Street Legal

by William Deverell

  “Look me in the eyes.”

  Chuck did so. “I’m telling you the truth, Carrie.” He despised himself then.

  The doting mother of Timmy Klein, boy armed robber, was standing at the courtroom door, looking anxious.

  “I got a worried mom over there, Carrie.”

  Carrie went off to search the premises for Trixi Trimble, and Chuck — suppressing all guilt feelings for the moment — tended to Mrs. Klein. The minister was with her — Chuck had told him to make sure he wore his collar today.

  He walked them into the courtroom. “We’ll be half an hour anyway. Grab a couple of these empty seats up front.”

  The prosecutor seemed harried already, though court hadn’t yet been called into session. It was going to be a long morning, a hundred cases on the list. And Chuck knew Judge Revere to be a stern and righteous soul who kept saying things like “Come to the point, counsel,” and “I’ll brook no nonsense.”

  “Give me a break on this one, Andy,” Chuck said to the prosecutor.

  “He’s got two previous.”

  “In juvenile court. You can’t even mention that. He’s eighteen, for God’s sake.”

  “He scared the wits out of that poor couple.”

  “Hey, they’re real tough birds: the old man pranged him with a bottle of Pepsi. No harm done except to my client. Andy, I’ve got a bail application that will take an hour, I’ve got viva voce evidence. You want to get out of here by midnight? I’m only asking for bail, not the moon.”

  “He’s an armed robber, Chuck.” Then Andy leaned to his ear. “Talk to the arresting officers. One of them’s grumbling; it’s his day off.”

  “Hold the case down.”

  Outside the door to One-Eleven Court, Chuck was accosted by a scraggly-haired young man who seemed stoned on something. Not booze but pot, Chuck caught it on his breath.

  “Where’s the place for bail? I gotta bail my buddy out.”

  “Next floor down.”

  Chuck found the two case officers having a smoke in the rotunda, a corporal and a constable from the holdup squad. He tried to soften them up with a couple of jokes, then made his pitch. “Look, guys, what about bail on this thing? Andy says he’ll go along if you agree. The guy comes from a good family, I’m going to try to get him some help.”

  “Get him a brain,” said the constable.

  “You want to take the kids to the pool today, you guys. Summer comes but once a year.”

  The corporal, the guy who supposedly wanted to get out of here, said, “No way, Tchobanian. I’m going to stick around.”

  “I’m going to spring him anyway.”

  “That’s better than your last joke. You got Judge Revere sitting in remand.”

  “He loves me.”

  ***

  Carrington could see Chuck working the policemen, pushy, glib — he was tireless. She was feeling much better. Chuck had seemed so forthright, firm, his eyes hadn’t wavered from hers. Ted is not having an affair; Chuck wouldn’t lie. She’d been acting childishly, filling her mind with extramarital ghosts.

  She turned to the Queen Street entrance as Trixi Trimble waltzed in, painted, in brunette wig and high heels and miniskirt, carrying a little black evening purse, as if on her way to a good time. The part of the picture that didn’t come together was the cowboy hat.

  She waved and smiled at Carrie, and explained, as she reached her: “I got tied up at a cattle-breeders’ convention, honey. If you can dig it, two hundred breeders.”

  Trixi was cheery, seemed clean, no new marks on her arm.

  “Get rid of that ridiculous hat.”

  Carrie grabbed it from Trixi’s head, and as they walked toward the stairs to their second-floor courtroom, she plunked it on the head of a court officer passing by. “Join a rodeo, Freddie.”

  “Oh, hey, Carrie, there’s someone in the lockup wants to talk to you.”

  “I’ll be down in half a sec, thanks.” A repeater, she guessed, someone she’d won a case for once.

  A long-haired young man, looking bewildered, stopped her at the top of the stairs.

  “Hey, lady, you work here? I gotta bail someone out, nobody’ll take my money.”

  “Main floor,” Carrie said.

  “I been there. I think.” The man stumbled off.

  “I hope this dotty judge hasn’t forgotten the evidence again. Trixi, you still owe me a thousand dollars.”

