“Invariably, on your free Sundays you retreated to your chalet in the Gatineaus?”
“On the occasional weekend.”
“But mostly on Sundays. I count at least ten visits between January sixth and mid-May.”
“Fewer than that, I am sure. We were in session all that time.”
“Two Sundays on, you will see another empty page, blank except for the notification, ‘Lac Vert!’”
Farquist acceded to that, and affected surprise that Arthur was able to point to several similar notes on succeeding Sundays: “Lac Vert!” “Day off.” “Head for the hills!” “Lac Vert all day.” Arthur turned to Sunday, April 21. “And here you have, ‘Lac Vert, bring NEB file.’”
“Many of those notes were merely hopeful. I was often unable to get away.” He cleared his throat, shifted his bulk. “I don’t know what the point is of having a holiday home, Mr. Beauchamp, if you don’t use it.”
“And how did you use it?”
“To relax. Rearm myself for the battle. Build a fire. Read. Go online. Catch up on the world around me. I enjoy the solitude. In the summer, I might go out in my boat. I used to ski. Anything else?”
“Sometimes you took work with you?”
“Rarely.”
“You wrote, ‘Bring NEB file.’ Doesn’t that suggest work?”
“National Energy Board. An issue of expediting a hearing.”
“That would be with respect to the Coast Mountains Pipeline?”
“I am proud to say that was one of my major initiatives.”
Arthur felt relief that Margaret wasn’t there to hear this. He imagined the sparks from her silver eyes, the unsuppressed loathing.
“At this sanctuary, you also entertained individuals.”
“Again, rarely.”
It was time to give him the full Monty. “But in fact one was a regular, wasn’t she? Ms. Svetlana Glinka.”
“That is simply preposterous.”
Arthur tapped the day book, still open in front of him. “On each of these free Sunday afternoons you employed her services as a dominatrix. I put that to you.”
“I will say unequivocally that I have never been in the company of any Svetlana Glinka. Never seen her, never talked to her, never even heard of her until I first learned about Ms. Blake’s outrageous allegations.”
“I’m suggesting you had a relationship with her for four and a half months, commencing last January sixth.”
“That is a lie!”
“And that you played sado-masochistic games with her, during which you were whipped with a riding crop while pleading for your mother’s forgiveness.”
Farquist went silent for a moment, becoming puffy and red-faced, as if he might erupt. But he held it in. “This is intolerable. Mr. Beauchamp, I have been put through hell by your client — your wife! — painted as some kind of depraved idiot. I swear to God Almighty that there isn’t an atom of truth in what you say.”
Reeking of sincerity, so emphatic it caused Ms. Blair to dart a look of reproof at Arthur, a heartless bully. He was having trouble framing a follow-up, and Cowper took the opportunity of noting it was half past twelve. Lunch break.
BUGGED
Nanisha took Arthur to her favourite lunch spot, an old-fashioned diner festooned with photos of film stars of long ago: Chaplin, Garbo, Barrymore. There they morosely lunched on soup and sandwiches while they waited for Margaret, who’d returned to the hotel to meet Pierette — her flight had arrived late. What was the dire news she was bringing from Agent Fitz McGilroy?
Arthur was in despair. He’d fired his best shots at the plaintiff, and they’d rebounded like rubber balls. He’d rarely encountered such an elusive target — Farquist seemed to have anticipated every line of attack.
Nanisha’s gaze was fixed on Charles Laughton. “Either he’s an extremely good actor . . .” She hesitated, as if afraid to utter a forbidden thought. “Or, what if . . . I’m just throwing this out, but what if Emil believes what he is saying? What if this is all a hoax, the video was a clever piece of artistry, cut and spliced so seamlessly that, well . . . ?” A helpless, embarrassed shrug.
That was inconceivable. But if Arthur’s junior counsel was harbouring doubts, Chief Justice Cohon-Plaskett might also find herself impressed with Farquist’s cries of innocence. Her Ladyship might also conclude that Margaret was the gullible and blameworthy victim of a hoax.
