Kill All the Judges (43 page)

“A sad day, milord,” Abigail said. “Madam Justice Rudweiler was a powerful voice on the appellate bench. I know you had enormous respect for her.”

“And for a very good reason. She regularly upheld my rulings. Hmf, hmf.” He didn't seem to be mourning that much. “Bertha had little time for modernist ideas that divorce laws from ancient authority. Old-fashioned, you might call her, but her breed is fast disappearing.”

If he was baiting Abigail, the ultimate modernist, she wasn't rising to it. Wentworth dared throw in his two-bits' worth, a mindless bit about Rudweiler's reputation for hewing to principle.

“Well said, young man.” Wentworth sneaked a look at Abigail, who seemed equally amazed at this display of bonhomie. “But where is my friend Arthur Beauchamp? Are we to expect he'll be wandering by at some point?”

Wentworth sought to leave the impression Arthur had been called away briefly on vital matters. He didn't mention fishing.

“Normally, of course, we would adjourn to mourn the passing of our sister Rudweiler, but that would be unfair to our jury, given all the interruptions they've endured. You're up to it, Miss Hitchins?”

“Raring to go, milord.”

“Whom do you have left? Obviously the deceased's spouse, and Miss Leich–whose Hedda Gabler, by the way, was among the finest I've seen–and did I hear there may be two others?”

Abigail said she'd added the maid and guard to her list.

“Surely they won't take long.”

“The Crown's case could be wrapped up by day's end.”

“And you, Mr. Chance? How long do you anticipate the defence will take?”

Wentworth was bold: “Well, sir, if the Crown's case doesn't shape up by the end of the day, I'm sure you'll hear Mr. Beauchamp move for a directed verdict. Otherwise I can't honestly say what he plans to do. It depends on those two main witnesses.”

“Then it's best we press ahead. But I propose–and I'll hear you on it–a slight digression from the usual timetable. I have in mind that we plough ahead this week until all the Crown witnesses are in. That means sitting tomorrow, Saturday. Defer our weekend by a day, with Sunday and Monday free. Happily, that would allow me to attend to my state duties in the nation's capital. Then we can all be back here on Tuesday. Does that seem practicable?”

Tuesday, election day. Wentworth strived to frame a complaint. Words didn't come.

“I see no alarms being raised, hear no howls of protest. Excellent.” He rose. “Thank you, both of you; you've been most considerate. Now shall we all return to the tasks at hand?”

Wentworth walked out in a daze. Ebenezer Kroop had been visited by the Ghost of Judgments Past, or maybe by Bertha Rottweiler, and had evolved into a repentant, kindly human.

Judge Ebbe was again in the gallery, giving him the evil eye, still smarting from Wentworth's insinuation of guilt. Sitting behind him was another familiar face…He jumped, startled, recognizing her, a ghost from his own recent past…was that really April Fan Wu? Shouldn't she be in Hong Kong? Wait…sitting beside her was an even scarier visitation, Brian Pomeroy, looking totally cleaned up. The nicotine-stained moustache was history. Blue suit, blue silk tie, tailored off-white shirt. The blank stare said he was not at any advanced stage of recovery.

As Wentworth bore down upon them, April looked up from a clipboard, smiled her ultra-cool smile. “Either your legs have grown or you're wearing someone else's trousers.”

“They're mine,” Pomeroy said. “Did you find the ring? Check the pockets.”

“Why are
either
of you here?”

“The info feed into Hollyburn Hall is zero,” Brian said. He held a pad of lined paper, a sharpened pencil. “We're getting close to the final chapter. I don't trust the court reporter.”

Wentworth had to check his own sanity. Okay, he was in court 67, all normal, sheriffs, clerk, prosecutors, Silent Shawn, the jury filing in.

“April, why aren't you in Hong Kong?”

“I renewed my visa.”

“She's come back for the climax, Wentworth.”

“I have taken him out on a day pass,” April said.

“Order in court!”

Wentworth got a frustrated out-of-the-loop look from Cud as he returned to his battle station. Cud had a dread of Pomeroy–nobody warned him a madman was defending him for murder, that was his refrain. Wentworth hoped April could keep the senior partner under control; he might erupt, pull some crazy act.

Abigail stood to call the next witness, but Kroop stilled her with a raised hand. “Before we proceed, Madam Prosecutor, there is a matter I wish to discuss with the jury.” He scanned them with his dark, cavernous eyes. The union organizer, Altieri, was looking distrustfully at Cud for some reason.

“One would have to be blind and deaf,” Kroop said, “not to be aware that on a matter entirely unrelated to this trial, the media have, regrettably, mentioned the deceased in connection with an alleged financial transaction. None of that is admissible in this court, and will play no part in your deliberations. I hope I make myself clear.”

Heads nodded. Everyone on that jury had heard about the four-million-dollar bribe.

Now the chief's bulk shifted as he turned to Wentworth, who was suddenly impaled by his eyes, intense like the eyes of a cat stalking a rat.

“It would appear that Mr. Chance here, the seemingly unassuming gentleman at the end of the counsel table, let slip to the press a document they eagerly seized upon for their headlines. In doing so, Mr. Chance, you demonstrated wanton disregard for the high ethical standards of the legal profession.”

Wentworth was frozen, partway out of his chair, hands raised as if to ward off a blow, his face a map of shock and consternation.

“Properly I should call upon you to show cause why you should not be cited for contempt, Mr. Chance. Were we not so severely pressed for time, I would have no hesitation doing so. I do, however, intend to report the matter to Law Society with a recommendation for your suspension.”

