. Cobb, what do you say?” he asked softly. “We are less than two weeks from a murder trial, and the defence seems to be in the dark about one or two things.”

  Cobb would show a large and open spirit. “He has a right to their evidence, my lord. Not only am I prepared to give my friend copies of the witness statements, I will be pleased to permit him to interview them — in my presence, of course. But I have reason to believe — and I won’t go into this deeply unless Mr. Smythe-Baldwin challenges me — that these witnesses could be in grave peril from the accused.” The judge’s eyes went up over his glasses again. Cobb continued: “My suggestion is that the information be provided to defence counsel within a couple of days before the trial begins. As of that point I will arrange for police protection for them until their evidence has been heard in court.”

  “Mr. Smythe-Baldwin?” said the judge.

  The lawyer let out his breath slowly. His words marched out, hard and emphatic. “Your lordship knows — and my learned friend knows — that I am not a follower of that less-than-professional practice followed by some inexperienced members of the bar of beginning preparation for a trial only a few days in advance of it. I begin when I am retained. I have been retained for three months. I am not prepared for trial. I will not be prepared for trial until I have examined, digested, and considered every aspect of every word written in every statement taken from every witness. If I am not in possession of the material which we are discussing within the week, I shall formally bring on the adjournment application.”

  “All right,” Horowitz said, turning back in his chair to face the lawyers, “the crown will just have to provide by this weekend whatever police protection is deemed necessary for these witnesses, or a secure place for them to live in the meantime. I’m prepared to make an order to that effect in open court to avoid an adjournment.”

  Cobb shrugged. “We’ll do it,” he said. “We wish no delay.”

  “I thank my friend most graciously,” said Smythe-Baldwin, his voice sweet like honey now. “Then perhaps we can deal with another vexing question — wiretaps. I am led to understand the crown claims to be armed with taped telephone conversations, the contents of which have not even vaguely been made known to me. If it is the intention of the prosecution to adduce such evidence, I pray that my learned friend will display sufficient generosity of heart to provide the defence with reasonable notice. If courtesy does not demand production of the transcripts, the Criminal Code will. We are all familiar with Section 173 of the Privacy Act.” These words were spoken with stentorian, measured cadence. From behind him, Cobb heard a quieter voice.

  “I believe you will find the section is 178 decimal sixteen, sub-section four,” Jennifer Tann said.

  Smythe-Baldwin paused. Cobb waited for the inevitable squelch, then realized the defence lawyer was ignoring her and ploughing ahead. “Of course, if my information is incorrect, and there are no tapes — and I have reason to believe their existence is a figment of someone’s fertile imagination — that is an end to it. Perhaps Mr. Cobb can shed some light on the matter.”

  “I am told there are tapes,” Cobb said. “I have warned Mr. Smythe-Baldwin of the possibility. I have not heard them or read transcripts. I am given to understand that his client’s voice is not identified, and therefore there will be no attempt to use them as part of the crown’s case. Whether they contain material to be used in reply or in cross-examination of his client, I cannot say as yet. My learned friend has no right to disclosure of evidence not a part of the crown’s case.”

  “My friend no doubt will be prepared to argue the issue should the occasion arise,” Smythe-Baldwin said primly. “I know of no authority that suggests wiretap evidence can be used even in rebuttal or cross-examination without sufficient notice being given of their contents.”

  Again the quiet, calm voice from behind them. “Regina versus Sundawa Singh and Lamton, just reported, in the Western Weeklies, I think,” Tann said.

  Cobb now found himself suppressing a smile. Smythe-Baldwin seemed to be giving way to bluster: “In the appropriate arena, and at the appropriate time, I will be only too happy to engage my learned friend in battle over the issue. He will need all the support he can get from that young walking compendium of current Canadian law who is assisting him.”

  The judge broke in. “I’m not interested in chasing shadows. We’ll deal with the issue if it arises. There is nothing more, gentlemen?” No one answered. “The trial will commence with jury selection at ten a.m. Monday, March thirteenth. This is a special assize, and we will have a panel of forty-five prospective jurors. Thank you for coming in.”

