Kill All the Judges (49 page)

EBBE AND FLO

W
entworth tried to rise, he needed to walk off the erotic tension, but the boss gripped his elbow with his big farm-toughened hand and pulled him down hard. “What do you make of her?”

Wentworth thought of saying, “Hot stuff,” but that didn't seem analytical enough. “She's pretty direct. Mostly telling the truth, except I didn't hear ‘Help me escape.'”

“What should we deduce from that?”

“That she doesn't want to implicate her and Cudworth.” That seemed obvious, the more Wentworth thought about it.

“You think that's where she's heading?”

“Looks that way.”

“A well-crafted piece of testimony.” They both turned to look at Silent Shawn's backside as he led his client out for her mid-morning Gitane. “Never trust a sociopath.”

Wentworth wasn't sure which of them he was referring to.

The nearest washroom had a lineup, so he went a flight down, past Felicity sulking on a step, Cud loudly imploring her. “It's only you, baby; that was just a oncer, she was suffering terminal lackanookie.”

A lavatory on a lower gallery was uninhabited except for one guy at the end urinal. Concentrating on his aim, Wentworth didn't recognize Judge Ebbe until he looked up.

“We meet again,” Ebbe said.

Wentworth didn't know what to say, he had trouble peeing.

“Sorry I erupted the other day.” Another pause, then a tight laugh. “October 13. I was at home writing a thirty-page judgment. My wife remembers having to drag me to bed.”

Ebbe zipped, went off to wash his hands. Wentworth struggled for something neutral to say. “So what do you think Ms. LeGrand is up to, Judge?”

“Covering for Hamilton.”

When Shawn Hamilton retook his seat beside Ebbe, still not acknowledging him, he looked a little bilious. Wentworth had seen Flo shrug him off as they got off the elevator. He wondered what that was all about.

Now, as she took the witness chair, she seemed composed, crossing her legs, displaying, vain about her beauty. Not like April, who was accepting of it, serene, confident. He wondered if he'd misread April's signals, that little air kiss as he left for court. Maybe she got a kick out of seeing him twitch and blush. Last night, he'd pretended she was his pillow. He mustn't get distracted from this trial.

Abruptly, not waiting for Abigail, Flo said, “I forgot something.” Reaching into her bag. “Before he did his reading, I asked him to sign these.” Out came Cud's two books. Abigail moved quickly to retrieve them, opened the covers.

“It's on the title page,” Flo said.

Abigail offered the books to Arthur, who waved her off. “For the record,” said Abigail, “the first book,
Liquor Balls
, will be Exhibit 47,
Karmageddon
, 48. The former bears the inscription ‘Never regret,' and the latter, ‘New love blooms as the old lies dying.'” No mention that she'd practically dictated those inscriptions.

Abigail asked how much she'd had to drink.

“A martini and four or five glasses of wine. I wasn't really smashed, but I was feeling it. I may have had one last thimble of cognac with Cudworth, but after that I stopped drinking.”

Cud had polished off the rest of the Hennessy, the empty was by the pool. Wentworth felt queasy thinking of the alcoholic
intake, he couldn't imagine how Cud could even stand up, let alone make it up the stairs to his quarters. But that's where they went, nakedly clutching their clothes.

They didn't bother to turn out the lights, went at it as soon as they hit the bed. “I'd never felt such hunger, it was like we couldn't get enough of each other. We were oblivious to the world.” This was right out of a Harlequin. It was like a lot of her evidence, overstated.

“How long did this lovemaking go on?”

“I can't even remember. I didn't want it to end. I was smitten.”

Wentworth was having a little trouble accepting the smitten bit. Horny, for sure. He understood horny.

At some point, booze and exertion had got to Cud, and he either passed out or fell asleep. Flo disentangled from him to go to the washroom. From her second-floor window she saw the eerie sight, a hundred feet away, of her husband's head and torso sticking out just above the eaves of the living room. She jumped up, made out that he was on a chair. “I was spooked, I kind of freaked.”

“And what did you do?”

A silence, Flo musing. “I don't want to answer that question.”

Kroop scowled. “Miss LeGrand, we are not playing a parlour game, which you can withdraw from at your leisure. This is a
court
!”

“I was told I could object.”

“And you have done so, and what you say cannot be used against you. But you must say it. I will not hesitate to hold you in contempt.”

“I don't want to implicate anyone.”

“Very well, Miss LeGrand, I call upon you to show cause why you should not be cited for contempt.”

Another long moment, as her face kind of puffed up, tears coming. “I said…I awoke Cudworth, I said, ‘That bastard! He's spying!' Oh, God, I'm sorry, Cudworth, I'm so sorry. Forgive me.”

A rush of tears, real or make-believe Wentworth couldn't tell, but she talked through them. “He pulled on his clothes and rushed out,
I pleaded with him, I grabbed him, tried to stop him, but he pushed past me. He was drunk, I can't imagine he knew what he was doing, it was like a nightmare, maybe
he
was having a nightmare, and then he was out on the deck, and I saw…I saw him push Rafael off balance, down over the railing.”

She got all this out loud and clear somehow, despite the liberal use of tissues from a handy packet in her bag. She blew into one, wiped, bowed her head till it was just above her knees, and continued crying. “I'm so sorry, Cudworth.”

Arthur shifted about to face her and with huge audacity, and with a voice reaching into every corner of the room, said, “Nobody's buying it, Ms. LeGrand.”

