Whipped

by William Deverell

  There followed an exchange of weary woes about their disrupted holiday season, their absence from home and family in snow-clogged Calgary. They grumbled about the demanding tasks barristers must undertake, the weary hours of preparation, the discomfort of conflict, the waste of it all, the agonizingly delicate handling of clients, with their unerring tendency to stick to fixed positions.

  “Especially in emotional issues such as this, wouldn’t you agree, Arthur?”

  This seemed a lead-up to an offer of settlement — Arthur hadn’t expected it so soon. “And what might you suggest, George, that would soften those fixed positions?”

  “Let’s explore that.” But Cowper sidestepped. “By the way, excellent work on your part — as was entirely to be expected — but I hope we can agree that Emil stood up under fire very well indeed. Given his firm denials, you may also want to concede that your defence of justification lacks any evidentiary foundation. And frankly I am loath to put Ms. Blake through the discomfort of a distasteful trial at which, regrettably, she must be accused of a maliciously false accusation.”

  A pause, then he added, “We probably can’t expect judgment for the full amount claimed, and I believe I have persuaded Emil of that. After all, he seeks no personal compensation — he has committed himself to donate the bulk of his winnings, so to speak, to a hospital fund, less his out-of-pockets. He seeks exoneration, but that must come at a cost.”

  The out-of-pockets doubtless included a substantial legal fee. Maybe a million or more. The Puhl Agency did not come cheap. And Farquist had underlings to pay off, like the wiretapper. Between legal costs, paying off Glinka, and a pricey leadership campaign, he must be almost tapped out, and likely more keen to get this case behind him than Cowper wanted to admit.

  “Do I understand, George, you are instructed to make an offer — even before examining Margaret?”

  “You’re clearly aware, Arthur, that Svetlana Glinka cooperated with our people in Montreal and in France. We have a good sense of what your client will say. She will claim that Lou Sabatino described alleged images of an alleged video recorded — allegedly — by Svetlana Glinka. Once Ms. Blake has put that on record, under oath, there may be no backing down. This is the time to reach an accord.”

  Arthur found himself impatient with Cowper’s fastidious manner. There was little point in making rebuttal, arguing the evidence, the evasions and gaps in Farquist’s account. Cowper clearly had those in mind, holes the wily lawyer hoped to plug.

  “What’s your number, George?”

  “Emil insists he won’t go below ten million. But I can’t believe he won’t budge if push comes to shove. Seven and a half might be doable. A full apology, of course.”

  Arthur rose, found his coat. “Well, it’s been a long day.”

  Cowper stared sadly at him. “If we don’t close by Monday, I’m pulling my offer and we go for broke. All the way. Non-stop. Please talk to your client.”

  DINING WITH THE ENEMY

  “Don’t you find this weird?” Pierette asked. She had unpacked and was laying out her clothes on one of the twin doubles in Margaret’s hotel room. Pierette was referring to the fact that she, not Arthur, was sharing that room. “Like, is he afraid you’re going to sap his vital juices?”

  “He finds my dual role as wife and client awkward. It’s okay. Better this way. He’s being awfully moody.” And awfully reluctant to talk about the day-long session with the petulant plaintiff. “We’ll go over it later,” he’d kept repeating.

  Day one of the discoveries had ended two hours ago, with Farquist, looking like he badly needed to piss, shit, or throw up, racing to the elevator with his moon-faced flunky. Margaret assumed Arthur had triumphed, but Nanisha, choosing her words carefully, said that discovery, unlike trial, rarely had winners and losers. She’d given Margaret the merest digest of the day’s proceedings. Nanisha hadn’t seemed upbeat.

  As to the chat between Arthur and Cowper, she only said, “I’m not sure what they are talking about. Procedural stuff, I imagine.”

  There’d been no bantering with the press outside the courts afterwards — Arthur just scythed through them. Nanisha hurried off to her office — something about follow-ups, witness subpoenas — before heading to the airport to pick up Francisco Sierra. They would all meet at the fine French restaurant, Q Haute Cuisine, known to its habitués simply as the Q. Six o’clock, early for dinner, but Nanisha said it had been a “Herculean challenge” to secure a reservation for five.

