Whipped

by William Deverell

  §

  Arthur and Margaret found themselves sharing an unusual lunch. Both had sworn they would never set foot in a McDonald’s, but little Lisa and littler Logan had been given their choice. One could hardly blame them: the restaurant featured a play area with tubes to climb up and slide down, a ball pit, and rocking zebras with saddles to sit on.

  In the end Arthur conceded it had been a wise choice, because the restaurant was so busy that no one paid any attention to the national hero, Calgary’s desaparecido. He was hardly recognizable from old photos that had cluttered the news; bearded now, he’d dropped thirty pounds. Margaret got a tentative wave from one young woman, but she didn’t approach.

  It eventually dawned on Arthur that no server was about to attend on them in their booth, and he took orders and lined up, attracting curious glances — the fusty old man in a suit may have seemed vaguely familiar. Margaret and Celeste had asked for salads, but Arthur and Lou were opting for Big Macs with fries, Happy Meals for the kids. The other team members, led by Sierra, had chosen finer dining elsewhere.

  Arthur’s lunch guests seemed to understand there’d be no talk about the slander action. Lou and Celeste had other things on their minds anyway. Presumably, both hungered for intimacy, and had found it in their hotel suite while the children were asleep in an adjoining room. They were clearly indulging the rush of renewed romance.

  Their plans were incomplete. Lou extolled the virtues of Porcupine Plain and of country life: his snug home, his new friends, the lovely little grade school, his expanding internet businesses. He would build “a terrific website” for Celeste and a studio and street-front dress shop. She could keep a presence in Calgary, for fittings, while doing most of her business online.

  Meanwhile, he would write a book, a memoir of his year of trouble and triumph.

  Arthur supposed the dark shadow of the Mafia would still lurk, but the danger had lessened since their capos fled the country. The case against the Waterfrontgate conspirators was falling apart anyway, according to Montreal lawyers in the know.

  It was nearing two p.m. and another session with Cowper. A driver was waiting outside to take the Sabatino family back to their hotel. Out of habit, Arthur waved for the bill, forgetting he’d paid up front. Should he leave a tip? He dropped a few bills on the table, just in case.

  §

  On their return to the Courts Centre, a dozen reporters swarmed Arthur and Margaret, then blithely followed them through security to the elevators. A court sheriff caught up to them on the twentieth floor, quickly corralled them, and roped them off near the elevators. They were forbidden to use cameras.

  Cowper, Hawkes, and Farquist had stayed in the discovery room, knocking heads together, maybe literally. There were raised voices, then mutters that even Pierette, who had positioned herself close to the door, couldn’t make out. She heard a clunk, a heavy book being thrown or a chair knocked over.

  Arthur paced the corridor, feeling uncomfortable with the media wolf pack over there, salivating for news. There was much stirring when Sam Puhl joined the plaintiff’s team. He would be eager for a quick settlement to protect the behinds of his two subpoenaed investigators.

  Arthur returned to the nearby empty courtroom, where Margaret was alone, reading Alice Munro, Too Much Happiness.

  She bookmarked her page. “What do you suppose they’re up to?”

  “They’re wishing they’d brought a straitjacket for Emil.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Farquist is desperate to avoid public humiliation, so they’re likely struggling over the wording of a confidentiality clause.”

  She frowned, and he hastened to explain: it was also known as a non-disclosure clause, a consensual gag order, common in litigation. Persons privy to the terms of settlement risked stiff monetary penalties for any breach, however careless.

  “Why would I agree to it?”

  “You needn’t, darling. But there may be profit in doing so.” Or not. He dared not remind her of her infamous laxness of tongue.

  “All the profit I want is his complete fall from grace. He put me through hell.”

  The burden of representing his beloved was weighing heavily on him. He must fully take on the role of dispassionate counsel.

  “Margaret, you have the power, and maybe the right, to destroy Emil Farquist. That will happen if we deny them confidentiality. But that could mean dragging out these abysmal proceedings for months, maybe to trial and even appeal if they’re stubborn, and it will be painful and costly.” He spoke the next words with care. “You may be concerned about how the public views you.”

