Authors: Susan Fox
Grace
let out a little hiss and I murmured, “Sshh.”
“
Proceed, Ms. Hodgson,” the judge said.
The blond lawyer glanced down at her papers, then back up.
“It’s the Crown’s position that Mr. Wheeler is both a flight risk and a danger to the community. He’s charged with arson with disregard to human life, an indictable offence carrying a maximum sentence of life in prison. The victim is in critical condition in the hospital and may die, in which case the Crown will seek the maximum penalty.”
Grace moved closer to me until our shoulders touch
ed.
The lawyer consulted her notes again.
“Although Mr. Wheeler was granted Canadian citizenship in 1985, he also retained American citizenship. He owns no property in Canada. In 1970, in Boston, he burned his draft card and fled to Canada. He has a clear pattern of running rather than submitting to the legal jurisdiction of the country of his residence.”
“
If this isn’t her idea of a vigorous argument, I’d hate to hear her when she’s really got it in for someone,” Grace whispered nervously.
“
Furthermore,” the lawyer said, “Mr. Wheeler has been anything but a model citizen. He has been convicted of or pled guilty to more than a dozen offences since he moved to Canada. He’s a troublemaker and a clear danger to the community.” She stopped, checked her notes again, then sat down.
Gabriel rose.
“Mr. Wheeler does indeed have quite a record in our courts,” he said, speaking easily and less briskly than the prosecutor. “But he has never missed a court appearance, much less fled the country. He has a job as a social worker which he’s held for over ten years. His wife and daughter, both present in the courtroom today”—he gestured toward us and the judge’s eyes, behind wire-rimmed glasses, studied us intently—”live and work in Vancouver. He is not a flight risk and—”
Ms.
Hodgson jumped up. “He’s never been charged with anything so serious. He’s never faced years in jail.”
“
Charged
being the operative word,” Gabriel said calmly. “Mr. Wheeler is innocent, as we will prove if the Crown decides to proceed with this case. And yes, he has never been charged with such a serious offence before, and that’s because the man is incapable of anything so heinous. He is a pacifist who’s had a considerable impact on making our society more just for all its citizens. And, I would point out that while Mr. Wheeler is a social activist, he, like Mahatma Gandhi and Martin Luther King Jr., believes in the methods of passive resistance, passive protest. He does not commit acts of aggression.”
“
Clever Gabriel,” Grace murmured, “mentioning Gandhi to an Indo-Canadian judge.”
Crown Counsel said,
“He has resisted arrest and used violence against peace officers.”
Grace began to say something, but I hushed her so I could hear Gabriel.
Voice calm, he said, “Only when the police officers themselves used excessive violence in attempting to arrest him. When someone sprays him with mace or clubs him over the head, he tends to get … excitable. Don’t we all?”
“
Violence is violence. He’s a danger and a flight risk.” Barbara Hodgson sat down.
Gabriel remained standing, but didn
’t say another word. He simply dropped his hand to Jimmy Lee’s shoulder. The judge’s eyes followed the hand. I knew what she was seeing. An aging hippie with a pair of wire-rimmed glasses like hers, looking absolutely harmless. It was an illusion, of course, to anyone who truly knew my dad, but I felt a surge of hope. I nudged my mother in the ribs. “I think Gabriel may win.”
“
I certainly hope so,” Grace whispered.
And sure enough, the judge said,
“I find Mr. DeLuca’s argument persuasive. I’m going to release Mr. Wheeler on an undertaking to appear. Ms. Hodgson, I assume you’d like to see conditions attached?”
The woman popped to her feet.
“In light of his dual citizenship and the way he fled the States in 1970, the Crown requests that he be required to surrender his passport. We also request that he be required to stay away from the Cosmystiques building—or, rather, what remains of it.”
Gabriel rose quickly.
“Mr. Wheeler agrees to those conditions, Your Honor.”
“
Very well. So ordered. Now, Mr. DeLuca, let’s move on to the plea and election.”
In less than two minutes, Jimmy Lee had entered his plea of not guilty and
a date had been set for the preliminary inquiry, where the judge would determine if there was enough evidence to commit Jimmy Lee for trial.
The date was m
ore than two months away, which seemed a long way off, but I knew the Crown needed time to analyze the evidence from the fire. Time to build their case against my father.
The clerk called the next case
, and Jimmy Lee was on his feet, a free man, at least for now.
“
Thank god,” I sighed.
“
Goddess,” Grace corrected automatically. “And Gabriel.”
She leaped to her feet as the two men walked toward us. Grace and Jimmy Lee embraced as if they hadn
’t seen each other in a year.
“
Take it outside,” I muttered, then tugged on Jimmy Lee’s arm and pulled the two of them toward the door.
In the hallway, Grace flung her arms around Gabriel.
“Thank you.”
“
No problem. We got the right judge. Harminder Sharma is fair and she has some left-wing leanings of her own.”
I hugged my dad
, then touched his Grateful Dead T-shirt. “Next time you get arrested, you might want to be wearing a different shirt. Like, maybe, one with a peace symbol.”
“
I love you too, baby.” He turned to Gabriel. “What do we do next?”
“
We pray that woman in the hospital recovers,” he said grimly.
“
I think we should go and see how she’s doing,” Grace said.
“
I’d steer clear,” Gabriel advised. “She’s unconscious and likely her family will be there. They won’t be looking any too fondly on Jimmy Lee.”
“
Maybe you’re right,” Grace said meekly.
I glanced at my mother. I knew that tone. When Gabriel had spoken about passive resistance, had he realized Grace Dean was a mistress of the art? She and Jimmy Lee would be at the hospital before the day was out. Should I warn their lawyer?
