Stung

by William Deverell

  The hairy little man rises from several rows back. Tchobanian looks at him for a long moment, then waves him back to his seat.

  “Thirty thousand, cash or property bond. Passport to be surrendered. Prior approval for travel outside Toronto. Report twice weekly to Fourteen Division for drug test. No drugs or alcohol or this bail order will be revoked.”

  Ray responds with a sound like “Whoa” or maybe “Woe.”

  Tchobanian, looking at him severely: “You have a problem with that?”

  “No, man, Your Honour, I just had a stomach cramp.”

  Arthur gets him to sit before more damage is done, and Rivie quickly takes his place, even before her name is called.

  Her particulars, as recited by the Crown, are widely known: the seduction of Howell Griffin, her arrest at the Toronto airport. She faces a bundle of charges.

  “A conniving Mata Hari,” says Curlbotham. “Our records show she is single, college educated, and practically a full-time agitator. She has no possible answer to the forged passport charge, which by itself merits a custodial sentence. She is at extreme risk of running.”

  Arthur lacks a strong response but does what he can. There was no proof she was party to the break-in. No proof she committed any offence relating to Mr. Griffin or his property. Mere seduction was not listed in the Code as a crime. Curlbotham seeks to deny her the presumption of innocence on the passport charge. No prior record. Lived all her twenty-three years in Toronto. Loving, supportive parents. Her ambition was to become a writer.

  Arthur can tell he’s losing Tchobanian. He may be reflecting on the shame he might suffer were this slippery actor to turn up suddenly in Stockholm. Many judges try overcautiously to balance the scales — if they give too much to the defence they have to toss a bone to the Crown.

  Arthur works harder. He warns that with the backlog in Ontario courts this trial might not come on for at least a year, maybe two. A jury trial could take several weeks. It was a complex case, with many side issues — for instance, the true role of the Crown’s prime witness, Mr. Howell Griffin: Was he duped or did he collaborate?

  The latter is a fat, gleaming red herring, but Arthur casts for it anyway. It will help feed the press.

  “So it would seem quite unfair, Your Honour, that Ms. Levitsky could face lengthy interim custody, given a backlog that is no fault of hers, while presumed innocent of these charges.”

  Tchobanian studies her with frowning intensity. She looks right back at him, unflinching, Saint Joan daring her interlocutor. Arthur imagines him wondering if a famous but mellowed version of this young radical could one day write a memoir about having been wrongfully martyred by a small-time provincial judge.

  “Fifty thousand surety, no passport, no access to any airport, no straying beyond the City of Toronto, standard terms apply. Ms. Levitsky will wear an ankle monitor twenty-four-seven until this court otherwise orders.”

  “Even when I shower?” Rivie says.

  If she’s teasing Tchobanian it works: he colours. Almost everyone in the room, including the judge, is either imagining her naked or trying not to. Except Arthur, who has quickly developed a grandfatherly affection for his client.

  The judge regains his composure. “Transmitting bracelets, Ms. Levitsky, are not only waterproof but tamper-proof.”

  “Your Honour, won’t that impede me? I ride a bicycle everywhere, and I’m sponsored for the Cycle Against Cystic Fibrosis Rally next month.”

  Arthur can’t suppress a smile. Curlbotham makes a weak effort to complain but Tchobanian waves him off. “Okay, Ms. Levitsky, cancel the monitor but you’d better be prepared to bike twice a week to sign in at Fourteen Division.” To counsel: “Can we adjourn a week to fix? I’ll be in 126 Court that day, and I’m assigning this case to my list.”

  Arthur and Nancy chime their glad consent. Curlbotham rolls his eyes before assenting: this judge has shown himself too cozy with the enemies of the state.

  The clerk calls out, “Case adjourned to Monday, September twenty-eight.”

  As the room empties, Inspector Maguire beckons Arthur to join him behind the witness stand.

  “What was that big, fat wink about, counsellor?”

  “Merely a friendly message, Jake.”

  “She told you, right? Lucy Wales, about being on her bike, taking a boo at me in my car. With Gaylene.”

  “And making an offhand remark about penilingus. Street jargon, I suppose.”