  Trixi went into her purse and pulled out a wad of hundreds.

  “Well, holy cow, don’t flash it,” said Carrie. She tried to be surreptitious, quickly stuffing the bills into her briefcase. But after five years in this business she no longer suffered guilt about where her money came from. It was a kind of tax the naughty had to pay.

  She led Trixi into 126 Court, where Judge Klotzman was sitting in judgment upon one of the regulars, a drunk. Carrie heard the clerk read the charge, a 175, causing a disturbance by fighting on Parliament Street, in the Cabbagetown area.

  “Guilty wit’ an explanation, sorr,” said the prisoner, a grinning leprechaun with Newfoundland accent.

  “Yes, Molloy?” said Klotzman.

  “Well, Jasus, I need toime to t’ink of one. I rest on y’r marcy, that’s for damn sure, y’r warship.”

  “A hundred dollars or three days.”

  “That’s koind of you indeed, y’r warship. When can I collect the hundred dollars?”

  Molloy got his laughs, a rich rumble from the bulb-nosed judge, a man of drink himself. This was good, thought Carrie, she had caught the Klotz in a merry mood.

  “Can you fit me in, Joan?” she asked the prosecutor. “I have to see a client in the lockup. I have Trixi Trimble, number eighteen.”

  “Gosh, I wasn’t on the trial,” Joan said. “It’s Joe Wiebe’s case, I don’t know anything about it.” She looked through her files and found the one marked “Trimble,” and puzzled over it.

  “Next case, please, Madam Prosecutor.”

  “Oh, just call it,” Carrie said. “It’s for decision, all the evidence is in.”

  “Number eighteen,” Joan announced, though a little uncertainly. “Trimble.”

  Carrie brought her client forward, and Judge Klotzman studied Trixi pensively for a long time, probably wondering what it would be like, thought Carrie. He was a softie when it came to the young women of the street.

  “I remember Miss Trimble,” Klotzman said. “But I can’t remember the case.”

  “It’s a 195, prostitution,” Carrie said. “It’s for decision, your honour. You said you wanted to mull it over.”

  “I had some notes somewhere . . .” The judge picked through some papers that were in disarray in front of him.

  “I can’t help, your honour,” said the prosecutor. “I wasn’t there.”

  Carrie decided to risk it. “You thought the arresting officer’s story was full of holes.”

  Judge Klotzman scratched his head, gave up looking for his notes. “Okay, well, I think . . .” Then he began talking quickly, getting it behind him. “On reviewing the evidence, I find the Crown has not made a sufficient case. I have a reasonable doubt and I find the accused not guilty.” He peeked over his glasses at Trixi. “Though it was obvious what she was up to.”

  “I’ll tell her to be careful the next time,” Carrie said.

  The judge chuckled.

  Outside the courtroom, Trixi said, “You’re the best, honey.”

  It felt good. A slightly brighter edge to the day. The sweet tranquillizer of victory.

  “You’re going to stay off the stuff, Trixi?”

  “Oh, you bet, I cross my heart.”

  “Otherwise you’re heading up a dead-end street, Trix. I want you to think about that office retraining —”

  Trixi stopped her. “Don’t worry, I’m gonna find myself a nice
rich sweetie one of these days. The way I look at it, I’m retraining for him.”

  “Stop by the office, we can talk. I’ll get some forms. You’ll learn about computers.”

  Trixi looked doubtful. “Sounds kinda boring.”

  “Jail is boring. So is dying young.”

  4

  Chuck waited glumly outside the remand court. He’d argued with those cops until he was blue in the face on behalf of the spoiled brat who was his client, but ultimately to no avail. He’d almost had them, though; it was close.

  There goes Carrie, seeing Trixi to the door — from the look on their faces Goddess Victory had once again smiled on Carrie, that’s five in a row including a monster murder, she’s good. Better than him in the library, he had to admit, better prepared.

  Damn Ted. He’d better not bring everything down around their ears. A serious talk was needed, Leon and Chuck and him.