When I glanced at Gabriel, he was staring at me with one of those intense, inscrutable expressions of his. It made my pulse flutter. Suddenly he blinked and said, “I have a client to see. I’ll be in touch later.”
Before I could say a word, he was striding down the hall, moving so fast his suit jacket billowed out behind him.
I let out a breath. The morning hadn’t gone badly at all. Jimmy Lee was free, and I hadn’t said anything stupid in front of Gabriel. In fact, we hadn’t even spoken to each other. The attraction was easier to resist when I didn’t have to interact with him.
Outside the courthouse I said goodbye to my parents then walked the couple of miles home. When I got to my apartment, I dialed Richard. After I told him what had happened in court, he said,
“That’s great. You must be so relieved.”
“
Hugely. Your father did a terrific job and we were lucky with the judge.”
“
Feel like getting together for dinner tonight? I could bring my laptop and we could check online for apartment rental ads.”
“
Wish I could, but I have to work. Let’s talk on the phone when we both get home.”
I dealt with my menagerie, ate yogurt and fruit for lunch, then headed off to the clinic. My colleagues surrounded me, demanding to hear the latest about Jimmy Lee, and offering their support. Warmed by their consideration, I settled down to work.
The West End Pet-Vet Clinic was officially open to patients from eight in the morning until eight at night, though occasionally one of the vets or assistants spent the night in order to keep an eye on an animal. The three of us vets—Felipe, Liz, and I—rotated shifts. Today, because of the swap, I’d be working the afternoon and evening.
Days at the clinic tended to follow a pattern. First thing in the morning we got drop-offs from people on their way to work. We offered day-care for our patients, which benefited not only the working owners but ourselves as well because we could schedule the animals for treatment throughout the day at our convenience.
After the initial morning flurry, we’d have an irregular flow of patients—animals belonging to retired people, shift workers, stay-at-home parents, and the occasional nine-to-fiver who took time off work to bring in an animal they were worried about. Most came by appointment but there were always a few emergencies—an animal with the sudden onset of frightening symptoms or one that had been in a fight or been hit by a car.
Toward the end of the afternoon, business tended to be brisk as day-care patients were picked up, and people who worked during the day brought their pets in.
We three vets also took turns making house calls because many of our clients were shut-ins—for reasons of health, disability, or age.
The great thing about rotating schedules was that each of us vets got to know all of our clients, both the animals and the humans. Today, Joachim
’s tabby needed worm pills and Peter and Cynthia’s cockatiel had an infection. Mrs. Enderby’s Pekingese had indigestion again, a perennial problem because the childless woman and her husband persisted in feeding the animal treats designed for humans.
And then there were new clients. An adorable Shepherd cross pup who needed spaying, brought in by an equally adorable little boy and his mother. An injured
squirrel a jogger had found in Stanley Park, to be patched up and returned to the wild.
My last patient was a two-year-old beagle whose owners, a young gay couple, had just moved to Vancouver and wanted their dog checked over and
“his file opened,” as they termed it. The lovely animal had epilepsy, possibly inherited from its parents, and was responding nicely to Phenobarbital, but I reviewed the dog’s diet and suggested some adjustments that would help to prevent liver damage.
It was a busy, productive day, with no life-threatening injuries or illnesses and, thank heavens, no requests for animals to be put down. My mind and hands were kept occupied and, when I began the walk home, I congratulated myself on not fussing about Jimmy Lee—and on barely having thought of Gabriel.
It was too late to be bothered with cooking a real meal, so I picked up pita bread and the ingredients for a Greek salad.
It proved to be the perfect meal, together with a glass of white wine. After, I pulled out my knitting and, not finding anything that grabbed me on TV, watched an episode from
a DVD of
Noah’s Ark
. It, and
All Creatures Great and Small
, a series based on the James Herriot books of the same name, were old British TV series about country vets. I pretty much had the episodes memorized—and the same with the Herriot books. Still, I never tired of them. They were comfort entertainment, never failing to relax me and make me smile.
I was reading in bed when t
he phone rang around eleven. I said to Richard, “Caught me in bed with James Herriot again.”
He gave the obligatory chuckle, then said,
“It’s just as well we didn’t plan on dinner. A client came in at five o’clock with some urgent work and I’ve been at it ever since.”
We compared notes on our days. When I told him about the beagle, he said,
“Dogs get epilepsy?”
“
Some species are more prone to it. It’s likely there’s a genetic component.”
“
Genetic?”
“
Sure. Just like with humans. Some illnesses are hereditary, or genetic make-up can create a predisposition.”
“
Hmm.”
We talked a few minutes longer but Richard seemed preoccupied. He must be exhausted after such a long day at the office, so I said,
“Go to bed now, sweetheart.”
“
Good idea. Love you, Iz.”
“
Love you, too.”
* * *
The next morning Grace phoned me at the clinic. “Have you got any stray animals that need a home? Maybe a kitten? Small and cuddly?”
I
’d expected her to talk about her concerns about Jimmy Lee, or their strategy for proving his innocence, and it took me a moment to shift gears. Then I frowned in puzzlement. She’d protested—though only half-heartedly—when I’d brought them Woodstock. “I thought you couldn’t take any more.”
“
It’s not for us, it’s for Alyssa.”
“
Who’s Alyssa?”
“
Alyssa McKenzie. She’s the daughter of that poor woman who was injured in the fire at Cosmystiques.”
By now I
’d thought that nothing my parents might say or do would surprise me, but this statement rendered me speechless. When I found my voice again I said, “You went to the hospital. I expected that. But how does the kitten come in?”