Kill All the Judges (38 page)

“Recognize this?”

“It belong Madam LeGrand, her favourite ring.”

On his way to fetch Rashid from the witness room, he checked around for the boss. No sign of him. Down below, in the great hall,
he could see Cud coming in after finishing a cigarette, his girlfriend, the wannabe poet, hanging on his arm.

He found a clutch of court staff gossiping by the locked courtroom door. Prognoses for the chief varied. He's up and raring to go, said one deputy. Still leaning over a toilet bowl, said another. He'd irately sent a doctor packing, the clerk confided.

The witness room was much grander than the cramped interview room, and ten times as comfy as Wentworth's flat. Soft chairs, waxed tables, reading lamps, magazines, tiled bathroom. But its population was totally depleted, except for Rashid. Astrid Leich had been excused until tomorrow.

He sat and opened his briefcase, drew out his pad as Rashid, neatly dressed, straight-backed, sat defensively, hands flat on the table, as if steeling himself for a form of light torture. Bengali, eight years in Canada. “Retired major, sir, third division, India Army, sir.” Each
sir
exploded like a pistol shot.

He and Heathcliff the dog had been doing the day shift at the gate since mid-October, a four-month tour, noon to eight, defending against the curious and the prying press. “The usual riff-raff, sir.”

Florenza had rarely left her luxurious prison, though he'd heard from the night guard she'd been whisked away occasionally by taxi or limo service, but never for long, never past midnight.

When Wentworth dropped Carlos's name, he cleared his throat. “I am under orders, sir.”

“Excuse me? What orders?”

“I could lose my job, sir.”

“Rashid, you are under subpoena, you have no choice.”

“I understand, sir, but my instructions are clear.”

“Exactly who instructed you?”

“The lady of the house. Mrs. LeGrand.”

“Well, I'm countermanding them. She's a civilian. I am an officer of the court.”

That seemed to work because after a few moments he took a deep breath and said, “Yes, sir.”

Wentworth finally drew from him that a gentleman of pleasant manners and fine taste in dress, whose first language was Spanish, was Florenza's house guest for a week shortly after New Year's.

“Carlos Espinoza–that might have been his name?”

“We were not formally introduced. I heard him addressed as Carlos.”

And he was there January 9, at the time of a sneak visit by a man who fit Pomeroy's description–especially the twitching and the glinting eyes. But the account was both confusing and questionable.

“He gave madam his card and telephoned London to confirm he was a British tabloid reporter. Oh, it was quite a scene, even the neighbour came out to watch.”

“Ms. Leich?”

“From her balcony. The famous actress herself.”

As best Wentworth could make out, this occurred about where Whynet-Moir had gone over the railing. Pomeroy's cellphone was seized. Carlos disappeared into the house. But then things settled down–Rashid didn't hear much conversation, but ultimately Flo invited the man inside. “I was disappointed that she would grant an interview to this riff-raff, sir,”

Then, several minutes later, Carlos hurried out, waving off Rashid when he offered to take his bags. “He said, ‘You've never seen me, amigo.' A taxi came for him.”

Soon after, Flo told him to return to his post at the gate. Brian stayed in the house another hour.

“What do you suppose they were doing?”

“I am not able to answer that, sir.”

Wentworth found the gallery outside court 67 deserted except for a lone reporter at her cellphone and Felicity and Cud on a settee, she scribbling and he glowering, arms folded. “I'm outside, doing a burn, I come back, and everyone's AWOL. If there was a bomb threat, nobody told me. I think I got a right to know what's going on.”

Wentworth didn't admit he was equally in the dark, and sidled up behind the newswoman. “…adjourned for the day, according to the clerk of the court. Also stricken is the chief prosecutor, Abigail Hitchins, who was seated with Chief Justice Kroop at the head table, along with two appeal judges, both of whom have also taken ill…”

Cud grunted, “Gotta hear it on the fucking radio news. I'm tired of being ignored.”

Wentworth asked, “You seen Mr. Beauchamp?”