  Nearby, two men were studying a list posted to the wall, the court docket. Strangers to Chuck. One of them was older, well-dressed, but looked like a shark, a corporate crook of some kind. Chuck took him to be the client of the other fellow, a young man with a briefcase.

  “Ask somebody,” said the older man.

  The young lawyer approached Chuck. “Are you familiar with the routines?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  “Can’t find a client’s name on the list.”

  Chuck studied the other man. He looked monied, maybe a businessman charged with impaired driving. This punk was just out of law school, already getting the wealthy clients, it didn’t seem fair.

  “What’s your guy charged with?”

  The older man caught this, and moved to join them, affronted, haughty.

  “I am B.J. Festerton, Q.C., of Lichtburn, McDonald. This is my student. I don’t usually appear in these courts.” He looked around, somebody trapped in the cellar with the rats.

  Chuck stuck out his hand. “I do. Chuck Tchobanian. The reason your client’s name isn’t there is probably that he’s just come in and they haven’t reissued the docket. You are at the right court, B.J.”

  “Do you know who the judge is?” Festerton asked.

  “Revere. We call him the Reverend — he’s a deacon of the Anglican Church. Your guy should be all right as long as it’s not a morals beef.”

  Festerton blanched. “Actually, it’s a charge of selling obscene literature. Harry Squire. Squire Books International Ltd. I normally, ah, represent his corporate interests.”

  Ah, thought Chuck, that explains the pickets, the book-and-bra burners Costello had carried on about. Harry Squire, stroke books and tit art, he had a big chain of stores. As in whips and chains.

  “Revere couldn’t find a reasonable doubt if it sat on his face. I’d find a way to wiggle out of his court, if I were you.”

  Festerton adjusted his tie, it seemed to have become a little tight. “And how would that be done?”

  “You learn to pull a few levers around here.” He wasn’t about to let this prig know how to work them. One earns one’s spurs, it takes experience to survive in the jungle.

  A voice sounded through the loudspeaker system. “B.J. Festerton, One-Eleven Court, B.J. Festerton.”

  “Better get in there,” Chuck said. “Revere is a time freak, he’s obsessed with punctuality. His favourite line is, ‘I don’t like late.’”

  He followed them in. This was something he might enjoy watching.

  Judge Revere, a major imbiber of stomach medicine, was a small man with an unsettling tic in one eye. He was scowling now, tapping his finger, his worst habit, a device also used to warn windy counsel to cut it short. But Chuck got along with him, he’d learned you pare to the bone, you zero in, you don’t waste time.

  “I don’t like late, Mr. Festerton.”

  Chuck saw Harry Squire in the prisoners’ box, wearing a creased suit. An odd-looking man with eyebrows knit together, he had one of those upside-down faces you used to see in cartoon magazines. He was glancing about the courtroom.

  Festerton made it to the front of the court. “It couldn’t be helped, your honour, there was some confusion —”

  “You’ll wait. Call the next case.”

  Squire looked at Festerton, as if assuming some tart rejoinder would issue from the lips of the mayor’s golfing companion, but the lawyer meekly sat down.

  “Ah, I see Mr. Tchobanian is here,” Revere said. “Let’s do him.”

  Favouring him, Chuck realized, was the judge’s way of punishing Festerton, the guy should have apologized.

  Squire was openly glaring at Festerton now from beneath his beetle brows. Timmy Klein came up the stairs from the lockup and joined Squire in the box, but didn’t turn around, couldn’t look at his mother to receive the loving messages she was sending. The prosecutor explained at length why this armed robber shouldn’t get bail, then sat down when the judge started tapping his finger.

  Chuck cut his own pitch to the quick, then said, “I have Reverend Whitson here to say a few words. He’s young Klein’s godfather.”

  Revere looked down at the minister. Chuck caught the slightest nod of recognition. Pay dirt; the judge had probably been at church teas with him.

  “Has the boy been attending services?” Revere said.

  “He tries, your honour,” said Reverend Whitson.

  The judge nodded. “I won’t need to hear from the good reverend.”

  The prosecutor glanced at the arresting officers, who were sitting on the front bench. The corporal gave Chuck a rueful grin and raised both hands slightly, palms forward, in surrender.