  “Let’s just relax this evening,” said Pierette. “Enjoy ourselves. We have all weekend to get you ready for act two. You’re going to be a star, baby. A shining star.”

  §

  The Q was a former estate home, Margaret had learned: spacious, well staffed, with an open kitchen. By six p.m., its three large dining areas were packed, and customers were waiting for tables.

  But they’d got there early enough, and Nanisha had pulled off her Herculean feat, scoring a table with a knockout view of Eau Claire Park and the Bow River shining whitely under a full moon. The river’s coverlet of snow was crusting after a daytime melt and reflecting sparkles from street lamps and Christmas lights strung on evergreens.

  The maitre d’ had recognized the Green leader and awarded her the choice window seat. Pierette sat beside her, Nanisha and Frank Sierra across from her, leaving Arthur the aisle chair. All chose to dine on the tasting menu, a feature offering of the Q.

  Margaret’s life partner was clearly was not himself, affecting an air of bonhomie that might have fooled the others, but not her. She would have preferred his more familiar self, the cynical grump. He seemed desperate to stave off any mention of the trial or his face-off with Farquist, and held the fort with a treatise on Calgary’s constantly reshaping winter: bitter cold, blinding blizzard, the sudden caress of a warm Chinook.

  He instructed them in west-wind myths. Zephyrus was the bringer of that wind, a god complimented by Chaucer for his “swete breth.” But more apropos was the lovely Aboriginal myth about Chinook-Wind, a princess who, exiled to the prairies from her sea-home, had summoned the winds to warm her.

  Sierra, smiling, broke in: “Where the Chinook blows, O’Brien lies low.” He reminded them of the loving letter Lou Sabatino wrote to his wife and kids in November. His reference to a warming Chinook had persuaded Sierra to narrow his hunt to the southwest plains. But none of the dozens of clues and hundreds of internet hits had panned out.

  Arthur wouldn’t be diverted from his diversions, for he’d begun extolling the pan-seared Arctic char. That segued into a lengthy account of his defence of an Inuit char fisher framed for murder in Nunavut. He talked his way through the consommé, the baby shrimp salad with pine nuts, the quail breast, the wild mushroom risotto, and the lamb tenderloin.

  Margaret sensed that her lawyer was withholding bad news. We’ll go over it later. Nonetheless, she was amused, enjoying him, remembering how he’d wooed her with his vivid courtroom stories, his eloquent rambles. Some day, would he have a tale to tell of Farquist v. Blake?

  Her thoughts were suddenly interrupted by the sight of someone she recognized climbing from a limousine that had stopped outside. She stiffened in shock then nudged Pierette, who looked out and said, “Oh, shit.”

  Seconds later, Emil Farquist rolled in, bypassing the waiting line, followed by Hawkes, Cowper, and an elderly man, thin, long-limbed, craggy-faced. Farquist was in full voice, greeting the maitre d’ — and for that matter, all in the room — with slurred best wishes for this joy-filled season. More than a little tipsy.

  According to Arthur, the wannabe Conservative leader had been in a sweat to get away this afternoon, something about an important staff meeting. Does one normally get drunk at a staff meeting?

  The party of four was led to a newly cleared table near the kitchen. Margaret guessed the less-than-prime location annoyed Farquist; his ebullience faded and his voice — h
is words unclear — took on a complaining tone.

  Hawkes, clearly embarrassed, was urging him to sit, but Emil resisted, and turned and scanned the restaurant. He blinked a couple of times, as if in confusion, as he focussed on the table in the cozy window alcove, at his staring enemies.

  Abruptly, though with a slight misstep, he turned away and called out: “Michele, champagne, s’il vous plaît!” He expelled Hawkes from his chair, subsided into it, so he could sit with his back to his foes. A fifth chair remained empty — Margaret presumed it was for Cowper’s nervous junior.

  Arthur, who had gone silent mid-anecdote, looked questioningly at Pierette, then Sierra. “Who’s the thin man?”

  “That would be my old friend Sam Puhl.” Sierra waved. Puhl returned a mock salute. They remained for a while in eye-to-eye combat, like gunslingers facing off.

  Margaret was aware that Puhl’s two investigators were being subpoenaed. He didn’t seem very happy; perhaps that was why. Michele, the chef, hung about their table, clucking over them as champagne was poured.

