Kill All the Judges (21 page)

THE NEWS AT SIX

M
id-February, the unrelenting wet season. After three weeks of rain, Arthur could no longer delay bringing in his wood, so he toiled in the muck with mall and splitters, making several trips to the woodshed in his trusty, mud-spattered Fargo. (Welcome, home, old friend!)

From time to time he fed a fire with bark and broken branches and took his breaks there, warming himself, smoking his pipe, trying to pretend he wasn't aware it was day one of Cud's trial. He was in denial, he supposed,
Regina v. Brown
denial. He'd cut off all contact with him, with his case, even with Brian Pomeroy–who'd been on holiday anyway, charging his batteries for court.

The profligate poet, on seeing Pomeroy in fighting trim, will finally stop hounding Arthur, who'll be shunned no longer at the general store. They were handing out “Free Cud” buttons there yesterday amid brave talk of going en masse to court on the morning ferry. Arthur doubted if any showed up for the six-twenty sailing.

He was having trouble leaving this warming fire, though he should finish up, get back to check on the roast he'd put in the oven. Margaret planned one of her rare visits this evening, to bone up for the all-candidates meeting tomorrow. With the election twelve days off, she'd been barnstorming by float plane, an environmentally unsound mode of transport. Her Conservative opponent had denounced this as eco-hypocrisy. Chipper O'Malley
sees her as an emerging threat; he was down to thirty-five points on the last poll.

Yes, the tireless Margaret Blake had risen like Venus from the sea, was now tied with a New Democrat at twenty-seven, while the Liberals, their last corrupt government not forgotten, were fighting it out with the independents. Arthur has been learning about politics, attending Margaret's strategy sessions. The idea is to edge ahead of the New Democratic Party, collapse its left-wing vote, stampede its supporters into lining up behind her as the better hope of upsetting the candidate of the Right. All in the great tradition of Nicolò Machiavelli.

He threw more sticks on the fire. Only one more load to bring up. Nick, who wasn't much for physical work but had offered to help, seemed relieved when Arthur let him off the hook. The kid has finally settled in like a familiar piece of furniture but his tenure is up in ten days. He spends his mornings helping Lavinia and afternoons plugged in or studying programming codes. Occasionally he will hand Arthur a printout of local interest, ramblings from the World Wide Web claiming Cud Brown was framed to protect people in high places and that Whynet-Moir was eliminated to staunch political scandal.

The Syd-Air Beaver wheeled overhead, pointed its pontoons to Blunder Bay. Syd was a supporter, this was his donation. O'Malley had made something of that too. Despicable fellow, this chicken fattener–only by stretching a point could he be called a farmer, he imprisons his birds in cages for the fast-food market. He's been making none-too-subtle innuendos about Margaret's two weeks in a tree with an alleged killer. With pepper added, vile hints of wanton behaviour. As predicted, Cud Brown has become a political liability.

The fire was subsiding to a mat of woody coals. Arthur rose, stretched, shook the rain from his hat, and went off to split the last butts.

When he got to the house Margaret was on the phone, a press interview. She blew him a kiss, thanking him for putting the roast in. “No, I don't think eight points will be hard to make up, not at all. We have a lot of policies in common with the NDP. More and more of them see us as the most effective place to park their vote.” Arthur had grown up distrusting these idealistic lefties. “A caboodle of soft-headed socialists,” his father used to say. The NDP candidate was sharp, though, a labour lawyer.

Where had Margaret developed these political skills? She'd come to Garibaldi with the long-defunct Earthseed Commune as sixteen-year-old flower child, but instead of dropping out, she dropped in. Home study courses in agrology. Twice elected island trustee. He could handle that, but not Ottawa. He was afraid of losing her to politics, the knives, the skulduggery. How could she prefer that to making goat cheese at Blunder Bay? How would they manage the farm from four thousand miles away?

