Street Legal

by William Deverell

  “That was the night you blackened her eye.”

  “I’m afraid it was. I’d prefer to consider it an act of self-defence.”

  “Oh, I see, you were afraid of Melissa Cartwright.”

  “She has a temper.”

  Melissa was sitting beside Ted, making notes, not looking up. Chuck couldn’t see her expression.

  “And you called her a fucking, self-seeking bitch, if you’ll pardon my language. But it was your language, wasn’t it? Those were your words.”

  “I said that. I apologize.”

  “And I believe you smashed a fine antique crystal vase during this . . . this tirade of yours.”

  “I regret to say, yes.”

  “Threw it at the wall, narrowly missing her.”

  “No. She was some distance away. It was childish of me, though, Mr. Barr.”

  Dr. Cartwright was a good witness, Chuck saw, forthright, a gentleman. He had a sense things weren’t going Ted’s way. Case of cruelty, open and shut, Ted had announced. Practically a case of desertion, too: her old man was never at home. The divorce grounds would be quickly proved. The real meat of the action had to do not with carving up the witness but the roast, five million dollars’ worth of land, chattels, and stocks.

  “And you struck her with your closed fist.”

  “She came at me, she . . . It was the only time I ever hit her. Things had reached a head, I suppose. And I was tense — I’d been in the operating room all night, an emergency.”

  “Not just that night. Five other nights that week you’d been either at the hospital or in your office working. What kind of marriage was this, Dr. Cartwright?”

  “A difficult one.”

  Chuck saw Madam Justice Swayzee smile a little at this. She was known to be a tireless worker herself, a fair and sympathetic judge. Chuck thought Ted was on the wrong tack, being so snide with the witness, especially about his workaholism.

  “I can’t blame her for finally blowing up at me.”

  “The next day, when she announced she was seeking a divorce, you told her to just go right ahead.”

  “Words to that effect.”

  “You said you didn’t love her anyway.”

  “That was not true.”

  His voice broke a little. Alarms were going off for Chuck, but apparently Ted wasn’t hearing them. “Are you denying you said that?”

  “It’s not true that I don’t love her.”

  And he broke down. The tears were terribly real, Chuck saw, the man was no actor. And he could see Ted was shaken.

  Now Ely Church was speaking with just the right gentle touch. “Perhaps we should take a break, your ladyship, while the witness recovers.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  Church then pulled the plug on Ted — his timing was immaculate. “I can save my learned friend any further agony by advising him we do not dispute the specific allegations of cruelty. But we say they are insufficient. My client seeks his wife’s forgiveness and their reconciliation.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Church,” said the judge, and court was recessed.

  While his lawyer tended to Dr. Cartwright, Melissa sat still at the table, a motionless beautiful mannequin. Ted turned a dismayed face to the back of the courtroom where Chuck was seated. Chuck wanted to turn invisible. But he got up and met Ted halfway up the aisle.

  “It . . . isn’t going too well,” Ted said.

  “What in hell’s name do you think you’re doing, Ted?”

  “Can’t you see?”

  “See what? I see you’ve gone wiggy.”

  “Maybe I have,” said Ted. “Maybe I have.”

  There was a kind of madness in his eyes.

  ***

  Tyrone Slocum, the prosecutor on the Squire case, was tied up in another court, so Chuck had to wait around with his client. Judge Revere’s court, One-Eleven, was crowded, and several members of W.A.P. were in attendance. No clothespegs this time, but they were keeping the pressure up.

  The Reverend would be moving on cycle at the end of the month to 124 Court to hear the non-custody trials he’d been setting down for his own docket. The list would include Harry Squire. Chuck smiled to himself: the Reverend was going to hate that case.

  Squire mumbled in Chuck’s ear. “You sure nothing is going to happen today? God, look at all the bloody suffragettes in here. Probably the usual quota of lesbians.”

  Judge Revere was frowning at a woman nursing a baby in the back row.

  “Madam, this is a courtroom, not a nursery.”

  The woman made a face and left.