“Who's he? Oh, I remember, my
mouthpiece
. Who promised to go balls out to get me off.”

“Where's your mum?”

“She had to get back to her waitress job. We managed to scrounge up a bus ticket.”

Wentworth assumed there'd been a scene; three's a crowd. “Why don't you and Felicity go have lunch. Then come to the office, and I'll start prepping you for the stand.”

“Is
melancholy
spelled with a
c
or a
k
?” Felicity asked.

Arthur wasn't in the barristers' lounge, but here was Haley, by herself, almost as if she was waiting for him, bright and eager, “Hey, looks like we've got some free time.”

“I wish.”

“Oh, come on. What about that drink? Maybe over lunch?”

Did he dare charge the firm? He was already over his monthly spending allowance. “Uh, sure, why not. By the way, where's Arthur?”

“Oh, he said to tell you he was splitting for Garibaldi by float plane, he'll be back in the morning.” Tomorrow, Friday, the
trial's most crucial day. A mini-holiday, as if he didn't have a care in the world.

She boldly took his arm as they crossed the street to the El Beau Room, packed with lawyers refuelling for the afternoon or making loud, insincere noises about the food-poisoned judges and their rotten luck. John Brovak was with his co-counsel for Morgan and Twenty-one Others, all getting into the juice, jabbering and laughing. Loobie was there too, mooching off them.

Haley started to come on like gangbusters after her second $9.50 Mai Tai, leaning close, squeezing his hand, posting a little air kiss before forking the breaded trout filet ($19.75) into her mouth and hinting she was available “all afternoon,” for what she didn't say, but he could guess. She was seated across from him, so footsies à la Florenza weren't on the menu. He felt an unbearable tingling in his groin, wondered about condoms, about whether he should drop some loonies into the washroom dispensing machine.

Meanwhile, he sipped his lager, making it stretch, and made nervous small talk. “Looks like the trial will spill over to next week. So much for the chief getting his Order of Canada on Monday.”

“Yeff,” she said, masticating her pan-fried potatoes.

“Let's see, we have the guard and the maid tomorrow, and then the two star witnesses. Maybe Donat LeGrand too, I don't know what Mr. Beauchamp wants to do with him. He's under subpoena, he's supposed to be in court, but I haven't seen him.”

“Your guy going to take the stand?”

“That's up in the air.” He wasn't going to give anything away. “The summing up to the jury, that's another half day. Mr. Beauchamp usually likes to go on for about an hour, he averages out at just over sixty-eight minutes. The judge's charge, that's another couple of hours.”

“I'm pooped. Abigail really keeps you running.”

Wentworth hadn't noticed her doing any running. “How is she?”

“Pulling through. She'll be back in action tomorrow. Let's not talk about it, we'll go off our food.” There seemed no prospect of
that, she was looking at the dessert menu. “We should go for a walk after; it's stopped raining. Hey, we could go by my new digs, I'm up on the nineteenth, great pocket view of English Bay.”

Gazing upon her plump, freckled flesh, Wentworth was just about ready to put off his interview with Cud in favour of a hot and sweaty payoff for this expensive lunch. But now John Brovak swaggered over with his whisky soda, straddled a chair backwards, close to Haley, and called for drinks all around.

“Join me in a toast to Madam Justice Rottweiler, whose absence from the appellate bench due to last night's swanky fowl has given us a day to recuperate from her savage mauling.” He was typically loud and windy after too many drinks. “She's been ambulanced to St. Paul's. We can only pray for a lengthy recovery. How's the Badger?”

“Still barricaded in his chambers,” Wentworth said.

“Guy's got a constitution of carbonized steel. He'll be the last man standing.” The waiter placed another lager, another mai tai, and another Scotch on the table. “Everything on my tab, Samson.”

Wentworth now realized he should have gone for the eight-ounce tenderloin instead of a salad, maybe he'll make amends with the honey-almond pie.

“And who is this stunning creature? Can't be your sister, she's too good-looking.”