He did his best to pooh-pooh Nanisha’s speculation. Who would have motive to create such an illusion? Lou Sabatino? That would make no sense. And hadn’t Glinka’s lawyer in Nice, in couched phrases, practically affirmed that she had filmed the episode, got paid off, suppressed all evidence of it?
“I’m sorry,” said Nanisha. “Just a brief escape from reality.”
Margaret and Pierette hove into view, both breathless, kicking the snow from their boots at the door before descending on their booth.
“They’ve tapped our lines,” Margaret said, her expression fierce.
“Just mine,” Pierette blurted. “My house phone. Fitz told me.”
“Sit down, please, and slow down.” Arthur called over the server, who took two more orders for sandwiches.
“Just be straightforward, Pierette,” Margaret said. “It’s okay.”
“Well, um, Fitz and I have been getting a little close.”
“In bed, close,” Margaret added.
“Yeah, my bed. I lost my head a little. It’s okay. I trust him, honestly. He couldn’t say how he knew, but he has access to all kinds of stuff, and he learned someone put a tap on my landline. He found it, wired to some kind of transmitter outside my apartment. My cell seems to be okay, and all the office lines checked out okay. But they bugged my old house phone. I hardly ever use it, but I’m afraid I did talk to Margaret on it a couple of times.” She trailed off, breathless, embarrassed.
Arthur was horrified. Despite all the precautions, all his warnings, she and Margaret had been loose on the phone. Both were looking guilty. He held his temper and began a calm, probing cross-examination.
Pierette’s line had been compromised late in October, according to McGilroy, whose insider information he wasn’t at liberty to detail. McGilroy’s name was not to be mentioned; his career might be at risk. That suggested to Arthur that someone in CSIS had been the tapper. A rogue agent, maybe, a Farquist booster, or one on the take. Late October was when the Conservatives were toiling over their shredders.
Pierette was adamant that only two of her conversations would have been of interest. One was relatively benign, about Chalmers crossing the floor. The other, in late November, was more alarming. Pierette had been laid up at home with the flu, woozy with pills, had rambled on to Margaret about the incest theory, speculating about the Gatineau mortgage, how the funds bought Glinka’s silence — areas for which Farquist had so skilfully armed himself — and, infinitely worse, Svetlana Glinka’s role as Russian informant. All laid out on a platter for the plaintiff.
“What else?” Arthur demanded.
“Nothing else, I swear to God.”
“The video?”
“Absolutely no mention.”
“Absolutely,” Margaret chimed in, breaking her tense silence.
How could they be sure? Arthur felt sick. He had been played like a fool all morning.
§
As they resumed at two p.m., Arthur was mentally wrung out and weighted by despair. Farquist had calmed down — with the aid of a drink or two. Arthur’s nose was well trained to detect the perfume that wafted across the table: rye whisky, he decided, well aged, with an overlay of breath mint. That belied Farquist’s show of self-assurance.
Arthur had to bury the urge to accuse him of engineering an illegal wiretap. It would give away too much information, and McGilroy was owed discretion. He refused to believe that George Cowper, reputedly a counsel of honour, was a
ware of the wiretap or would have countenanced it.
He picked away like a man without appetite. Glinka’s blue Miata? Farquist didn’t know anyone with a Miata of any colour. The Lac Vert groundskeeper, Arthur said, had seen such a car parked by his chalet in January. The poor fellow, said Farquist, was of limited intelligence, and just as unreliable when sober as in his accustomed drunken condition.
Arthur wanted to kick himself. Why had he even brought that up? He’d just given them a freebie. Farquist’s team would be on the groundskeeper in a flash, buying him off with a case of Crown Royal.
He produced some blown-up glossies taken by Frank Sierra from his triplex across from Glinka’s flat. “You have seen these, Mr. Farquist, they were delivered with our affidavit of documents. They were taken on July seventh. Do you know what they depict?”
