Kill All the Judges (44 page)

“It's shell-shock, Arthur. Kroop shat all over him. Not just cruel and unusual. Sadistic.”

Arthur's jaw dropped as she described the scene, a public drawing and quartering. He excoriated himself, he shouldn't have left the lad in the sandbox with the neighbourhood bully. This was payback for Wentworth's role in the Gilbert Gilbert trial. Arthur's
fury would have to be controlled, he didn't want Kroop taking revenge by denying a motion to dismiss.

“By the way, Bry Pomeroy popped in for a while this morning. With some woman–his nurse?”

“How odd.”

“We were all holding our breath. And get ready for this. We're sitting tomorrow so Kroop can free up Monday.”

Arthur almost spewed his coffee. “Tomorrow? Saturday! I have plans!”

“Softly, softly. He intends to sit until all the testimony is in, but maybe we can wrap it up early.”

“Do I understand you may not oppose a motion for a directed verdict?”

“Depending how it goes today.”

“Abigail, you have been most evenhanded during these proceedings. More decent to me than I deserve, frankly.”

“Well, there's a reason for that.” She pinched his cheek. “I'm secretly in love with you.”

“Give me this boon, Abigail, don't allow Leich a look at the lineup photo until she's had a chance to pick my man out in court.”

“For you, Arthur.”

He'd like to believe Abigail was motivated by affection for the old fogey, but of course that wasn't it. The prize fish she hoped to catch was Flo LeGrand, and if Cuddles got swept up in her net like some helpless guppy, too bad for him. Doubtless, she ached to pull in this wealthy, predacious playgirl, an embarrassment to the feminist movement.

He confronted Wentworth, blocking his view out the window. No immediate sign of recognition until he sighed. “Where were you?”

Since the answer was obviously known, Arthur took that as accusatory–why weren't you there in my time of need? “Let's call it a chicken-plucking emergency, I'll explain later.”

“I should have become an archaeologist. That was my second choice.”

“Abigail said you did splendidly. As to Kroop, you'll just have to shrug it off; if he's not rewarded appropriately in the afterlife, we'll know there's no God. I assume the police and media are scurrying about looking for a British tabloid reporter.”

“I left it at that. I didn't drag Brian into it, I worried he'd go off half-cocked. He was in the gallery with April Wu. I was pretty confused about that. They've gone somewhere for lunch.”

“Did you take note of his mental state?”

“He still thinks this trial is some kind of novel.”

Arthur felt he'd be a step up if he could solve Pomeroy's whodunit, if he could pin the tail on the right donkey, the right perp. He had a sense the key to the mystery lay hidden in the messy tangle of Pomeroy's synapses–something had happened during that two-hour tête-à-tête with Florenza LeGrand, something other than an exchange of pleasantries. Had she told him who the perp was?

And what role was the unpredictable Lady of the Proverbs playing? If she wasn't still on Donat LeGrand's payroll, had she gone off on some fancy of her own? Was she serving as ward to Brian out of sympathy, affection, or simple curiosity? She was an enigma. Arthur was troubled by her in ways he couldn't define.

In the locker room, he ran a comb through his British Ambassador, shrugged into his robes. As he slipped outside for a quick puff, Felicity Jones burst past him and down the street, tears streaming. This grand exit looked more permanent than the last, her face set with unforgiving stubbornness.

On his way up to level six he detoured past his pestering client, who was on a landing thronged by chirruping nubile Cudaholics. One of them was giving him a back rub. Cud's latest creative effort, as related by Wentworth–his heroic leap into the Aston Martin to catch a killer–has persuaded Arthur he would be a fool
to put him on the stand. There, Cud could be cross-examined about his two prior assaults–leaving it open to the jury to conclude he was prone to violent acts.

Wentworth was waiting near the door to court 67, anxious, jittery, apparently not much perked up by the pep talk Arthur had just given him. Several young lawyers were laughing at the bon mots of Judge Ebbe, in good spirits, back here to enjoy the savaging of Raffy and Boynton, the savaging of the dead. Wentworth had cheerlessly described their contretemps in the El Beau Room. Very snappish fellow, this judge, he had a history of angry outbursts.