Haley introduced herself before Wentworth had a chance. “I'm
so
pleased to meet you, John. I've heard
so
much about you.”

“Nothing good, I hope.”

“All bad.”

What were they doing, flirting? On Wentworth's watch?

“Hey, kid, I met Arthur in the locker room.” Brovak always called him kid, it was demeaning. “He said to give you this.”

A manila envelope with a three-paragraph affidavit sworn by Donat LeGrand. Wentworth reviewed it, hoping he wasn't showing his astonishment. Two healthy donations to a secret account, Whynet-Moir's, to which, presumably, the saintly Jack Boynton
had access. He excused himself, found a quiet alcove, dialed Arthur's number.

His grandson Nick answered. “I'll call him, he's out on the dock, we're getting ready for a fishing trip.” Wentworth pondered his boss's audacity: a humungous trial and he takes time off to fish.

Arthur came on. “Wentworth, I meant to call, got bogged down with a little crisis here.”

Wentworth didn't ask, suspected a ruse–he was struggling with a little loss of faith in the boss. He briefed him on his interviews with the maid and guard, Arthur listening politely but with a hint of restiveness. “Yes…yes, well, that sounds excellent.”

“What am I supposed to do with LeGrand's affidavit?”

“Ah, yes, the affidavit. You might fax me a copy while I ponder how to handle the matter.”

“How the heck did you get hold of it?”

“It's a payoff for releasing LeGrand from his subpoena and keeping silent about certain family difficulties. Enough said for now.”

Wentworth had to be satisfied with that. “Okay, what's the fax number?”

“I'm not sure, I think it comes through Margaret's computer…Never mind, I'll phone you from the general store–I'm stopping there to pick up my mail, you can fax it there.” Shouting: “I'm on my way, check to see if the silver spinner's in the bait box. Oh, Wentworth, one more thing. Do another run-through with Cudworth, that'll give you something to do with all this lag time.”

“I've already set that up.”

“Good, good, you're right on the ball. Get the full version this time, he's had long enough to think about it. If it sounds halfway credible we might go with it. But he's a loose cannon, he could sink his own ship.” Shouting again: “Make sure the reserve tank is full!” Back on the line: “Sorry, Wentworth, things are a little hectic right now. Some important, ah, family business.”

Like the business of fishing? Wentworth sought assurances that Arthur would return on time tomorrow, then ruefully disconnected. The boss must figure the trial's in the bag–doesn't he worry about Astrid Leich? Maybe if you've won 83.5 per cent of your trials, you stop giving a hoot.

He returned to the table to find Brovak making a big deal of signing the chit, rising, helping Haley on with her coat. “Oh, Wentworth,” she said, “we were just going for a little stroll. Why don't you join us?”

Wentworth read the insincerity of that invitation, and his heart sank.

“Yeah, kid, why don't you come along?” Brovak said. “Unless you got too much to do.”

“I'm overwhelmed, but thanks for the thought.” That little sardonic edge was as much as he could muster. As they slipped away, he stood there dazed, jilted at the altar, helpless, foolish, cuckolded, and he stumbled off to the bar and ordered a rye and ginger, amended that to a double. He pictured Haley waddling into court a couple of decades from now, a victim of overeating, spreading hips, ponderous breasts.

I've heard
so
much about you.
What a sleaze. Brovak too, they don't call him the Animal for nothing. Thinks he's God's gift. No taste in women.

He gulped his drink, made a face. “Same again.” He knew better than to seek solace in drink, even a couple made him spinny, his stomach queasy, but he needed courage, however false, to get through this abysmal day.

As he fumbled for his wallet, a man drew beside him, stilled his arm, threw some bills on the table. “My treat, young fellow.” Judge Ebbe, J. Dalgleish Ebbe, maybe a little liquored up himself with his flushed complexion and the way he slipped climbing on the stool. “Delighted to stand a drink for counsel doing such a meritorious murder.” He leaned close. “Scum. The deceased, in my respectful opinion, was scum.”