“I’ve been instructed that they show the flat of this Glinka woman on Rue de la Visitation in Montreal. I had also seen it on the six o’clock news.” The shot of rye had done its job. He seemed on the verge of affability.
“This photo shows a black Lincoln Navigator parked out front.”
“I’ve been instructed that is indeed a Lincoln Navigator.”
“Have you ever seen that vehicle yourself?”
“Not that I’m aware.”
“The driver is a well-built man, black hair, moustache. With him is a tall young brunette. In this next picture she is ascending the outer staircase to the apartment above Ms. Glinka’s.”
Farquist examined the photographs, shrugged.
“Do you recognize this woman and man?”
“I have never met them.”
“But you know who they are, yes? You’ve been informed.”
Farquist hesitated, then looked at Cowper, who said, “For the record, they are Ulrich Wentz and Jasmine L’Heureux, employees of the Puhl Detective Agency in Ottawa.”
“Thank you,” said Arthur, hoping he’d found a breach in their defences. He studied a calendar his junior had annotated. June 2, the WWF event, when Margaret blurted out the words taped by Christie Montieth. Only two days later, Puhl’s agents had packed out boxes of electronics from Glinka’s flat. That was three weeks before the Freak Out recording went viral.
“And what were Mr. Wentz and Ms. L’Heureux doing there on the seventh of July, Mr. Farquist?”
“I imagine they were making inquiries in the neighbourhood as to the whereabouts of the Glinka woman.”
She had bolted for France exactly a month earlier. The likely reason that the private eyes came snooping around that day was they hoped to grill Sabatino, maybe offer him hush money.
“Do you know who occupied that upper suite?”
“Not of my own knowledge.”
“But you have been told, have you not, that one Lou Sabatino was living there?”
“Yes, under the guise of Robert O’Brien.”
“And who told you that?”
Again Cowper interrupted. “Don’t answer that. Solicitor privilege.”
“Had you encountered him in his capacity as a journalist?”
“At the occasional press conference. He seemed to have a penchant for asking inane questions. I chewed him out once. I’m not on his favourites list.”
“And what role do you see Mr. Sabatino playing in this case?”
“A co-conspirator with Svetlana, I assume.”
Cowper spoke sharply. “Please don’t speculate, Emil.”
Arthur found this exchange interesting. The whisky Farquist downed had finally made its way to the tongue, and his legal team’s strategy was as open as a raw wound. They planned to argue that Margaret had maliciously connived with Sabatino to embarrass her sworn enemy, or, alternatively, Lou and Svetlana had set her up with a phony story about a salacious video.
On Monday, at her own discovery, Margaret would testify she’d seen a copy pirated by Lou Sabatino. Cowper would accuse her of lying, but as a backup might argue that the images had been doctored by her techno-savvy co-conspirator, who’d gone on the run under a pseudonym.
“Mr. Farquist, getting back to the Puhl Agency and its two employees, Mr. Wentz and Ms. L’Heureux — July seventh was not their first visit to Ms. Glinka’s address. They showed up a month earlier in a white van and proceeded to empty her suite of all electronic apparatus. You know this because I have a statement from one of her clients to such effect — Mr. Harvey Plouffe. You have seen it. It is in our documents.”
Cowper interjected again.“He wouldn’t know anything about that.”
“Please let him answer.”
Farquist plowed ahead. “All I can say is that they were probably looking for evidence of Svetlana’s . . . Ms. Glinka’s extortion plan. A plot to make me look like a sicko.”
“They first searched her flat on June fourth. Did they have permission from the tenant?”
“You’ll have to ask them, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“They had a key, Mr. Farquist.”
“Again, I know nothing about it.”
So Cowper had shielded him from the Puhl Agency’s doings. Arthur had not seen their reports. He had objected to disclosing Francisco Sierra’s material, claiming privilege, and Cowper had responded in kind. That now seemed an unwise trade-off.
“Tuesday, June fourth, that was the date.”
“If you say so.”