  “She’s got a dirty mind. It’s fake news, things got lost in translation.”

  “Really, Jake? Well, I thought you were exceedingly generous in telling Curlbotham not to seek terms of bail.”

  Maguire lacks words but reddens. Arthur can’t quite work out how to reap some advantage from this. “The photo she took on her phone — does that still exist?”

  “I’m a month from retirement, I’m not going to dirty a thirty-five-year clean record by tampering. But it’s totally misconstrued and has potential for being fucking damaging if it gets on the street, especially cruel to the woman I’ve been loyal to for three decades. Gaylene fell asleep on me — she’d been going full tilt for two days on three hours sleep. That’s all. I swear. Ask her. No, don’t ask her, I haven’t told her about the, ah . . . Lucy incident. It’s embarrassing. She’s married, got two kids, she doesn’t need this.”

  “May I see a copy of that photo?” That’s met with hesitation. “It will have to be produced on discovery, Jake.”

  He pulls a folder from his briefcase, passes Arthur a four-by-six glossy. A flash has caught Maguire through the windshield, bright-eyed with shock and dismay, one hand raised as if in protest, no sign of a partner. But what is this? Just above the lower right border of the shot, a little round nub near the passenger door. It looks like a big toe in a brown sock.

  Arthur asks Maguire his view of it. He studies it, seemingly for the first time.

  “Yeah, okay, it’s her big toe.” It dawns that this may actually aid his cause. “If she was going down on me you’d only see her heel.”

  “Lucy says your belt wasn’t buckled.”

  “You wanna know, I had to do some hasty readjustments. You’re a guy, Arthur, you’re human, do I have to spell it out?”

  “Have you discussed this with Curlbotham?”

  “No. I was hoping they wouldn’t notice it, I guess.”

  Arthur pockets the print. “I’ll give some serious thought about how to deal with this at discovery, my friend.”

  “Please for fuck’s sake do.”

  “Jake, I have no reason to doubt your word. This may come as a shock, given your stubbornly negative view of my profession, but I am dismayed that you think I might enjoy embarrassing you.”

  “Thanks. I’m sorry, I . . .”

  Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezes it. “I’ll have to take my client’s instructions. I’ll explain it to Lucy. And to her co-accused, whom I’m sure she regaled. They have kind hearts, Jake. They’re really not criminals, are they?”

  A pause. Maguire, cooled out now, obviously isn’t keen to argue the point. “What I will say is, okay, there’s an element of altruism, they weren’t in it for themselves.”

  “I’ll tell them you said that.” Arthur shakes his hand, a gesture implying they’ve made a pact, however vaguely drafted. He handled that as best he could. There may be profit down the road.

  3

  Arthur had left the courts for a quick, relaxing but celebratory walk and now has to manoeuvre through a thicket of press to reach the bail counter. He finds Nancy Faulk there, directing traffic. She is aided by Selwyn Loo, who had popped into the bail hearing, quickly measured the direction of the wind, and popped right out to get his sureties lined up. These are solid citizens, without wordy Bee-Wear T-shirts.

  Lucy Wales is already out, on her signed undertaking. Cameras are forbidden here, so A
rthur will not be embarrassed by public images of Lucy wrapping her arms around him and delivering a big smack on the lips. She retreats to mingle with friends.

  “Magnificent work, Arthur,” Selwyn says as he deftly flicks his cane to ward off a snooping reporter.

  “Aspirat primo fortuna labori.”

  “Fortune smiles on this first effort.” Selwyn knows his Virgil.

  “The luck was in drawing an excellent judge. Tchobanian is now seized of the file, and I’ve grown keen on him.” Arthur has always been at his best with juries but they can be finicky. Nancy Faulk too may favour electing to go to trial before this fine fellow. They must huddle over it.

  Right now, Nancy is busy with Ivor and Amy, getting them signed out. More hugs. Arthur gets squeezed hard by both — this is a very huggy group. Nancy reminds her clients that all alleged conspirators are to gather at her office, tomorrow, two p.m., then sends them off home.

  “Where they’re going to make orgasm-rich love while, back in my lonely office, I sweat over a reply to a fucking divorce petition.” She sighs. “How do you suppose they do it?”