When he finished his shower she was on the phone with her campaign organizer. “We rise above it, that's what we do.” She hung up. “Bastards! They've got a picture of Cud and me on their campaign website. We're in the tree fort hugging and waving.”

“This is on O'Malley's website?”

“No, the Liberals.”

Politics served up raw, exactly as he'd anticipated. And bound to get worse. Cud's trial was likely to end just before election day, generating headlines that could hurt Margaret's chances. Thank God he wasn't defending him; that would be the cruellest irony.

Ignoring the ringing phone, they ate dinner in front of the television, waiting patiently through the accidents, assaults, and fires for a by-election update. That began with a mindless, depressing streeter. “Sorry, I don't actually know who's running.” “None of them are going to reduce taxes, they're all the same.” “I've voted
NDP for the last forty years, and I'm not going to stop now.”

A pundit: “That last gentleman may find himself a little lonely, Jim, if the NDP's numbers stay stagnant. The latest polls have the Greens moving up three points.”

“Yahoo,” Margaret cried.

“But Chip O'Malley's six-point lead may be insurmountable. A lot will depend on the first all-candidates tomorrow.”

“Thank you, Floyd, next up, another mad cow scare…”

Arthur snapped to attention when he heard, “Also, strange developments at the trial of a poet accused of murdering a high court judge.” Arthur sank into his chair. Cartoon characters tried to sell him toilet paper.

“Do you know what this is about?” he asked.

“I didn't have time for the news.”

Feeling hollow, Arthur watched an athlete shilling for a lending institution. Finally, here was Pomeroy, in flapping gown and dark glasses, dashing from a courtroom, skidding to a stop, racing for the stairs. Another camera followed him out the door and halfway down the block.

“It's still not known where Mr. Pomeroy disappeared to,” said a breathless correspondent standing outside the law courts. “His partner, Maximilian Macarthur, later appeared in court to say he didn't know where he went. The case has been adjourned until tomorrow. Back to you, Jim.”

Arthur stayed in his club chair, sipping tea and drumming his fingers as Margaret checked the phone messages. He'd lost his appetite, left food on his plate. He wanted to go away someplace and hide.

“Okay, three calls from Cud, each time drunker. Tabatha, very teary…”

“Tabatha!”

“She's afraid Felicity will get pregnant, the baby will need a father, please defend him. Several calls from neighbours and nosy parkers. And Max Macarthur is anxious to talk to you.”

She passed him the phone. He dialed Max at home.

“Arthur, thank God…”

“Good evening, Max, and before we waste any breath, no, I will not defend Mr. Brown.”

“Did I ask that? Damn it, Arthur, give me a chance to ask how you are.”

“Had a very good day, enjoying that most spiritual of rural pleasures, the sweet feel of axe cleaving wood. Split three cords. For the next week I will be framing an addition to the greenhouse. You and Ruth must visit some weekend, imbibe the bracing tonic of smog-free air. Now what about Pomeroy? He cracked up, is that what I'm to understand?”

“Some kind of panic attack, according to his therapist. I knew he was rough shape. I had no idea he'd gone over the edge.”

“So he has been found?”

“He ran all the way to the West End, to his psychiatrist's office. She put him in a private facility for the behaviourally challenged that's costing us the equivalent of the national debt. There's a cocaine complication.”

“Good lord. You've talked to Caroline?”

“Yeah. It'll be hard on the kids.”

Post-marital stress. Brian's drunken carolling had cried out a warning wantonly ignored. Arthur remembered marital stress. It can drive you to drink, it can make you crazy.

“We're going to tell the press he suffered a nervous collapse, it'll gain the poor bugger some sympathy.”

“One presumes Cud took the whole thing with his usual good spirits.”

“He was berserk. Brian's name was taken in vain. Your name, ah, was also mentioned. As a possible solution to this mess.”

Arthur remained silent, he could feel Max squirming. Let
him
defend Cud.