Wentworth finally made it to a standing position, the blood rushing from his face.

“Sit down. The matter is closed.”

He almost fainted into his seat. He could barely hear Kroop addressing the jury, the tone courteous now, confiding, as he apologized for disturbing their weekend plans. Wentworth turned, looked around for support; it wasn't coming from impassive Silent Shawn. Judge Ebbe was grinning.

He felt the creeping edge of panic. Why had he just stood there and let the sadist humiliate him in front of everyone, in front of the press, accusing him of deliberately leaking that document? Arthur would have waded into him.

“Asshole.” Wentworth heard it, and probably so did most spectators, but the obscenity didn't travel well to the bench. The chief perked up his ears, though, and as he searched the gallery, he scowled on seeing Pomeroy in the back row, the jeering expression.

Wentworth held his breath. He could tell Kroop was itching to confront Pomeroy, flail him into admitting he'd uttered a slur. He looked at the wall clock, then Pomeroy, then again at the clock. “Call your next witness, Madam Prosecutor.”

 

FOWL MURDER

A
rthur was pleased with himself, he'd survived the power outage, braved the frigid weather, conquered the Salish Sea, and he was going to make it to court in time. A generous endowment had coaxed Stoney to truck him to the ten-fifteen ferry, and now he was in a taxi, speeding by the lush farmlands of Tsawwassen and Ladner. Tomorrow was Saturday, he'd have the weekend to reinvigorate himself for the finale, his jury speech. He'd have to dig deep to find pity for Wilbur Kroop, whose illness had set the schedule askew, and who must now abandon hope of schmoozing with the Governor General on Monday.

Nonetheless, it would be a hectic weekend. With the election only a few days hence, he'll not enjoy much ease, nor will he be kicking back with his old cronies Ovid, Milton, and Bach. He must
not
miss the candidates faceoff on Saltspring tomorrow afternoon. Also, Lavinia was returning to Estonia in a few days, so Blunder Bay has to wish her bon voyage. Poor Nick will be desolate, but he's leaving too and will share top billing at the farewell party.

This weekend will also see the Garibaldi winter season's major cultural event, the official unveiling of Hamish McCoy's act of penance, the supposed Venus. As seen from the aft deck of the ferry, her body was still hidden in sheeting, but there was a promise of beauty above, a pair of gracefully curved wings, taut as the wings of a braking goose.

Arthur was eager to catch an update on his trial on the noon newscast, but felt it impolite to intrude on the East Indian raga his driver was listening to. One could only hope that young Wentworth got through the morning without mishap.

Presently, an hour or so from now, he must face Astrid Leich.
I think I've just witnessed a cold-blooded murder!
Emphatic enough except for the
I think. That's the man,
she cried as she pointed to the sixth of a male octet. Too vain to admit to uncertainty, had she made a lucky guess? Had a bent cop bent her ear with a hint that the killer had a bent nose? Surely she'd have needed more than corrective lenses to make out the contours of a nasal organ from sixty yards.

Abigail's claim that this eyewitness hasn't been contaminated by press coverage will have to be tested. And if she fails to identify Cud, the defence could glide to a soft landing. Barring a ringer from Florenza LeGrand, there'd be nothing for a jury to chew.
Ex nihilo nihil fit.
From nothing, nothing can be made. The verdict could be in before quitting time today.

He sat back, enjoying the melodious interplay of sitars and lutes and reeds.

At the law courts, he crossed paths with John Brovak, shrugging into his Harley-Davidson jacket. “Another black day, Arturo, for those who dare sit in judgment of Morgan and Twenty-one Others. A perilous profession, the judiciary. I weep.” He hurried off.

Thus was Arthur informed of Bertha Rudweiler's death, especially disturbing news given she'd been in fair fettle during lunch on Tuesday. Cud benefited from her death–or at least its morbid byproduct: her poisoning would add to the common bruit that some loosely hinged loser with a grudge against the courts was serially killing judges.

Given that both justices Naught and Rudweiler had died in
combat with the Ruby Morgan defenders, one might want to cross-reference those dozen lawyers with the attendees at Kroop's banquet. Arthur supposed it was scientifically possible to taint a fowl with salmonella–doubtless the recipe could be found, as with so many other barbarities, on the Internet.

Alone among the several lawyers in the barristers' lounge was Wentworth Chance, staring out a window, arms folded. Oblivious, gone. Arthur let him be–Abigail was wiggling a finger at him, and he joined her at the coffee counter. “He's been standing there for the last twenty minutes,” she said. “Comatose.”

“How did he do?”

“Not brilliant, but he managed to fill the morning. Wrung his two witnesses dry. The chief was going, ‘Do we have to hear how he rose through the ranks of the Indian army?' ‘Do we really need to know all the names of Ms. Rossignol's stuffed animals?'”

“Did Rashid put Carlos at the scene of the crime?”

“Yeah, but eight weeks later. So he was her live-in lover for seven days in January, where do you go with it? What confuses me is the droll scene around the Limey paparazzo. Flo lets this jerk into the house for a two-hour exclusive–I don't get it.”

It seemed she hadn't guessed who this mystery man was. Arthur continued without a beat. “The ring went in?”

“Exhibit 46.”

“Philomène identified it?”

“Sure, but why don't you ask him?” Wentworth, mesmerized by a wall of office windows across the street.

“He tends to get inside his head. I'm not sure what he does in there. Equations, maybe.”