  Squire seemed pleased. “He’s obviously anti-feminist — looks like he could be on our side. Chuck, he’s going to read those things and wonder why everyone’s wasting their time with this case. Most of it’s just good clean fun. You swindle banks, you’re a hero. You sell books, you’re a leper.”

  When Tyrone Slocum finally arrived, Chuck beckoned Squire to follow him to the front of the court. Several women glared at them.

  Judge Revere looked balefully at Squire, then riffled through the many pages of the information, the list of nine hundred and fourteen titles. Chuck had read about thirty of them. All but a few were unsalvageable, penny-dreadful pulp.

  “You’re late, Mr. Slocum. I don’t like late.” Revere waved the information, flapped its pages. “This isn’t an information, it’s a catalogue. How long are we setting this down for?”

  “Well, now, unfortunately all these books have to be read,” said Slocum. He’d already told Chuck he didn’t care if Squire got convicted or not.

  “They have to be read?”

  “Can’t convict a book by its cover,” Chuck said brightly.

  Revere’s eye tic became more pronounced.

  “Crown estimates seven months,” said Slocum.

  “We’re talking months?” The full horror of this case seemed to dawn on the judge now.

  Revere began studying the information furiously. Then he leafed through his copy of the Criminal Code, pausing, reading, his lips pursed.

  Finally, he looked down at the lawyers, and — incredibly — a nasty little smile began working its way onto his face. Chuck didn’t like this smile.

  “Gentlemen,” said the judge. “I think the charge just might be deficient. In fact, it may be a nullity.”

  A nullity? thought Chuck. An information that weighs about a pound and a half is a nullity? He had to admit he hadn’t studied it that carefully, if the truth be known.

  “It would appear that in the drafting of it, an essential word went missing,” Revere said. “The charge should read the accused was knowingly in possession of obscene books. Section 150A.”

  Slocum looked uncertain. “Well, this isn’t the proper time and place for us to be debating an issue of law.”

  But the judge wasn’t going to be denied his escape route from a seven-month trial from hell. “Isn’t that your argument, Mr. Tchobanian? That the charge is void?”

  Here was a dilemma. Chuck could just stand there looking stupid or accept the box of chocolates the judge was extending.

  “Well, I must admit I was holding that one in reserve, your honour.”

  “Ah, yes,” said Revere, “very wily of you, counsel. Very clever. Your argument, I take it, is that mens rea is an essential averment of the charge?”

  “Exactly, your honour.” Chuck felt himself choking on his words. “So I’m moving for a dismissal.”

  “Well, Mr. Slocum, what do you have to say to that?”

  Slocum leaned to Chuck. “Well, there goes your golden goose, pal.”

  Chuck looked at Squire, who seemed confused; he didn’t seem to have a handle on what was going on.

  Slocum told the judge, “Guess there’s not much I can say.”

  “Charge is dismissed,” said Revere. “Nex
t case, please. Let’s get on with the day.”

  16

  Wearing an artificial smile but feeling trapped in a thick wet fog, Chuck escorted Harry Squire into his office. Two hundred thousand bucks, he figured, that was what the case had been worth.

  Squire was talking non-stop: “Here’s to Canadian justice, it’s the best damned system in the world. That’s the green light I wanted. I’m planning to bring in some slightly more . . . shall we say, exotic material from L.A. I’d like you to look at some of it, really isn’t for the ladies’ bridge club. Between you and me, Chuck, I think we’re going to break down some barriers.”

  “Yeah. By the way, Harry, we kind of slapped together that lease on the Queen Street place.” Chuck pulled a file from a cabinet, handed him the lease papers. “You’ll want to read it over.”

  Squire quickly glanced at the numbers, and signed it with a flourish. “I assume this case is a precedent affirming our basic democratic rights. Would I be correct in saying it repeals a bad law?”

  “Not really, Harry. Afraid it’s more of a technicality.”

  Squire appeared dissatisfied with that. He frowned. “But I’m not guilty.”

  “Correct.”