“Abigail Hitchins also asked about you. She has enormous respect for you, did you know that? Says you're the only male
human being she
does
respect, in fact–the rest of us are overweening, patronizing, testosterone-pumping pigs.
Despises
Kroop. You won't get a fairer prosecutor, she's a civil libertarian. Anyway, she's got a crisis, eighty-five jury panellists twiddling their thumbs and about fourteen witnesses set to go, including six business tycoons, their wives, and two prominent writers. She complained about that to the chief.”

Kroop. Whose snarling image came, causing a tremor. “Were God himself to command me on penalty of everlasting hellfire, I would tell him to light the kindling.”

“Let me finish. Kroop is threatening to proceed without defence counsel unless I find someone…”

Arthur interrupted again. “Fortunately, your firm, though small in numbers, is deep in talent. Four of this nation's finest barristers, a reputation well deserved. Not least among them the brilliant Max Macarthur. Ah, I remember well how the young slugger pinch-hit for me in the Shiva trial.” Arthur had injured himself in a drunken spree halfway through that notorious cult murder.

“I'm flying to The Hague on Sunday. I have a month to interview ninety-three witnesses for the International Criminal Tribunal. John Brovak is lead counsel on the Ruby Morgan appeal, which is set for a week. Augustina Sage is at a Buddhist retreat somewhere in the jungles of Thailand recovering from yet another failed relationship.”

“You have that young fellow, what's his name?”

“Wentworth Chance. He's much too green, Arthur. But here's the deal–we'll give him to you; you couldn't get a brighter junior. You can have Brian's office, his amazing secretary–”

Arthur broke in once more. “What I suggest you do tomorrow, Maximilian, is insist that Kroop reset the trial for three or four months hence, at which time many skilled counsel will have lined up for such a headline-grabbing trial. Please keep me apprised of Brian's condition. Poor fellow. Overwrought. Well, big day tomorrow, I'll want to rise early.”

“If I can get Kroop to put it off till Monday, that gives you and Wentworth tomorrow and the weekend to–”

“Max, I wouldn't dream of taking it on without months of preparation. I have already managed to make a fool of myself on Garibaldi several times, I'm not prepared to repeat the experience in a court of law. Must run. Ta-ta.” He disconnected.

Into the silence that followed, he said, “Only a moron would expect a barrister to step into a major trial on three days' notice.”

Margaret shifted uncomfortably in her chair, spoke softly. “He did make a pass, Arthur. I rebuffed him.” More silence. “Maybe Cud can't help it. He suffers from an unregulated sex drive; I think you resent that.” Arthur blushed, he felt shamed, a little queasy, he didn't like this conversation–so he answered the phone, which he'd sworn not to do.

“Arthur, so glad I got through.” Abigail Hitchins. “Max told me you might be able to bail us out.”

“Max told you–” He began fuming.

“I've
got
to get this trial in, my witnesses are raising a row, fat cats, friends of the Attorney General. I haven't got an airtight case, I'm in a weakened state, this is your chance, beat me up. It's in your client's best interest–”

“He's
not
my client.” He subsided again into a funk. He wanted a drink. That innuendo by Margaret still smarted, like a slap in the face.

“Listen, Arthur, with all the fooferah, all the publicity, with Bry imploding like that in court, the Attorney General, the whole government, is pulling out the stops so justice is seen to be done. The case is so sensitive that the minister has bribed the Legal Services Society to pay you triple senior counsel rate. Complete disclosure, no hidden rabbits; I'll sit on my fanny while you cross-examine at will, and I'll produce any witnesses you want to have a go at, even if I have to subpoena them from Outer Mongolia. We can make a fresh start on Monday–Kroop has indicated he could bend that far. The episode shook him. He'll be easy meat for you.”

As she carried on, offering the moon and the stars, he felt suffocated by the pressure: family, friends, neighbours, all of Garibaldi, various arms of the government, the entire free world was on his back. And now someone was arriving, doubtless another petitioner, maybe the Pope. “Just a minute, Abigail.”