Kill All the Judges (36 page)

“I'm almost sure I have.” Loobie was wearing a belt these days, but Arthur dug into memory and came up with an old snapshot of the pot-bellied reporter snapping his braces in the El Beau Room, a parody of Arthur beginning cross-examination.

A murder motive seemed entirely lacking, but according to Ms. Lefleur, there'd been a brief shoving match. Homicide without intent may not be murder, even in second degree, but could well attract a manslaughter conviction.

It seemed a long leap to connect Loobie with Whynet-Moir's murder, but they speculated awhile about the possibility. A judge
about whom floated rumours of corruption, newly married to a woman of wild reputation, a poet with a similarly loose history invited to a staid gathering–these were the spicy ingredients that might entice this maestro of yellow journalism to sneak onto private property. A confrontation, a push, presto.

Arthur put the matter to rest for now, asked about the late justice minister, whether Wentworth had found any skeletons in Boynton's closet.

“It's pretty bad.”

“How bad?”

“Twenty years happily married, adopted three refugee orphans, active in legal programs for the poor…”

“My God.”

“There's worse: various charities, Christian Aid Society, the Darfur Hope Mission, honorary chair of the Children's Literacy Foundation…”

“Enough!” Surely the ex-justice minister could not be such an unblemished saint. Maybe Wentworth hadn't got past the protective layers of political boosterism.

On the desk, freshly couriered, was a recorded disk of Astrid Leich's 911 call. Wentworth slipped it into his computer.

“
Hello, 911, hello, are you 911? I just saw a horrible thing, terrible, terrible, I think I've just witnessed a cold-blooded murder!
” Dramatic, yet not histrionic. The call came in at 3:11 a.m., according to the transcript.

There followed a quick question period: name, address, identity of victim, where, when, how. “
Do not hang up, one moment.
” A pause for a relay to police dispatch. Then:

“
He was standing on a chair in a dressing gown, and he was…he was…oh, it was horrible…awful!”

“Please be calm, Ms. Leich. Police are on their way. Are you talking about your neighbour?”

“Yes, Rafael…he's a judge. A judge! Another judge has been murdered, oh, my heart, and I'm the only witness!”

“Have you locked your doors?”

“Yes, but I'm terribly frightened.”

“The police will be there within seconds. Now tell me again what you saw.”

“A man came over and pushed him right over the railing of his deck, just like that. And I heard him scream, and…and then there was a crunch and then just silence, and I don't know where the man went, he disappeared somewhere.
”

Arthur wasn't blind to her talent as a stage performer. Yet this frantic account of death cry and crunching bones seemed natural, unrehearsed. No hint of inebriation, no mental confusion, no dissembling. When asked if she might recognize him again, she said, “
I believe I would, yes, I believe I would.
” A troubling eagerness.

The dispatcher kept her on the line with a questionnaire, personal statistics–Leich almost balked when asked her age, but who would deny her a touch of vanity? She was seventy-three, hardly ancient, Arthur wasn't far behind. Marital status?
“Long and happily divorced, young lady.”
Occupation?
“Semi-retired professional actress.”
Still available for roles, it would seem.

Reception said Faloon was in the waiting room. He was whisked in, his round, owlish face lit by a beaming smile. “A slice of pie, took me two minutes. First thing I did was check his pants, hanging on a chair. The item of interest was in a little zipper pocket of his wallet, in this here scrunched-up wad of paper.”

A torn corner of a newspaper. Arthur shook the ring free. It fell with a comfortable plop on the reception countertop, gold, inset with an oval opal, a restive stone, yellow, orange, red.
The power must not be used for evil.
Arthur had trouble believing Pomeroy forgot it was in his wallet; it would have made a bulge.

“Find any drugs?”

“He was clean.”

“My gratitude is unbounded.”

Faloon clapped Wentworth on the back. “Whattaya think, Stretch, Mr. Beauchamp got this in the bag? He ain't lost a murder yet, right?”