  She looked at him thoughtfully, then said, “Okay, I hear you — bad optics. I’d be the vindictive, sharp-tongued witch out for revenge. Also, small potatoes in the context of a world facing flood and famine. I have better things to do.”

  Thinking like the politician she was.

  “I’ll take your advice, of course, darling . . . Darling — am I allowed to say that?”

  Arthur laughed, relieved.

  “So what kind of profit is earned by agreeing to non-disclosure?”

  He was about to explain, but Cowper entered the courtroom looking exhausted. He beckoned Arthur, and they strolled toward the barristers’ lounge, keeping well away from the wolf pack.

  “How did they get in here?” Cowper said, annoyed. “The building is closed to the public.”

  “They talked their way past security. The deputy registrar doesn’t want to make a scene.” Arthur didn’t want to admit they’d followed him in. Or that he had not discouraged them. Cowper would think he’d invited them, a pressure play. Maybe it was.

  They shared a few comments about their deplorable lunches; Cowper had suffered through a takeout pizza. Finally, Arthur said, “Where are we, George?”

  “Very well, Emil remains convinced, if I may be blunt, that the rear end depicted in the beginning sequence is not his. We don’t believe Sabatino is a reliable witness. We will, of course, need to test the tape with our own experts. As you know, for every expert who has an opinion, there will be another who offers the opposite.”

  Cowper remained deadpan but Arthur could tell his heart wasn’t in it — he’d promised Farquist to make this last, desperate pitch.

  “I would truly enjoy taking this to trial, George. I can almost promise your client will be arrested for perjury after I have a go at him. What is your offer?”

  “Although he is adamant that the tape is bogus, my client wishes to put this matter behind him. Each side to pay its own costs, no admission of liability, non-disclosure of the video recording and all evidence taken on discovery, and we will withdraw the suit.”

  Non-disclosure was all that was left to salvage. The remains of Farquist’s good name.

  Cowper added, “Mr. Sabatino will have to be a party to any confidentiality clause, of course.”

  “Sorry, George, I can’t bind him to that. He is already committed to having a long sit-down with police investigators. With the video.”

  Cowper sagged. “Well, that’s . . .” A search for the appropriate word. “Awkward.” He pressed his temples, as if to soothe a headache. “That can’t be avoided?”

  “I gave them my word.”

  It took Cowper several seconds to recalibrate. “Surely, they would be discreet. Nothing in that tape points to any criminal misbehaviour on Emil’s part. Politically damaging, maybe, but that’s none of their business.”

  Cowper had been a fair and honest foe, and he didn’t deserve to be forced to his knees. Arthur was prepared to give him the small reward of confidentiality, for what it was worth, given Lou wouldn’t be bound. He would not mention Lou’s plan to write a tell-all memoir.

  “Quite frankly, George, there’s zero advantage for us to agree to confidentiality. Emil Farquist’s sins deserve to be known: the perjury, entertaining a Russian informer with
classified papers lying about, and, not the least of them, laying a false complaint against my wife and creating untold misery for her. Margaret declines to be vindictive, but she deserves recompense.”

  “What are your terms?” A resigned tone.

  “Non-disclosure of the evidence taken on discovery. Its transcripts to be sealed, not to be opened up except by order of a justice of the Queen’s Bench. Payment of the defendant’s solicitor-client costs on double scale. I’m afraid our investigator’s fees are quite handsome. You may be looking at, let us say, six hundred thousand dollars, but let’s peg it at half a million.”

  Cowper had no response. He looked more puzzled than shocked. “How do you imagine my client will come up with that kind of money?”

  Arthur had a clear memory from Friday’s dinner at the Q: the warm hug between Farquist and his billionaire bankroller.

  “Emil’s hand is already in Jack O’Reilly’s pocket. He just has to dig a little deeper.”

  SCRUM FLUSTER

  Margaret had grabbed a taxi at the Ottawa airport, and it was speeding her to Parliament Hill, where the Speech from the Throne was about to be delivered.