Kroop went livid. “Counsel will hold his tongue!” He simmered awhile, got under control, then turned to Flo, a different face, solicitous. “Madam, it would not be fair to add to your distress by continuing now. We'll take the lunch break early, so you can repair yourself, and resume at one-thirty.”

The court emptied fast, but Wentworth was stuck to his seat, waiting for some pronouncement from beside him, a word of assurance, a snort of derision, anything. But Arthur was staring at the wall clock, running his thumbs up and down under his braces.

Finally, he said, “I'll want you to phone my wife. I can't handle it.”

“No problem.” Wentworth was anxious for him, he looked tired. He wasn't sure nobody was buying Florenza's story; some of those jurors looked like they were ready to write her a cheque.

“Are we going to put Cud on the stand?”

“I'd rather cut off my left arm.” A drawn-out groan. “You have two days to prepare him.” He rose. “I need time alone to think.” As he walked off, he sighed and said, “There are many paths to the top of the mountain, but the view is always the same.”

Sinking into a soft chair in the barristers' lounge, Wentworth fiddled with his phone as he worked through what to say to Margaret Blake. He didn't want to tell her the trial had taken a nasty turn, that Arthur had suddenly turned old in front of him. The case was taking a toll, her campaign compounding it.

“I should never have encouraged him to defend that arrogant clown,” Margaret said. “What was I thinking?”

“Not to worry, Ms. Blake, he's rounding into top form.”

“Where is he now?”

“Well, he went out for a walk.”

“I hope he's bundled up, it's very cold.”

“He needed time to plan his cross-examination.”

“Florenza LeGrand? How is she coming across?”

He may as well tell her, she'll hear anyway. “She set up Cud as the fall guy. We kind of anticipated it, so we're ready. Yep, totally under control. Oh, and Mr. Beauchamp told me to wish you well, he knows you'll do great this afternoon. That goes for me too.”

“Give him a hug for me.”

On his way to Taco Takeout, his preferred inexpensive eatery, Wentworth tried and failed to conceive of himself hugging the boss. He wished there was some way to buoy him up; he felt sad for the great man, the pressure he was under. It would be tragic to end his career with a loss, a black blot on the archives.

He worried Arthur might falter in cross, wouldn't be able to crack that snake–she'd really pulled the rug out from them, and this had suddenly become a very sticky case. Her evidence accorded pretty much with Cud's, so there wasn't that much working space for cross-examination, no room to contradict her. The boss was handcuffed, didn't dare accuse her of egging on Cud to help her escape a life with boring Whynet-Moir.

I don't want to implicate anyone.
Said with a straight face just before she caved in and tearfully grassed on her lustful savage. Silent Shawn had probably come up with that one, it was brilliant. And she'd been good. She, not Leich, wins the drama critics' prize.

He'd expected Cud to come bounding up to the counsel table at the break, demanding the lying slut be charged with perjury, ordering Arthur to carve her to pieces. But he'd wandered out in a daze, abandoning Felicity, abandoning his followers, looking like a man in need of strong drink. What rhymes with disaster?

Tomorrow he'll spend some quality time with Cud, who had better come up with a straight story this time. Wentworth should check to see how Pomeroy has written it.

He wondered where Arthur's walk was taking him. Somewhere in the West End, or English Bay, the deserted beaches of winter. Maybe he was taking one of those paths to the top of the mountain.

He slipped onto a stool, ordered the meatless taco and a side of refries, $7.35 plus tip. Taco Takeout discouraged dining in, but they had counter seating, a polyglot place, skins of many colours but mostly Latino. That cool dude in a suit kind of looked like Carlos. Drawn back to the scene of the crime, to claim his mistress and her fortune.

The Mexican lunged, but Wentworth caught his wrist, twisting until the knife dropped, piercing the taco with a twang. “Who paid you? Silent Shawn?” Carlos winced with pain. Wentworth twisted harder.

“I tell you, amigo, I tell you. Some hombre from Ottawa, I don know hees name.”

“Describe him.”

“Beard, round face like back of ass.”

When court resumed, Cud and Felicity were back together, seated in the third row. Cud must have been to a tavern, he smelled beery. He continued to avoid his lawyers, which was abnormal. Arthur wasn't any more communicative, he'd returned to court sombre and thoughtful.

Flo looked composed enough, but she'd repaired the damage with too much mascara and eye shadow, like a punk rocker.
Wentworth found it odd that her parents weren't here to support her.

“Witness, you're still under oath,” Kroop said.

“As if that mattered,” Arthur murmured. Good, the boss was getting himself pumped, booting up for his cross.

Abigail had a few more questions, she wanted to nail down Flo's evidence. Were the windows of the maid's room curtained? No. Were they open? No. How well could she see the action? Well enough, she had a good view from higher up, it happened near one of the night lamps. How did the accused make his approach? From behind. Show us Cud's pushing motion. Palms out, arms extended, contact made with Whynet-Moir's buttocks. Describe how he fell. A leg got caught on the railing and he went down headfirst.

Abigail brought out these specifics methodically, Flo unemotional in her responses, detached. As if she was resigned to the disagreeable task of putting Cud behind bars.

“What did you do next?”

“I don't know, I was in a total fugue state. Scared, confused.” She picked up the pace, in a hurry to get to the end. “I was gathering up my clothes. I heard the garage doors open, and I looked out and the Aston Martin was roaring out of there. I didn't see the crash, but I heard it. I ran to the house. I was terrified. I didn't know what to do. I went up to the bedroom, half-convinced I'd been hallucinating, but he wasn't there, Rafael wasn't there.”