“Three losses, but fifty-four wins, if you count the ones on appeal. Eleven were reduced to manslaughter, and there were four mistrials.”

Arthur rewrapped the ring in the newsprint, handed it to Wentworth with advice not to lose it on penalty of ending his legal career in ignominy and disgrace.

Arthur stood there puzzling, wondering why the Chrysler wasn't in its allotted space. He'd left it in the lot an hour ago, after leaving his club. Was he losing his grip? Wentworth seemed to think so.

“You sure you didn't, like, sort of forget…I mean, given how preoccupied…”

“Damn it, Wentworth, my mind hasn't turned to sludge. Right here. Stall Eighteen.”

“Um, did you leave the keys in it?”

“I have them right here!” Jingling them.

They wandered about, found no sign of a 1970 Chrysler New Yorker, and finally made inquiries of a grease-stippled young man changing a tire. “You sure that car was yours, because the towtruck driver said it hadn't been paid for, and he had some kinda seizure order.”

“Stoney,” Arthur snarled.

It took only a few minutes to flag a taxi, Arthur muttering imprecations all the way to the law courts.
Wondering about my jitney. Just checking, no reason to be concerned.

He wasn't able to put the matter aside until they found themselves alone with Hank Chekoff in an elevator. Arthur was gruff in his greeting, and the sergeant went on the defensive.

“Give me a break, counsellor, enough with the boot marks all over my ass. Even my wife's laughing at me. This ain't the VPD; I got limited resources in West Van.”

“Nothing against you, Hank, you're doing just fine.”

Though forbidden to discuss his evidence until his cross-examination ended, Chekoff did just that. “I had nothing to do with this April dame, you got to believe that. I didn't see her reports. Ask Florenza's old man about her when he shows up–I served a summons on him last night, by the way, after I finally got past the butler and the bodyguard.”

“Was Shawn Hamilton there?”

“Always.” As the elevator slowed for level six, he said quickly, “All I ask is go easy, counsellor. As a favour I ran Carlos Espinoza's name last night. That's a hint.” As they walked out into the hallway, he added, “By the way, Abigail Hitchins ain't feeling too good. Something about bad food at a restaurant.”

That diagnosis was confirmed when Arthur found the ashen-faced prosecutor standing by the railing outside court 67, looking as if she might lose her breakfast. She was being attended by her courtier, who was mopping her brow. Haley, the girl Wentworth seemed keen on.

“Salmonella in the rubber chicken,” said Abigail hoarsely.

“Why are you even here? We must adjourn and get you home to bed.”

“No. Can't show weakness. Kroop will lynch me if he misses his date with destiny. I'm waiting for legally prescribed narcotics to kick in.”

Ire at Stoney faded in the face of his learned friend's distress. “The main course was chicken?” He supposed it would be too much to hope the supplier was Chip O'Malley.

“No, almost.
Canard à l'orange.
Rubber duck.”

“Your tainted bird, I would imagine, was shared by others?”

“I don't know who.” She put a hand to her stomach, fought off a minor tremor.

“I think we should call it a day.”

“Never surrender. I'll see how far I can go.”

“Who do we have?”

“Florenza's maid. Then Rashid. Donat LeGrand is in the building, with counsel.”

“Silent Shawn?”

“No, bigger.”

Arthur had no chance to ask who; she went off quickly to the ladies' room.

A reconciliation of sorts was underway between Cud and Felicity, who was holding his hand as they took their seats. Irma Brown hadn't joined them today. Shawn Hamilton was at his usual station, tapping out a message on a Blackberry. And at the press table, newly nominated suspect Charles Loobie was grinning, as if at some private feat of cunning.

Abigail walked into court tightly, a cosmetics-enhanced complexion, a grim smile. Chekoff shambled into the witness box with a look at Arthur, seeking clemency. The jury took their places–no sour faces there except, oddly, from Tom Altieri, who was frowning rather severely at his former brother steelworker.