  “What?”

  “Stick together. Stay in love. Forty fucking years of unbroken happiness.”

  Arthur feels sorry for her. She needs someone to love, and to love her.

  Nancy points out Rivie’s parents, standing by a pillar, smiling at Arthur. He’d noticed them earlier, in a hug-fest with Ivor and Amy: old friends, obviously, fellow veterans of civil rights campaigns.

  Arthur asks her to carry on at the bail counter — Doc Knutsen is next — while he exchanges a few words with Holden and Sharon Levitsky.

  Both are tanned, rugged, and hale. Outdoors people. Early-retired, living off small pensions. Sharing a large acreage on a lake with six other Old Left couples. Sharing the chores of communal gardens and woods, of raising chickens and ducks. Pinochle and board games instead of TV. Off the grid.

  Neither of them hug, a welcome relief, especially as Holden has a bushy beard. But they are generous with their thanks, delighted to meet the lawyer so entertainingly portrayed in A Thirst for Justice.

  They chat awhile about the gentle pleasures of country life, then Holden says: “We assume this will be a difficult defence. We can put together twenty thousand dollars, and hopefully more later.”

  “It’s from our co-op’s building fund,” says Sharon.

  “Very generous, but you folks will not be allowed to deplete the building fund. We will have sufficient resources. Unfortunately, Rivie will not be able to visit you up north. She is confined to Toronto unless with a police escort.” He adds, “She’s quite the gal.”

  “We’re aware of that,” Holden says with a helpless shrug.

  Here she is now, at the counter, greeting her surety, Richard Dewilliger-James, pink of complexion but green of politics, a young, well-heeled money manager. She waves gaily to her parents, who respond with vigour.

  Professor Knutsen is about to leave with Selwyn Loo, but pauses to confer with Arthur: “I have some ideas to make this case relatively painless. Perhaps we can talk about that when we gather tomorrow.” He turns away, takes a couple of steps, then briefly turns back. “By the way, thank you. That was impressive.”

  The saccharine band manager, T.J. Gully, waddles by, trailing alcohol fumes that tickle Arthur’s nose, and bellies up to the counter. He pulls a wad from a bag, presumably Rockin’ Ray’s thirty-thousand cash bail. Arthur doesn’t care to ask where he got that from.

  Rivie hurtles past him into her parents’ arms.

  4

  Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham has a thriving commercial branch in Toronto, to which Arthur repaired after the bail hearing — a courtesy call merely, coffee and a cruller — after which he set out by foot to the offices of Faulk, Quan, Dubois, above Chinatown. He’d promised to join Nancy for dinner to discuss the next event: tomorrow’s sifting through the Crown’s exhibits, the process known as discovery.

  With all defendants on the street, with preliminary hearing and trial many months away, he can divert his mind to matters more agreeable. Such as Blunder Bay Farm — its garden must be exploding with fall bounty — and his rascally pal Ulysses, whom he misses and needs. His more pressing want, however, is to hold Margaret in his arms awhile, to sleep with her, make love, to share their triumphs, hopes, and worries, to enjoy her tales of political intrigue and scandalous Ottawa affairs.

  She’s only an hour away by air but Parliament is in session and her evenings are jammed with committee meetings. So they’ve made do with a program on his new iPhone called FaceTime, which somehow, miraculously, he figured out — after confusing it with Facebook, which he is not on, and never will be, along with Twitter and whatever else the profiteers of vanity come up with.

  When he reached her, she was in the Parliamentary dining room, and he apologized for interrupting her shrimp salad. She was pleased at this proof he was not a technological Luddite, and proud of her wonderful husband for getting the Sarnia Seven out.

  She looked beautiful, especially when she airmailed a playful kiss. They made plans to unite at Thanksgiving, three weeks hence.

  Arthur turns the corner at Spadina. It’s seven o’clock, the sun setting soon upon a balmy autumn day. Lots of fellow walkers but too many lazy fools in big cars circling about for parking spaces. The busy city: even on Monday there are lineups at the better restaurants in ever-expanding Chinatown.