  She was travel-weary and disoriented — ten hours ahead of Melbourne or ten hours behind, she wasn’t sure, couldn’t do the math. Her hair was an unwashed mess; otherwise, she’d done what repairs she could between flights, in the washroom of the VIP lounge in Vancouver, stripping, washing, deodorizing, changing into a too-elegant silky pantsuit that she’d already worn twice — to a ritzy restaurant, then a concert. It looked odd but would have to do.

  She had missed the ceremonial opening of Parliament on Monday, thanks to a screw-up on reservations. Then a failed connection in Vancouver. Arthur had left her at the airport there, in an apologetic rush to make the last ferry to Garibaldi.

  The trip was inspired by a New Year’s call from Arthur’s daughter, Deborah, a high-school principal in Melbourne, on summer holidays. The slander action had been settled. Arthur, her hero, had slayed the dragon. What better way to celebrate than enjoying two stolen weeks of summer.

  They had stayed four nights in the wooded northeast suburbs, in the home Deborah shared with her husband, an ocean scientist. Arthur and Margaret then rented a car and drove to the heritage town of Port Fairy, where they stayed in a seaside cottage. Reading, wandering, swimming, birding, taking drives to nowhere, cocktails at sunset.

  As the pressures of politics and litigation faded away, thoughts of retiring had exerted their pull on Margaret again. For the entire two weeks she’d fought valiantly to break her enslavement to the political life. Aside from a text to Jennie asking her to hold the fort until she got back, Margaret had not touched her BlackBerry. Nor had she brought her iPad or laptop.

  But she’d done a whirlwind job of catching up during her long trip back, poring through texts and emails and missed phone calls. The orgy of speculation about the settlement terms had cooled; the confidentiality clause was holding up. It was strict — any disclosure by the defendant or her lawyers would mean forfeiting the $500,000 settlement Arthur had negotiated. The other side had insisted that Pierette, who knew everything, be bound to silence too.

  Lou Sabatino had not yet gone public. He was saving the goodies for his book — he’d apparently got a handsome advance from a major publisher. Nor had the Calgary police acted on his revelations. Bondage was not a crime. Bribery was, but the evidence was circumstantial and weak.

  It annoyed Margaret that the public had no idea how badly Farquist had been whipped, as it were. In fact, according to Pierette, the right-wing media were being fed hints that Farquist had come out of it unscathed, even with a comfortable settlement.

  She had attached a link to a Christie Montieth column about the coming session of Parliament. Several paragraphs down: “Don’t expect a lot of electricity to pass between Farquist and Blake when the House sits. They’ll be avoiding each other like the plague. Both have been away on vacation — who will return looking rueful and who triumphant?”

  Margaret was not going to look her triumphant best. In the taxi, she fussed with her confusion of hair, tied it, pinned it, swore at it. She daubed herself with makeup, applied lipstick. In her chic outfit, she looked like she’d just weathered a wild night on the town.

  They were in the city centre now, Wellington Street just ahead, the Peace Tower urgently beckoning her. The Governor General would now be well into the Throne Speech, which, by annoying tradition, was held in the Senate Chamber, that so-called council of sober second thought: unelected, undemocratic, infected with political parasites.

  Margaret managed to talk their way into the restricted driveway to the Peace Tower, and tipped her driver generously for helping her with her heavy suitcase. Inside, she was slowed by security personnel, who were in a conundrum over that suitcase. She abandoned it to them, ignoring their protests, and sped to the Rotunda and down the east wing to the Senate Chamber.

  The Governor General was holding forth as she cautiously entered, ducking and dodging too obviously as she tried to hide behind a mass of MPs standing at the bar of the Chamber.

  But her hopes of going unnoticed were soundly defeated. There was much stirring and nudging, murmured voices, everyone craning to see her: the GG, the Speakers of both houses, the entire Supreme Court bench, everyone except an aged Tory senator snoring in his chair.