Arthur told Wentworth to take a break, pull the maid and the guard from the witness room, and sit them down to take their statements. As Wentworth gathered his papers, Kroop shambled in, his pallor battleship grey, a pained and ravaged look that clearly marked him as another luckless duck victim. Wentworth fumbled pen and notepad onto the floor as he stared at the judge as if at an apparition. He bowed and hurriedly left.

“Good morning, milord. Though I regret having missed last evening's grand banquet, may I add my own heartfelt applause to the many well-deserved tributes that I'm sure flowed as abundantly as the food and wine.”

Kroop, knowing Arthur was digging at him, said something undecipherable and slid down in his chair, only his head and shoulders in view. A touch of red by his anthracite eyes, other
colours too, a hint of olive green. He was a warrior though, a lion, proud, contemptuous of weakness. Arthur will see how long he lasts.

“Sergeant, let's see if we can pick up where we abruptly left off. I had asked you about a gentleman named Carlos Espinoza. You weren't sure if the name rang a bell. Have you given that any further thought?”

Chekoff glanced at Kroop, who had vetoed this line of inquiry yesterday. But the Badger seemed preoccupied with deeper concerns. “Yes, I ran that name through the system, and there's a match with a Mexican resident who has a record involving drugs.”

“And I take it the system disclosed that back in 1992 he was the paramour of Ms. Florenza LeGrand?”

“In that year, a certain Carlos Espinoza and a certain Florenza LeGrand were jointly arrested in Mexico for drug trafficking.”

Kroop seemed in no mood to joust this morning, so Arthur pressed ahead. “And the outcome?”

“The record isn't clear what happened to him, but we're checking on it. Ms. LeGrand was held for two weeks, then deported back to Canada.”

“And what would you say if I suggested Mr. Espinoza was seen in Ms. LeGrand's company only last year?”

“Not much, because I don't know that.”

“Assuming he was, indeed that he was her house guest, how would you suppose he entered Canada?”

“Illegally.”

“Mr. Beauchamp!” Agony in Kroop's voice. “Assumptions, speculation, hearsay! This is a court of law, not a gossip mill.” That took a lot out of him, and he subsided, breathing heavily, tight as if holding back belches or farts.

Arthur felt a little sorry for him, sorrier for Abigail, who was holding her head with both hands. He changed tack. “Sergeant, it's fair to say, is it not, that Rafael Whynet-Moir was not the only local judge who died suspiciously, or at least mysteriously, last year?”

“Fair to say.”

“In the course of your meticulous investigations, did you consider whether these deaths were in any way connected?”

“I didn't see how.”

“What about Justice Warren Naught, who drowned off a dock last August 18, at Fishermen's Wharf?”

“Well, that's out of my jurisdiction, I don't know much about it except what I've been told.”

Arthur was tempted to ask the ultimate hearsay question–
What were you told?–
to test Kroop, to see if he had any fight left, but it didn't seem cricket to take advantage of his suffering. It would be unjust to trigger an audible gas eruption–which, from the intense look in his eyes, seemed impending.

To give Wentworth more time in the witness room, he backtracked to the higher priority matter of Carlos Espinoza, directing Chekoff's attention to the news clipping from 1992 relating the dashing dealer's history of arrests and escapes. When he sought to file the story as an exhibit, Kroop gave no sign of response except for a slight bulging of eyes and tightening of face muscles.

“You're looking into whether Carlos Espinoza was recently in Canada?”

“Well, I can check with immigration, if you like.”

“I'd appreciate that. Thank you.”

Arthur sat and looked around for Abigail, but she'd obviously bolted for the loo. Haley looked anxious, seeming not up to the task of standing in. “Well?” Kroop said, irritated at the delay. “Well?”

Well was obviously what His Lordship was not, for he suddenly stood, holding his stomach, and sped to his chambers, emitting a clenched squeak from behind as he hurtled inside and slammed the door.