Kill All the Judges (19 page)

Arthur had trained islanders not to offer him rides during his daily hike, and for a split second he wasn't bothered that Stoney drove out of his driveway and past him, eyes fixed ahead, as if
deliberately not seeing him. It struck him there was something wrong with this picture, and he waved and hollered.

Stoney must have been watching his rear-view because he braked with a seemingly grudging effort and pulled over to the shoulder. The Fargo had been repainted a garish yellow as if in a clumsy effort to disguise it. Arthur took a minute to catch up–too long, time enough for the culprit to come up with a story.

“Hey, I was gonna call to say your truck is ready, but I been away. Pretty late for your daily walk, ain't it? You change your schedule? Yeah, I was just breaking in your new trannie. Not part of my regular service, but for my best customers, I go the extra mile.”

“You have gone your last mile behind the wheel of this truck. Slide over.”

Arthur pushed his way in, removed the view-blocking sign from the inner windshield. “Rent me,” with the Loco Motion phone number. “How long has this truck been in service?”

“Just a brief little while, honest.”

Arthur reached over to the glove compartment, fished out some recent ferry receipts. The Fargo had been on the Mainland for a week.

Confronted with the evidence, Stoney said, “I was gonna surprise you with it, but I may as well tell you the astounding news. This here pickup is going to be in a big Hollywood production they were doing in Vancouver, kind of set in the 1970s, a period piece. They put zero point three miles on it. I'm gonna give you your cut as soon as the cheque clears.”

Stoney knew he could keep Arthur from erupting by rattling on, and did so until they pulled up at the general store. “Maybe I could take it out in trade. Dog and me, what do you say we come by and pour a base for that statue you got, Icterus.”

“Icarus.”

“Only charge you for materials. A bit of cement. Otherwise it's our thank-you for all you've done for our community. By the way,
ain't gonna see me joining them braying hyenas who think you let Cud down. That's your entire own decision. I'd be suspicious too if my wife was up in a treehouse with a guy like him, though I don't got a wife.”

Arthur pocketed the ignition key before entering the store. The gang in the lounge greeted him with loud silence. Makepeace didn't look at him, handed over his letters without deigning to enlighten him as to their contents.

It seemed hypocritical of these locals to accord the status of persecuted hero to a reckless loudmouth who'd caused marriages to break up, who'd bedded a host of the island's wives and its every willing maiden. Felicity Jones was his main squeeze these days, the greeting card poet. Her mother, the only islander encouraging him
not
to represent Cud, was enraged that Felicity had joined him on his reading tour. According to oft-repeated rumour, Tabatha had had her own fling with Cud.

Here, finally, was someone willing to talk to him, Nelson Forbish, wedged between the new freezer and the junk food shelves. “I got a hot scoop, Mr. Beauchamp.” Forbish secured the bag of Frito's he'd been fishing for. “I found out who killed that judge Cud is charged with. It's all in here, I got this long e-mail letter to the editor.”

He showed Arthur several stapled pages. “It's from an old farmer named Vogel up at Hundred Mile House. He got his woodlot and half his land swindled off him by Clearihue Investments, and the case went before Judge Whynet-Moir.”

That piqued Arthur's curiosity. Todd Clearihue was a familiar name–he was known locally as Todd Clearcut. He'd held Gwendolyn Valley hostage, profited handsomely when the federal government was forced to buy it for parkland.

“Except that Whynet-Moir got himself killed before he wrote the judgment.” Forbish waved his printout. “So this farmer says Clearihue bumped him off so there'd have to be a new trial, and now he can't afford a lawyer for it. He tells the whole story, how
he was defrauded by Clearihue, how he thought he was just selling an easement to a lake.”

“This came to the
Island Bleat
?”

“He's reaching out to me for help.”

“Mr. Vogel has obviously sent this to every paper in the province, and not one of them will dare use it.”

“Then I'm his only voice.”

“I shall not defend you on a libel action, Nelson.”

“I didn't expect you would,” he grumbled.

“Give me the letter.” No harm will be done by passing it on to Pomeroy. It seemed unlikely that anyone, even Clearihue, would kill a judge to get a new trial, but the prospect of seeing him behind bars, however remote, brought a glow to the heart.

He stuffed a few purchases into his pack and before leaving made an elaborate point of sticking a fifty-dollar bill into the
Cud Brown Defence Fund
jar.

On his return home he called Pomeroy's office, and again was put on to April Fan Wu. “He has gone for two weeks to Cuba, Mr. Beauchamp.” A holiday before the trial, not a bad idea. He will need to restore himself, gain strength for Wilbur Kroop.

On Saturday evening, he found himself in a meeting hall on Vancouver Island, awaiting Margaret's crowning as Green candidate for the election five weeks hence. Honouring his pledge to her, he mingled, shook hands, talked about the weather, avoided politics.

The crowd was sizeable, over three hundred, more than he had expected. Print media, TV cameras. Margaret was working the room, guiding Malcolm Lewes about, the fellow who dropped from the race, as if showing off a trophy. Something was changing in her. A false face showed, a too-wide smile, a too-loud laugh, rapt attention to the bon mots of bores.

Here was portly Eric Schultz, the corporate lawyer, motioning
him to caucus in the corner. Three-piece suit, briefcase, a truly anomalous soul with his business connections, his long-distance jump from the right wing. “Not happy. Angus Reid has Chipper breaking out of the pack on top.” This was gobbledygook to Arthur. “Forty-three per cent, margin of error three points plus or minus.”