Almost inevitably, here was Charles Loobie with his “Hey, Artie, I got something for you.” Arthur's suspicions about this overly helpful reporter were renewed each time he played prompter to the defence, keeping him prominently on the short list. Arthur listened patiently. This one was about a long-ago sexual conquest by Cud, the teenaged daughter of the president of Steelworkers Local 305 in Edmonton. There'd been a small scandal around that, and Cud had taken a powder from town.

“You want to worry about that union guy, he's been looking fish-eyed at your client.” Tom Altieri.

If this rumour was true, the client had again been hoisted by his unregulated sex drive–the last thing Arthur needed was an unsympathetic juror.

As Cud came striding toward him, Arthur hurried his junior inside the court but couldn't get distance. A tug at his gown, the dreaded importuning voice. “I don't get it, my life's on the line, and my counsel takes a bunk? Leaving me defended by a gawk who gets beat up by the presiding fascist despot. I need protection from this judge, man, he even looks like Hermann Goering. On top of everything, Felicity has a fit because I get tied up with my reading public.”

Arthur directed him to a seat near the back where short-sighted Astrid Leich might not quickly spot him, placing him between an older woman and a man in a leather jacket whom Arthur knew to
be a plain-clothes officer. There were always a curious few of these here, cops killing time, under subpoena for other trials. The room also attracted its share of law students, mostly women, but enough men to give Leich pause. Several lawyers from the aborted Morgan appeal were sharing the counsel bench with Silent Shawn. Sergeant Chekoff was in the back row, beside two reserved seats.

Moving in to claim them were cleancut Brian Pomeroy and his keeper, April Fan Wu, sliding past Chekoff, trying not to step on his shoes. They picked up their markers, a hat and a scarf, and sat. Pomeroy looked medicated, not much emotion showing, but he caught Arthur's eye, a form of recognition. Arthur didn't want him here, a time bomb in the back row. Kroop could be the one to light the fuse.

Several jurors gave Arthur smiles of relief that he hadn't abandoned ship. There was an air of expectancy–all the circumstantial evidence was in, and the trial was moving toward its defining moment, the eyewitnesses, the stars.

“Order in court!”

Enter the bullying martinet, lumbering onto the bench, glowering at Arthur, as if daring him to give him a bad time today. Kroop located Cudworth, squinted at Pomeroy, and then, for some reason, fixed for a moment on Judge Ebbe.

All eyes turned to Astrid Leich, pausing at the door, sizing up the audience, then regally walking up the aisle. Seventy-three but hiding those years well, a reasonable facsimile of the slender belle Arthur recalled from the Playhouse Theatre. Modern fluffy hairdo, a little darker than it ought to be, an ersatz rose at her left shoulder. No glasses, presumably contacts.

Kroop seemed instantly under her spell. “I hope that chair is comfortable for you, madam. Mr. Sheriff, bring her a fresh glass of water.” She smiled her appreciation.

Abigail led her through a personal history: forty-year stage career, divorced a decade ago but left in comfort by her spouse, a financier. Long-time homeowner at 5 Lighthouse Lane. Chair of the
North Shore Arts Council. No dramatic flourishes. Increasingly warm smiles for the judge, eye contact with several jurors.

She had spent the afternoon of Saturday, October 12, at a show of an artist friend's seascapes, returned home before nine o'clock, ate, made tea, and was about to settle in with a rented movie when she was reminded, by the lights and activity across the inlet, that her neighbours were holding a fundraiser for the Literary Trust.

She'd been a guest at similar arts events, and on learning her neighbours planned to host one had left a phone message commending them. “I had read that three writers of note would be present, but I'd heard only of Professor Chandra and Ms. Tinkerson. The name Cudworth Brown meant nothing.”

Arthur managed to resist the impulse of turning to see how Cud was taking this.

“Living alone these many years has made me a curious old woman, I suppose–my other excuse is that it was a lovely fall evening–so I took my tea out to the balcony. Their outdoor lights were on, but I was a little embarrassed to be seen, so I didn't turn on mine.”

Abigail asked how well she knew Whynet-Moir and Florenza.

“Well enough to shout occasional greetings across the water. I'd met Florenza through her parents–before they passed the property on to her and Rafael. That was a year and a half ago; 2 Lighthouse Lane was their wedding gift. Flo and Rafael have been over for tea, and I've attended a couple of their dinner parties.”