  “I don’t have any reply,” said the prosecutor.

  Revere released Timmy Klein on a bond with a strict curfew and told him to report three times a week to his neighbourhood police station until his trial.

  “It might be a good idea to order him to continue his counselling with Reverend Whitson,” Chuck said, setting things up for a suspended sentence.

  “So ordered. All right, let’s hear about Mr. Squire.”

  Chuck walked over to Mrs. Klein, his ego plastered all over his face, he couldn’t hide his smile. As he ushered her and the excellent Reverend Whitson from court, he could hear the court clerk sombrely intoning the words of the information against Squire:

  “. . . did have in his possession for the purpose of sale the following publications, to wit: Sin Slaves, The True Story of Mitzi O, I Was a Harem Girl, Stud for Hire . . .”

  As Mrs. Klein stood in the corridor numb with joy, Chuck quoted a handsome fee for the trial, enough to pay his mortgage for another month anyway.

  He didn’t want to miss the action in One-Eleven Court, and when he strolled back inside the clerk was still reading the information.

  “. . . The Gang Bang Girls, Case Histories of Foot Fetishists, I Had the Biggest Dick in the World, Handbook of Pain and Bondage, Adventures of a Toe-Jam Queen . . .”

  “Is there no end to this? said Judge Revere, whose face was unreadable.

  Chuck watched as the clerk flipped through several pages. Must be several hundred titles, the prosecutors had worked overtime last night. Somehow Chuck couldn’t imagine Revere ever reading all these books — a trial would take a year.

  “That’s enough, I get the picture,” the judge said. “Well, Mr. Festerton?”

  “I have an application for bail, sir.”

  “Bail? Bail?”

  ***

  The prisoners’ holding area was bustling, a flow of people in and out, crooks, drunks, cops, court officers, probation officers, legal-aid lawyers, the wagons outside filling with today’s losers on their way to the Don Jail, other luckier prisoners heading out to the bail counter, on their way to the street.

  On hot days, the place usually smelled like a sewer, with an overlay of chlorine disinfectant. Carrie could barely stand it. She
weaved through the crowd toward the desk of Staff-Sergeant Horse Kronos. They called him “Horse” because he was built like one — he’d been used in the Moodie lineup. Horse had been boss of the bullpen for as long as Carrie could remember.

  She saw Chuck’s client, Timmy Klein, being taken from the bullpen. It looked as if he was on his way out, good for Chuck. Molloy, the Newfie leprechaun, was in the tank with about twenty others. “Horse,” he yelled, “are me t’ree days up yet, b’y?”

  Horse ignored him. He was attending to a man with a red rooster haircut, punk or new wave or whatever they called it. “He was supposed to show up with the bread three days ago. Aw, man, what’s going on here? It’s like Dante’s Inferno or something around here, I’m in a cell with a psycho.”

  “I think I bumped into your friend — someone trying to post bail, anyway,” Carrie said. “He’s probably paying it now. Sergeant, someone in here wants to see me?”

  Horse smiled at her in the way of one bearing good news. He said, “Cristal.”

  His look suggested he expected a more interesting response from her, but Carrie was lost.

  “As in chandelier?”

  “Cristal. The Frenchman. André Cristal.”

  Finally this rang a bell for her — she had seen the story in the morning Star, “THREE SLAIN IN DRUG WAR.” Three bodies and three guns found in a loft along with five million dollars’ worth of heroin. One man arrested. André Cristal.

  “You have competition, though,” said Horse.

  She walked down a passageway lined with cubicles. The competition, Al Costello, was sitting on a stool, talking to someone on the other side of the metal grate. Carrie saw him pull a card from his wallet and poke it through the mesh.

  “First thing is get you out on bail.”

  Costello didn’t see her stroll up behind him. The man he was engaged with, obviously André Cristal, was tall, dark, and handsome, though not conventionally so — his features worn and tough. Longish dark hair, a dimpled square chin, and piercing eyes, pupils like nuggets of coal. He was wearing a denim shirt and pants, prison issue.