Arthur responded with a tentative “Hmm.” He guessed Schultz was referring to a recent poll. Chipper would be Chip O'Malley, the Conservative candidate. He'd seen his TV ad, a chicken-farming mesomorph with sleeves rolled up, promising fewer laws, a leaner bureaucracy, expanded services.

“Got to push him under thirty to have a chance. Good scandal would help.”

The meeting had got underway with announcements that cars may be towed from the medical-dental lot next door and that organic pastries and coffee were for sale at the back. Schultz led Arthur there, bought him a coffee.

“Your Mr. Pomeroy hasn't responded to my calls.” Schultz pulled a thin computer from his case. “Too bad. A hint that Whynet-Moir paid millions for his judgeship would get the press digging. Would help if Pomeroy raised the issue in the privileged sanctum of the courtroom.”

Here it was. Heavy-handed politics. “It would help whom?”

“Our candidate. Your wife.”

A photo filled the screen, a guest table at a banquet. “That's Jack Boynton.” The late justice minister. “At a wedding, just before he keeled over with a stroke. That's Chip O'Malley beside him.”

“Ah, yes, Chipper, the candidate. He knew the minister well?”

Schultz seemed taken aback by Arthur's political illiteracy. “Served two decades as riding president, bum boy to Boynton, his impatient successor. And no stranger to Raffy Whynet-Moir. All members of the same cabal. Shit sticks.”

Arthur excused himself.

“Nominations once,” called the chairman. “Nominations twice.”

“Yay, Margaret,” someone yelled.

“Nominations three times. Hearing no further nominations, I declare Margaret Blake elected.”

A great cheer went up. Someone raised Margaret's arm. She was held in a circle of clicking cameras, then led grinning to the podium. A chant: “Margaret! Margaret! Margaret!”

Arthur made himself small. Please, he prayed, don't drag me up to the stage.

“Arthur Beauchamp, where are you?” the chair shouted into a mike. “Don't be shy, come on up here.”

 

TRIAL RUN

“R
afael likes to watch, that's how he gets off. Cudworth and I did it on the dining-room table so he could lick off the custard after. We had lots of leftover custard. Poor Rafael, he was dead in an instant.”

Florenza smiled seductively as she recounted this merry tale. She and Lance were in her sitting room with Heathcliff, the Doberman. Carlos the Mexican had not shown his face since Lance felled him with a left hook. Rashid had returned to his guard post.

“I dosed the custard with this new product that stops your heart; they can't detect it. All Cudworth did was dump the body. Would you like another gingerbread cookie?”

“I prefer my facts straight, Ms. LeGrand, like a fine single malt.” Lance rubbed Heathcliff's neck. Dogs loved Lance. “The prosecutor is wetting her knickers at the prospect of indicting you. They found his semen in the steam room, all over the towels, not to mention your skivvies.”

“That's not true, I washed them.”

He had her at his mercy. “This is the version I would prefer to hear: Distraught upon your return from your romp with Cuddles, Raffy waits until you're asleep, then, overcome with depression, he shuffles off into the night. After a few heart-rending moments contemplating the fickleness of love, he climbs on a chair, leaps, and
joins the church triumphant. What we do not want to hear are the words ‘Help me escape.'”

 

Brian was annoyed at himself, he'd just given away a dark secret of the criminal law, the crafty tactic of enticing a witness to alter testimony. No wonder the author had disguised himself as Lance Valentine for this shysterism. One ought not to add to the public loathing of lawyers. Select paragraph. Delete.

He's got to stop Valentine from oozing his way into these creatively non-fictional pages. The fellow has begun to wear, infuriating Brian with his snide advice and plummy accent. Brian can't get rid of him; alter egos cling. He'd fired the syrupy gumshoe but never properly killed him off, that's the problem.

Having persuaded himself he could coax his body back to health, clean out his system, Brian had spent two weeks in Cuba, swimming, hiking, but he'd got lost a few times and had to phone Dr. Epstein collect to ask directions. Then there was that scene at the Havana airport, after his return tickets went mysteriously missing. The matter had gone up to the highest level, resulting in a decree from the presidential palace that he be immediately deported to Canada.

Otherwise, he'd had two drug-free weeks–except for the excellent Ron Habana, only three bucks a quart. He felt tanned and fit but unwell in other, confusing ways.

Confusing because things didn't go good without Coke, things got worse. When not high, he got the full blast of a breakdown that seemed never to want to heal. Dismayingly, Harry the Need was no longer working Main and Keefer. He'd taken a fall, been detained, nicked, tumbled.

Dr. Epstein, who wants to put him away, finds his self-diagnosis–nervous breakdown–a fuzzy term, thinks he's paranoid or psychotic or something similarly off the wall. She's not supportive, doesn't believe his voices are real. Whynet-Moir's voice, for example:
Your feeble cause, Mr. Pomeroy, is hardly aided by these crude outbursts.

He can't keep hiding much longer. He has to go public tomorrow. That's when the trial starts. Vancouver law courts, 10:00 a.m. A five-day endurance test with Wilbur Kroop, a weekend between. It's
good
that the Need got busted. Brian had to have his wits about him tomorrow, he must be straight.

He'd been holed up in 305 since his return from Cuba except for a couple of trips to his firm, everyone sidestepping him while he hid in his office resenting the pigeons, resenting April Wu because he had no work for her and now had to share her with Wentworth Chance. Bad chi.