“And what view of 2 Lighthouse Lane do you have from your balcony?”

“I can see about, oh, a hundred feet of the upper cedar deck and the adjoining living quarters–not inside, the curtains are usually drawn. Evergreens block their front entrance and the entire rear of the house, but there's a gap between their driveway and the parking area.”

“What about their garage?”

“It's obscured. You can just see the roof.”

“And where is that garage in relation to the deck?”

“It's about a hundred feet behind it, on higher ground.”

“Tell us what you observed on the deck.”

“It looked like dinner had concluded. I saw a caterer bustling about replacing ashtrays. Florenza was smoking–she loves those smelly Gitanes–with a gentleman in blue jeans and suspenders–I believe they were red–over a denim shirt. Shaggy light brown hair, over the collar. Some kind of chain around his neck, with what looked like a medallion. I could only suppose this was the poet, Mr. Cudworth Brown, and that was soon confirmed–though I shouldn't get ahead of myself.”

Arthur listened with morbid fascination. The clarity of her phrasing, her management of details, her disarming frankness: all indicators of the truthful informant. An impressive witness. He had expected she'd be…flightier.

“How well could you see this man in the suspenders?”

“Well, from over a hundred and fifty feet away…I must confess I'm quite astigmatic, but I'd had my eyeglasses renewed just two months earlier.”

“And you were wearing them?”

“Yes, I'd taken my contacts out. I could see him well enough.”

This was neatly blunting Arthur's main line of attack. He may have to remodel his cross-examination.

“Describe this man.”

“Average height, fairly broad in the chest, an open face, handsome, good lines. A little rugged, I thought.”

“His age?”

“Mid-forties.”

She didn't mention the nose. Its slight warp at the crown must not have registered.

“Had you ever seen him before?”

“I very much doubt it.”

“Or since?”

“I've had no cause to. I've been instructed many times by Detective Sergeant Chekoff not to contaminate my evidence by looking at newspapers and newsreels.”

“Good for you, madam,” Kroop said, reinforcing her as a witness of vast probity.

“Could you hear any conversation?”

“No, they were speaking softly, they were quite close together. I had no trouble hearing Rafael when he came out to fetch them. He said, ‘Ah, here you are, Cudworth.'”

“Then what happened?”

“The three of them went back in. So did I. Olivier was prodding me, my poor old tomcat–I'd forgot to feed him and give him his medicine.”

Wentworth Chance's reaction to this appallingly sweet witness was to fidget like a monkey with fleas. Arthur nudged him in the ribs. In contrast, the chief justice was placid, his eyes calflike, soft with adoration. The sight of Pomeroy writing furiously in the back row caused Arthur a spectral, preternatural twinge, an odd sense he was a character in a book. An echo from his dreams.

“After putting away my tea things, I plugged in the movie–
Vertigo
, with Jimmy Stewart and Kim Novak.”

“To my mind, one of Hitchcock's best,” said Kroop, surprising Arthur, who hadn't imagined him as a film devotee.

“I'd only just settled in front of the set–maybe twenty minutes had passed–when I saw several headlights, so I went out again. The guests were leaving, and Rafael and Florenza were seeing them off. I had a clear view of the man in the braces–he was smoking a cigar near the stairs to…I guess their pool, but it's walled in, I can't see it from my house…Oh, you'll think I'm a terrible snoop.” The jurors smiled. So did Arthur; she practically owned the courtroom.

“How was he dressed?”

“The same, denim shirt and dark trousers, medallion, work boots. One of the braces had come loose, and he tugged it back up.”

“About what time was this?”

“Oh, maybe ten o'clock. And I went back to my movie, and…well, quite honestly, I fell asleep in front of the set.”

“I've done that myself, madam.” Bonding with her.

The jury's attention shifted, a stirring at the door: Felicity Jones, looking sullen with loss of pride. An overly considerate deputy found her an empty seat, far enough from Cuddles to reduce, though not eliminate, the risk of a rattle-brained scene that would help Leich pick him out.

Meanwhile, Arthur had lost the thread of her evidence. As he picked it up, she was upstairs, asleep in her four-poster bed.