  The Sergeant-at-Arms called out: “Order in the chamber!”

  Beyond, just behind the bar, was Emil Farquist, who twisted around to look at her, then quickly turned his broad backside to her.

  Others were slower to disengage — including the minister of Lands, Forests, and Rivers. Chalmers grinned at her, and she felt a swell of anger and shame. She would forever feel mortified by their affair. Her betrayal of a loving and perfectly faithful husband.

  As the GG picked up where he’d left off, Jennie whispered from behind her, “Welcome back.”

  “Do I look awful?”

  “Just smile. Look like a winner.”

  Margaret did her best, and when things settled down, she tried to focus on the speech. She must come up with something to say to the press. No mention so far of the Coast Mountains Pipeline — she could comment on that.

  “Let’s talk after the scrums,” Jennie whispered. She handed Margaret a scarf. “Put that over your head.”

  §

  Out in the foyer, Margaret didn’t have to wait her turn — she was top chicken in today’s pecking order, Miss Popularity. She smiled hard, but it wasn’t easy to look like a winner with her rat’s-nest hairdo peeking from the scarf and her slinky pantsuit. Who will return looking rueful and who triumphant?

  “How was your holiday, Ms. Blake?”

  “Blissful.”

  “Lovely outfit.”

  “I just grabbed it. I’ve been on a plane for two nights and a day. Missed connection, I got maybe two hours’ sleep.”

  There were smaller groups around the PM and Clara Gracey, the acting Opposition leader. No sign of Farquist.

  A microphone was thrust at her. “Are you satisfied with the settlement, Ms. Blake?”

  “You know I can’t talk about that. I will talk about an annoying gap in the Throne Speech. The Coast Mountains Pipeline didn’t merit a whisper.”

  “Excuse me, if I heard right they’re calling for a full review.”

  That must have come early in the speech. She hoped she didn’t look as flustered as she felt. She bluffed: “We need more action than a review. That has all the earmarks of a rubber stamp.”

  “Ms. Blake, can you say why you agreed to settle the court action?”

  “No, I can’t. Ask Mr. Farquist, and I’m sure you’ll get the same answer.” She looked around. “But I don’t see him here.” Making a point of it. Jennie was nearby, though, listening in as Margaret continued to deflect questions.

  “Can you at least confirm you set
tled for less than fifty million?” Laughter all around. “Seriously, I understand you were never questioned during discovery. What are we to make of that?”

  “What you will. I’d prefer to talk about the government’s wimpy approach to the crisis of climate change. Their so-called action plan offers more brave words than action.”

  “The court case must have been strenuous — any likelihood you’ll be stepping down?”

  “We have our leadership review in three months.” She took a deep breath. “We’ll see what the membership has to say.”

  §

  The pleasure of a long hot shower. The bliss of a hair blower on clean, damp hair. Flannel pyjamas and a big fuzzy robe to crawl into. Now all Margaret needed was twenty hours of sleep.

  But first she had to contend with Jennie. “We’ll talk when we get there,” she’d said in the taxi. They had slipped away cleanly after picking up the suitcase and grovelling to security, and were now in Margaret’s converted coach house in Rockcliffe Park.

  She found Jennie in the study, at the window with its grand overlook of the Rideau River, frozen solid, occasional skaters racing back and forth. Tea brewed in a pot. Jennie poured.

  “Sorry about that scrum. A disaster.”

  “I’m glad you’ve abandoned the notion of stepping down. Announcing it would have sent the wrong signal. Losers quit. You need to look more like a winner, not the scared rabbit you were in the Foyer.”

  “Jennie, if you’re talking about the settlement, you know my lips are tied.” Was that right? “Sealed. I’m a space case, sorry.”

  “I’m a special case. You can tell me in confidence.”

  “Did you talk to Pierette?”

  “I didn’t want to make it awkward for her. She couldn’t hide the goofy smile, though.”

  “It’s just as awkward for me. There’s a huge penalty for disclosure. Arthur would divorce me.”

  “Come on. Did Emil cave completely?”