  “Okay, so I haven’t done anything wrong, and I can keep doing it.”

  “Yeah, but we have to hope they won’t relay the charge, Harry. They could change the wording on the information.”

  “How can they do that? Isn’t there a principle of double jeopardy? A man can’t be tried twice, right?”

  “I’d say just lay low for a while, don’t bring in the L.A. stuff just yet.”

  “Well, Christ, doesn’t that cheapen the victory?” He was grumpy now. “Do I get my stock back?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  Chuck picked up the phone and got Tyrone Slocum on the line.

  The prosecutor was almost too obliging. “Yeah, he can come and pick them up.”

  “Great. So you’re okay about doing that?” We’re going to relay the charge, that was what Chuck wanted to hear.

  “Sure, never had my heart in the case, anyway. Just tell your client to keep a low profile for a while.”

  Chuck hid his dismay. Hanging up, he told Squire, “You’ve got the books back.”

  Beneath the beetle brows, the frown was replaced by a beaming smile. “Excellent, excellent. A deal’s a deal, Chuck, and the deal was a thousand dollars a day every day you were in court for me, so I gather I owe you exactly a thousand.” Squire laughed to let Chuck know he was joking. “But there’ll be a little bonus.”

  Squire pulled a roll from his pocket and Chuck began filling with hope.

  “Three thousand. I don’t want to hear anyone ever say Harry Squire doesn’t reward his friends.”

  Chuck looked at the money, smothering his rage. The skinflint, he could stuff his bonus — Chuck had pride. “Naw, Harry, I’m not going to take this. It’s on the house.” He stuffed the bills back into Squire’s pocket.

  Chuck was even more depressed because Squire didn’t protest, didn’t offer the money back. It could’ve paid for a valve job on his Oldsmobile or a couple of mortgage payments on his house.

  They were back to square one. Broke.

  When he phoned his wife to tell her he’d be late, he discovered she’d already heard about the Squire decision from her sisters who were in court.

  “Congratulations,” she said coolly.

  “I have a bar reception, honey. I’ll be late for dinner.”

  “Well, you’ll just have to rummage in the fridge. Emergency meeting of W.A.P. tonight.”

  Yeah, Chuck thought, wap Harry Squire. “Complain to the attorney general, don’t complain to me. Crown screwed it up.”

  “Well, we are going to complain to the attorney general, though I don’t suppose it’ll do a hill of beans of good.”

  Chuck had evil thoughts. “Oh, it might. Put enough pressure on them, hell, they might just relay the charges.”

  “That’s possible?”

  “Not that I’m advising it, of course. Wouldn’t be in the best interests of my client.”

  ***

  Normie the Nose wasn’t in the Sunrise Bar and Grill when Carrie showed up at three o’clock, a tape-recorder in her handbag. She waited for an hour and a half, sipping what seemed like a gallon of tea, and finally gave up. He’d connected, spent the hundred dollars on habit feed, and was somewhere in dreamland.

  He’d make contact again when the drugs ran out. But, deciding she’d been stingy, maybe he’d do so with Mitchell instead. Hell, she thought, worse comes to worst and Mitchell gets his hands on him, no jury in the world would believe the little weasel’s lies anyway.

  Four-thirty. She had clients coming to the office but she was bowed with a great weight of guilt over that lost soul Blaine (or was it Blair?) Johnstone, so she took a cab to the federal prosecutors’ office where her friend Marcie Diagnello handled minor Narcotics Act cases.

  Diagnello was in her office, just back from court, in a good mood after a conviction. Carrie explained about her rooster-tailed client’s disappearing act and got a sympathetic ear. If he was still in the system, Marcie would track him down. And she would drop the marijuana charge against him — the guy had suffered enough.

  “But he was probably let go, Carrie, that’s why you can’t find him.”

  Carrie left there feeling much better. Obviously, that’s what had happened. The error had been discovered, some judge had atoned by sentencing him to time spent in custody, and why would he bother to call Carrie to tell her? He didn’t have her name or number.