“Three weeks before the defendant’s words were broadcast across the internet. Why would your detectives have been interested in Svetlana on June fourth? Just two days after the impugned words were picked up by a live microphone?”
Farquist looked at Cowper, as if seeking permission. “He has a right to know,” the lawyer said.
“Very well,” said Farquist, with an elaborate shrug. “Christie Montieth, who I know well — she’s one of my favourite bloggers — played the recording for me in my office on June third. I believe that was a Monday. I declined to comment on record, but I did warn her that it would be dangerous to report or repeat such a calumny. I may have mentioned legal action. I then consulted counsel, and I assume they instructed the Puhl Agency —”
“Don’t assume,” Cowper admonished him. “Objection. Solicitor privilege.”
Arthur was caught short by Farquist’s explanation and took a moment to recover his balance. “And you claim not to know how they happened to have a key to Ms. Glinka’s premises?”
“I haven’t talked to them.” Farquist checked his watch again.
“Come now, they clearly had permission to enter Ms. Glinka’s home and business and pack up any compromising material. Otherwise they would be guilty of larceny.”
“If that’s a question, and it seems to be mere rhetoric, I’m at a loss to respond.”
“Obviously, your investigators quickly made contact with Svetlana Glinka, and I’m putting it to you that she was paid off to cooperate and remain silent.”
Farquist directed a weary look up at the ceiling. “That’s an interesting but blatantly false supposition, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“In fact, your investigators met with Ms. Glinka in France in a further effort to buy her silence.”
“I have not seen their reports.”
“Then how did you hear about Mr. Sabatino’s alleged role in this?”
Hesitation. “Someone told me. I can’t remember.”
Arthur spoke quietly to his junior. “Ms. Banerjee, would you kindly attend to the issuing of subpoenas for Mr. Puhl and his two investigators? Thank you.”
That might, just possibly, cause his opponents some concern. Nanisha packed up some papers and headed off to the court registry. Arthur hoped it was still open — he wanted those subpoenas out fast. He wanted Puhl’s agents to sweat through the weekend.
He looked at his own watch: nearly four o’clock on this cruel Friday, another half hour to go and he was running out of ammunition. If he cou
ld keep Farquist under oath until they resumed on Monday, something might come up. Some miracle.
Should he bring up Glinka’s role as a Russian asset? Farquist would be armed for that, thanks to Pierette’s telephone tap. But nothing ventured . . .
“Mr. Farquist, you conceded that you occasionally took work to your chalet on weekends.”
“Rarely, I said.”
“And that work would include confidential government documents?”
“On occasion, yes.”
“And any visitor could have chanced upon them?”
“I never entertained visitors at Lac Vert. As I have said, it was my sanctuary.” Another peek at his watch.
“You are aware, of course, that Svetlana Glinka, this person you claim not to know, was a paid Russian informer.”
“She seems the sort of conniving person who might be.”
“Don’t speculate,” Cowper said sharply. “If you don’t know, say so.” The normally unflappable barrister was riled. His startled reaction to Arthur’s question suggested he wasn’t privy to the illegal phone intercept.
“I know nothing about her being a Russian agent. It sounds preposterous.” Fiddling with his Rolex.
“Are you in a hurry to go somewhere, Mr. Farquist?”
“I’m late for an important staff meeting, but I’m prepared to endure this to the end.”
Arthur affected magnanimity. “Okay, we don’t want you distracted by the important matters weighing on you. Let us finish up on Monday.”
He began packing away his papers. Cowper clearly would have preferred his client to be off the hook, but gave in to Farquist’s eagerness to bolt. And bolt he did, pulling on his coat as he made for the door, joining his aide in a foot race to the elevator. Margaret and Pierette broke off a quiet conversation to watch them. Arthur ventured an encouraging smile, a lie. Margaret rewarded him with an air-kiss.
“Perhaps you and I can have a moment,” Cowper said. The court reporter packed up her gear. Cowper’s nervous junior checked his phone as he followed her out, leaving the two senior lawyers alone.
Whipped Page 27