  Of those at Margaret’s table, only Sierra, a foodie, had taken the kitchen tour the Q offered, and now his counterpart, Puhl, rose to do so. Farquist also stood, but to gesture at someone at the entrance, a tough-looking older dude in a Stetson.

  Arthur had to twist around to look. “O’Reilly,” he said. “Wouldn’t you know.”

  Jack O’Reilly, the billionaire oilman, proud bankroller of the most right-wing of right-wing causes.

  O’Reilly gave Farquist a manly hug. He shook hands with the others before he sat, talking loudly, maybe a few drinks to the worse himself.

  The important staff meeting had amounted to two guys sharing a bottle, Margaret decided. Farquist would have been hitting the oilman up for campaign funds.

  Everyone fell in line when Margaret declined dessert and coffee — the vibe in here had become strained, edgy. Arthur asked for the bill, Margaret visited the washroom, and Sierra quietly wandered off to the kitchen.

  Later, as they enjoyed a moonlit stroll by the park, Sierra explained: “Sam was expecting me, of course. It would have been discourteous to ignore each other.” The brief tête-à-tête had involved queries about their mutual well-being, a jest at Sierra’s failed vow to retire, and Sierra’s own jibe about an illegal wiretap.

  “Sam expressed credible surprise and concern. He is a proud professional. He would not want his prestigious agency to be involved in something messy. And he is agitated over his two underlings being subpoenaed.”

  “What else did you read from him?” Arthur asked.

  “A hearty optimism. He hints he has something up his shirtsleeve. But he is an expert bluffer.”

  Arthur blew out a cloud of breath. Margaret took his arm, slowed him while the others carried on. “Tell me why you’re so preoccupied.”

  “They’ve made an offer. We’ll talk at the hotel. Just you and me.”

  §

  An hour later, Margaret was perched on Arthur’s bed in a state of high tension as he paced and talked. A settlement proposal. Seven-and-a-half million, but they would likely go down to six, maybe five. A judgment against them could be much higher. These matters had to be weighed.

  He sounded so formal. This was not her gentle, caring Arthur, her lover and husband. This was her lawyer.

  “Plus an apology?” She could barely utter that word.

  “Carefully worded. Based on incorrect information, that sort of thing.”

  “But five million?”

  “A substantial mortgage on the farm can handle some of it. Bully will advance a hefty partnership draw. Lots of trials left in me.”

  Margaret watched for a sign he was merely having fun with her. “Why are we discussing this, Arthur?”

  “I have a duty to inform you.”

  “You also have a duty to advise me.”

  “Cowper insists the door to settlement will close on Monday, when you take the oath. That’s either a threat or a bluff. ”

  “Darling, are our chances really so terrible?”

  Arthur had already spent half an hour analyzing those for her. The several soft spots in the plaintiff’s case, the glaring hole in Margaret’s: the missing, possibly non-existent video. The risk of massive damages should Chief Justice Cohon-Plaskett conclude Margaret conspired with a man on the lam to destroy Farquist’s reputation.

  “They are not good.”

  “How not good?”

  “Less than fifty-fifty. Subject to variables either way.”

  “Are you afraid I won’t love you if we lose?”

  Arthur wandered off to the window, looked out into the night at the moon gliding from behind a cloud. “I’m afraid I will fail you, Margaret.”

  “I will always love you.”

  He returned his gaze to her. His eyes had moistened, but he was smiling. “Then let’s go to trial.”

  LIONHEART

  It was Saturday, four days after the bumper Christmas Eve Lou had planned for his runaway family. But he was finally on the road in his homely Chev, with the two Santa bags, the monster panda, and a kid’s bicycle called the Green Flash, with a superhero painted on it.

  His plan hadn’t changed. He would dip into the city, to Upper Mount Royal, make the drop, and run. Avoid downtown. Calgary would be a beehive of press this weekend, with the ongoing Farquist-Blake discoveries. He wasn’t incredibly keen on bumping into one of his old CP cronies. Let alone the combatants and their legal-political teams.

  Steam was rising from the wheat fields, the snow melting before his eyes. Still a solid, soggy blanket of it, ditches and sloughs filling with meltwater, streams overflowing. His brave little car had made it like gangbusters across the turbulent water below the Porcupine Creek bridge, and he’d been stalled by snowplows in the Cypress Hills, but otherwise slush was the only hazard.