  Faulk, Quan, Dubois has the second floor of a six-storey art deco building, the ground floor given over to two restaurants. The one called, disloyally, Montreal Bagels is closed and dark but the Mongolian place is open and busy, the outside tables filled.

  Across the street are an obviously struggling bookstore, a shop vaguely called “Spirituality,” and a Chinese venture named Fu-King Supplies, which Nancy has explained sells items to enhance love-making.

  Nancy buzzes him into an attractive suite of offices: framed photos from the 1920s emphasizing the art deco motif, a cubist print by Picasso, a flowery Matisse. Reception area, secretarial pool in the middle, four junior lawyers in the back, overlooking a garage and an alley, the three partners with views of Spadina Avenue, each with a balcony.

  Nancy yells: “Fucker!”

  That startles Arthur, who has just strolled into her office — he wonders what he’s done wrong.

  “Fuck you, you faithless fuck!”

  She slams a telephone receiver onto its cradle, then mimics a haughty male voice: “My lawyer prefers that you raise your concerns directly with him. Ta-ra.” Fiercely: “The slimy toad. No, toads aren’t slimy. They’re all warty.”

  She’s been tippling — open on her desk is a bottle of Beefeaters gin, Arthur’s favourite beverage of yore. Early-twentieth-century feminists stare reprovingly from her walls, Nellie McClung, Henrietta Edwards, Thérèse Casgrain, all perhaps wondering how such a modern woman can be so rattled by a typically pompous male.

  “Bad news?”

  She takes a few moments to cool off. “He wants to evict me from my home. His lawyer is applying for an order for sale. She’s a bitch.” She picks up the gin bottle, hides it behind her Ontario Reports. “You don’t need to see this.”

  He lies: “It doesn’t bother me.”

  “Sit down. Take the soft chair. Buckle your seat belt, because the road gets bumpy. Magnus Curlbotham has been fired off the case.”

  Arthur stiffens as he goes down on the soft chair, his ass hovering for a few moments before landing.

  “Azra Khan is steaming over Magnus’s poor showing in bail court. He’s personally taking over the file.”

  Charming, cunning, combative, Azra Khan, Deputy Attorney General of Ontario. Thirty-eight straight convictions. Arthur holds a similar record working the other side: thirty-seven without a loss.

  “And he’s going by direct indictment to a jury.”

  Meaning th
ey lose Chuck Tchobanian. Arthur plays with this scenario, finds it grossly unfair.

  “We’re cordially invited to his office in the McMurtry Building tomorrow at ten. Detectives Maguire and Roberts will be present to answer any questions. I may be tempted to ask if Maguire came in her mouth. Speaking of which, I’m famished. Do you like Mongolian?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I recommend the tail of sheep in mutton soup, dried curds on the side.”

  Arthur follows her out. “Mr. Khan must have many able, experienced counsel to choose from. Why is he choosing to lead this prosecution?”

  “The trial will be a media event. A win cinches a high court judgeship — there’ll be four openings next year. Knowing Azra, I’m also damn fucking sure he wants to take you on. It’s Rocky Balboa returning to the ring against the West Coast title holder.”

  “You two seem well acquainted.”

  “A dozen trials against him. Four murders. Two of them hung juries, then he won the last two.”

  “‘Sexy,’ you told me. Is your knowledge of him also carnal?”

  “You’re shameless. Yes, we got it on after one of the mistrials. We were both married, so no romantic expectations — it seemed less sinful that way. He was almost as hung as the jury, by the way.”

  “Thank you for sharing.”

  5

  Tuesday, September 25

  Azra Khan seems young, though he is fifty-seven. But to Arthur everyone under seventy seems young. Tall and fit, clad in a well-cut grey suit, his longish hair coiffed, no beard to hide the squarely sculpted chin, a friendly, confident air. The only impairment: a poorly suppressed patrician hauteur, presumably bequeathed by his parents, British-educated Pakistanis who came over during Partition.

  For no obvious reason, except to pre-empt friction by introducing a foreign issue, Khan mentions the upcoming mid-term American election, expressing himself as fearful that the “self-admiring, boorish felon” who is president may continue to control Congress.