  Outside, in the corridor, Smythe-Baldwin drew Cobb aside, away from the others. “Stay the charge, Foster,” he said. “Save yourself a good deal of needless embarrassment.”

  “How so?”

  “We have under subpoena a perfectly reliable witness, a man beyond challenge, who was in the company of our Dr. Au for three hours until and including the time of death of poor Jim Fat, some six miles from the scene of death.”

  “I’ll take my chances with any witness the Surgeon pays to alibi for him,” Cobb said. “Even Dr. Au can’t afford the price of an honest man.”

  “Ours is a witness no jury will dare disbelieve,” said Smythe-Baldwin.

  “The Surgeon was having tea with the Anglican archbishop? Come on, Smitty, I’ve been hanging around you too long to back away from a bluff.”

  “I think you may be too good a poker player to call me on this one, Foster. I hold a royal flush.”

  “We’ll see. It can safely be assumed that you are not about to tell me who the paragon is.”

  “Normally, I would not. Normally, I would tell you, as I have heard it put, to urinate up a rope. But because I respect you and do not wish to endure an old friend’s shame, I will bare my Roman breast and full disclosure make.”

  Smythe-Baldwin paused for effect. Cob saw himself in the role of that consummate courtroom loser Hamilton Burger, waiting for Perry Mason to announce the arrival of the inevitable surprise witness.

  “Corporal Everit Cudlipp, senior officer, narcotics division, Royal Canadian Mounted Police.”

  Friday, the Third Day of March,

  at Twenty Minutes to Noon

  A Special I man came into the monitoring room with a scribbled message from the receptionist and shoved it under Cudlipp’s nose. The corporal was listening on his earphones to a slave copy of overnight recordings, and he read the note quickly: “Ev: A lawyer, Mr. Cobb, wants an appointment to talk to you. Left his number. D.M.” Cudlipp scribbled his answer: “Tell him I’m on surveillance, can’t be reached.” The message bearer left the room with the note.

  Cudlipp did not want to talk to the prosecutor. If Cobb were going to come at him in court, he would have to do it cold, unprepared. And Cobb would have a damn hell of a time finding Cudlipp during the ten days before the trial was to begin — he was about to take two weeks’ holiday leave.

  He was apprehensi
ve about the trial — Cobb had some kind of reputation as a needler, a cross-examiner with an array of hooks and jabs. Cudlipp was not going to give him an edge by letting him have the whole alibi in advance. On the other hand, Cudlipp was feeling pretty good about the negotiations. With Alice Carson stiffening his back, he was going for the bundle, the big score. Two hundred and fifty big ones.

  A new voice on the recorded phone tap intruded upon his thoughts:

  “Hello.”

  “Yeah, hi.”

  “Yeah, who’s this?”

  “Bennie.”

  “Bennie?”

  “Bennie B. Jesus, do you want me to spell it?”

  “Oh, Bennie! Long time, Bennie. Hey, how are ya?”

  “Okay, okay. Lot’s happening. Busy, you know. How you doin’, guy?”

  “Alive, you know. Despite the heat.”

  “Yeah, despite the heat.”

  “So what’s up, Bennie?’

  “Ah . . . you know, the well’s gone dry down my way. You know, the sweep, the rodeo.”

  “Some folks aren’t too hard up.”

  “You got?”

  “I do, I do.”

  “Bundled?”

  “Yeah, but I can’t front ya.”

  “I know. I got the cake.”

  “Okay. Say, six o’clock, Eighteenth and Alder. Green El Dorado. Got myself a brand new wagon, Bennie.”

  “Okay, meet you for a —”

  “Yeah, for a few beers. How many beers you figure you can consume?”

  “Oh, three, I guess. It’s good?”

  “Dynamite.”

  “Right on. Lookin’ forward to it.”