  ***

  Lung Chan had seen the bum earlier, lurking around the garbage cans behind his restaurant. But he’d assumed the man had gone away, no sign of him all afternoon, thank heaven.

  While the kitchen was getting ready for the early dinner crowd, Lung left the restaurant for the back yard — a truck had arrived with some fish, a late delivery. As he supervised the unloading he could sense a distasteful odour, and it wasn’t coming from the fish truck. Seeking its source, he ventured toward a wooden fence and stepped onto something soft.

  When he looked down, he could see he was standing on someone’s fingers. He gave a yelp and jumped away.

  Looking apprehensively over the fence, which enclosed a few plastic garbage containers, he and the delivery men saw a body sprawled there, a scrawny man lying in what was presumably his own vomit.

  It was obvious he was quite dead. No one wanted to try mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

  ***

  Members of the first unit to arrive had gone through Normie Shandler’s pockets, found his ID and his works. Some detectives came by, then the medical team, and then ident officers, and finally Detective-Sergeant Jock Strachan.

  “Heavy habit,” said a man from the coroner’s office, showing him Normie’s arms. “He’s in rigor, early stages. I’d say four or five hours ago.”

  Strachan had already checked out Normie the Nose Shandler’s record, damned pathetic. And he’d run a cross-reference through the computer system — Normie had been tagged some years ago jointly with a guy named Hiltz, a drugstore heist when they were both teenagers. And Hiltz had been gunned down in that back-end operation above the Roll-a-Bowl-a-Ball.

  Strachan didn’t think Normie the Nose OD’d on heroin. He would have developed a strong immunity. The vomit said he’d shot up with a hot needle. Or he’d been shot up.

  That was soon revealed to be the case. In the lab, a tech showed him some blue-tinted fluid in a test tube. “Calcium arsenate. Rat poison.”

  Strachan smelled a rat all right.

  ***

  At the end of his working day, McAnthony decided to freshen up in his private washroom before Judge Clearihue’s reception — while he waited for Harold Mitchell in a surly temper.

  A hesitant k
nock on the bathroom door. McAnthony called out: “Come in.”

  Mitchell walked in and stood in silence for a while as McAnthony pulled a razor through the thick shaving cream on his face.

  “Guess you heard about Mr. Shandler,” Mitchell said.

  “Jock Strachan phoned me.”

  “As far as the press is concerned it’s just a dirty little junkie in an alley, Oliver. We haven’t released the name. We’re not issuing any press bulletins about how he died. We can tell Cristal’s lawyer we’ve got him in a safe house, he’s talking —”

  “Have you no ethical sense whatsoever?” McAnthony barked, and in his anger, his hand shaking, he nicked himself.

  “Okay, sorry. It was a thought. We still need some time on this.”

  McAnthony contained himself, dabbed at the blood. “We can assume this wasn’t suicide.”

  “Billy Sweeticide.”

  “He knew of this man’s existence?”

  “Carrington Barr’s card was found crumpled in his pocket litter. Figure it out.”

  “So he’d seen her.”

  “We assume.”

  “She’s very much on the ball. Jock Strachan told me she has a theory you were attempting to set up her client for these murders.”

  “Where does she get that?”

  “Oh, she thinks it was all too coincidental that your Constable Lamont was in the Roll-a-Bowl that night. By the way, I told Detective Strachan about the bug in the film loft. He was, to put the matter mildly, in an absolute fury that the RCMP has been working at cross-purposes with the Metro homicide division.”

  “It’s a sting, Oliver,” Mitchell said quietly.

  “What kind of sting?” McAnthony rinsed his razor, then towelled his face.

  “Operation Sweet. Operation Sweet Revenge is the long form. The superintendent gave me a blank cheque to take him down. How I did it was up to me.”

  “I gave you the time you wanted, a few days to catch up with this Norman Shandler. I did that because you said his life was at risk. Now he is dead. And now I intend to tell opposing counsel that you had surveillance outside the film loft and an illegal wiretap within it. I am going to tell her you deceived me.”