  Though it was sunny, his wipers were on, whacking away the slop thrown at him by overtaking vehicles. Lou had slept poorly, anxiously, and he was taking it slow and easy. He had made it this far in life. A life that still had possibility.

  He’d been practically manacled to his computer for the last three days, but was already getting multiple hits on his new website: DR. JOY’S HEALTH TIPS. Arianna Joy, MD, M.Sc., Licensed Nutritionist. PAPAYA, THE HEALTHIEST FRUIT IN THE WORLD. BANANAS ARE GOOD FOR YOU. THESE TEN BEST-SELLING FAST FOODS ARE THE TEN WORST FOR YOUR HEALTH.

  Lou’s many years on the CP rewrite desk were paying off. The internet was swarming with health sites and blogs, easily cribbed from. All he had to do was to make it look fresh with a jazzy design and easy-to-read prose. And authoritative. Dr. Joy, M.Sc. Holistic Science and Herbal Medicine. Yesterday, his first ad had come in, from a tropical fruit importer.

  There was increased bustle on the highway as he neared Calgary, its downtown towers poking above the flatlands. He blinked away the lulling effect of the wiper blades and focussed on the road. He couldn’t risk a traffic ticket. Calgary’s finest might still be on edge over the pedophile.

  At last report, they’d zeroed in on a short, bald driver of a grey Saturn Astra. But surely the perv would have ditched that car by now, its photo in all the papers. A lone dude, in a blue Chevy Cavalier with Saskatchewan plates, registered to Maple Creek Car and Truck Repairs Ltd., who produces a Quebec driver’s licence in the name of Robert O’Brien might have some explaining to do.

  He’d made an effort to look law-abidingly straight with his professorial beard, trimmed hair neatly combed, preppy sweater-vest, dress jeans, and a green-and-white Roughrider jacket scored at the Porcupine Plain Nu-To-You. Costume designed by Sally Rosewell, who didn’t want him looking like a bum.

  He had declined her offer to drive him. Sweet Sally. She’d come back on Boxing Day to apologize. She respected him. He had acted honourably in the end, even though he’d kept his wife a secret. She wanted to be his friend. He sai
d he needed a friend, and they had a sex-free hug.

  Sally sealed this excellent friendship by arranging for her regular courier to deliver Celeste’s necklace. It should have arrived today, a special weekend rate.

  He remembered, guiltily, how hot he’d been for Sally, betrayed by his unsolicited, defiant stiffy. However, there’d been a creative side effect. MORINGA LEAF POWDER, THE AMAZING BUT LITTLE-KNOWN NATURAL SUBSTITUTE FOR VIAGRA.

  §

  It was mid-afternoon when he turned onto Hope, a wide street that the city had cleared by pushing the snow onto boulevards, sidewalks, and front lawns, some of the mounds over five feet high.

  No family vehicles at the curb, all of them tucked safely into driveways or garages, just a Shaw Cable truck and a guy up a power pole. A catastrophic emergency for weekend football fans, cable was out on this block. A few dads were using their downtime to shovel walks and driveways. A mom was knocking down icicles from the eaves while her kids repaired a drooping snowman.

  No one was outside Celeste’s sister’s house, but the curtains weren’t drawn and the lights were on. The kids had built a snow fort by the in-law suite, and a path had been beaten to the driveway, which had been cleared. The Dodge Caravan was there, and a little Fiat behind it — a visitor?

  Lou kept the engine running as he dragged out his canvas bags and heaved them over the snowbank onto the front lawn, making wide snow bursts. Then the bicycle, then the mega-panda, on top of the bank, facing the house, its arms outstretched in greeting.

  He stumbled as fast as he could back to his car, and put it in gear. A quick glance back caught a movement in the picture window, a small person, had to be Lisa or Logan.

  Though he’d turned a corner by now, he was fighting an intolerable need to go back, to share the belated Dream of a White Christmas now unfolding on Hope Street — or at least unfolding in his mind: Lisa and Logan bursting outside, screaming, “Mom, Mom, Daddy’s been here!” Celeste racing behind them with their coats, looking terrific in her diamond pendant silver necklace.