Kill All the Judges (53 page)

Zoller wasn't buying that. The water taxi jolted forward, made crunching contact with the dock, splintered a kayak, and sank a
rowboat, whereupon the skipper bounded from his cabin and raced down the planks to shore.

Arthur tied the craft up and made sure all systems were off, then led the survivors along the rickety boardwalk to the ferry slip. Arthur had left his cellphone at the house, so the freelancer lent him hers before racing on ahead for her local colour.

He connected with Margaret in her truck. “I thought I'd take a quick spin out to Ferryboat Bay,” she said. “All the media are there.”

“Turn back! You don't want to be seen anywhere near here.” Parents were sheltering their children from the sight.

It took Arthur a few moments to explain, then a few more while Margaret reversed into a driveway and turned for home. She warned him not to tarry, the barbecue was about to begin.

He hastened to the off-ramp to hitch a ride, waited for foot passengers and cyclists to disembark. Laughter from above, then yelling, Zoller's full-tongued recriminations. Then, closer to his ear, a voice that caused as much surprise as dread. “That's the bleeding edge, man, art as it should be, raw and real.”

Cuddles himself,
lupus in fabula
, the wolf in the tale, once again proving his talent for being in the wrong place at the wrong time. The wrong place was walking off a ferry on Garibaldi Island. The right place was Wentworth's office, where he was to have shown up two hours ago.

He was staring up at the
Goddess of Love
. “McCoy's got balls of steel. I feel like a poem coming on.”

He continued to extol this masterwork as he led Arthur to a little bench behind the Winnebagel, then said, “I had a brainstorm, too heavy for your apprentice to handle, I need to talk to the top dog.” Arthur lit his pipe, waited with foreboding.

“Florenza, man. I didn't know what to make of her at first, but then I realized, hey, this lady sounds totally up front, she's not slagging me off like I expected. It's like I got like a pact with her. If she's got nothing to hide, maybe I should follow suit; it's the honourable thing.”

“What do you mean she's got nothing to hide?”

“Hey, she admitted it in front of everybody, she's still carrying the torch and it's burning bright.”

“Your ears must have been plugged when she named you as a murderer.” Plugged by ego-wax.

“I heard it loud and clear. That's just it, maybe she honestly said what she saw.”

Arthur blew out a spume of smoke. This had the earmarks of a horror story, not the way the author wrote it. The hollering above ceased as Constable Pound's van pulled up, emergency equipment on. If Arthur was asked to defend an obscenity charge, he would hide in bed, feign a crippling ailment.

“I'm going to give you the goods, counsellor. Trouble is, I don't remember nothing. Not from the point I passed out in bed with her. Not until I woke up doing the Technicolor yawn with cops all around. So I must have got out of bed like she said, got dressed, gone down those stairs. I was out of it, a zombie. She said maybe I was having a nightmare. I could've been sleepwalking, man. She told me she wanted to be free of him, so maybe I was acting on a kind of post-hypnotic suggestion. That's got to be a medical defence, right, Arthur? I've got amnesia, so you can argue I was in a trauma because of what went on, battle fatigue, what do you call it, post-traumatic stress…”

He'd built up a head of stream but finally trailed off.

“Florenza is a psychopath, Cud, much cleverer than you. As clear proof of that she has set you up as the fall guy, and you are more the fool for acting the role.”

“Jesus. You think that's it?” He looked hurt, incredulous.

“You are to get back on this ferry and go directly to Wentworth's office. I will try as best I can to explain matters to him. I will see you Tuesday in court.”

He walked up Ferryboat Road, his thumb out, but by now the traffic had disappeared up the road. He turned to see Cud shuffling sadly back to the
Queen of Prince George
.

Then he realized he'd almost walked off with the borrowed cellphone. Before returning it, he called Wentworth, who, as expected, was flustered and breathless, worried Cud had gone on the lam. Arthur's instructions were brief. “Find some way to tell him we won't be putting him on the stand.”

The view is always the same from behind prison walls.

Arthur ended up walking home, having dallied long enough to see law and order prevail. Pound had ordered the tarps rehung and might have contemplated arresting McCoy, but the crime of obscenity wasn't in his area of competence, so he went off to seek instructions.

As he trudged into his driveway, not too late, he felt relief that Cud was out of the game, a wild card he didn't have to deal to the jury. That meant more time with Margaret's campaign; he'd been a useless appendage. Tomorrow he will go door to door with her in Cobble Hill or Honeymoon Bay or Ladysmith or wherever her agenda takes her.

This evening he'll put the trial out of his mind, there will be barbecued lamb chops, good cheer, fond farewells. Lavinia was leaving Monday, Nick the next day. Invitations to Blunder Bay's fetes were highly prized, but the list had been restricted to old friends and neighbours, many who'd already arrived. The two Nicks and the Japanese woofers were at the outdoor brick barbecue, from which sizzling smells were coming. Young Nick was looking sad, his father hawk-eyed. But Lavinia was up in the milking shed with Margaret, chores had to be done.

And here, predictably, came Stoney's flatbed, Dog in the back guarding the beer. They waved at Arthur and the guests, pretending they hadn't planned to crash the party.
I'll try to come by to look at that dock.
That's where they went, with hammers, nails, crowbars, and a chain saw. Arthur was fleet of foot to join them.

“You should have called us earlier, eh, someone could've broke his neck tripping on this plank.” Wasting no time, Stoney positioned himself, grunted, levered out a resisting, screeching nail. Many of these boards did need replacing, a task Arthur had set for himself; he'd even piled some fresh-milled wood behind the barn.

“How odd, Stoney, that I don't remember engaging your services.”

“That's totally natural, you got a lot on your plate. Thought we'd use them uncured planks you got behind the barn, that way we don't have to charge too much additional for materials. So leave the grunt work to me and Dog and go back and enjoy your fiesta. C'mon, Dog, let's hop to it.” He cracked open a beer.

Margaret was watching from the goat corral. She shrugged, surrendering to the inevitable.

“I don't suppose you'd care to join us?”

“Naw, we set our minds to do this.”

“The invitation's open.” Arthur started walking away.

“Well, okay, if you insist.”

Though the house was available for those wishing to take their plates inside, most guests enjoyed the softness of the springlike evening, their bottoms warmed by a roaring pit fire. Nick was squatting by it, contemplative. No iPod, no laptop–he'd hidden that away after his sorry episode with spam. Lavinia stayed far away from him, looking guilty.

There was food enough, even with Stoney and Dog, who,
mirabile dictu
, were on good behaviour. Gossip, election, and weather were the preferred topics, everyone laying off Arthur, as if picking up from his body language that the trial was a forbidden topic.

He conversed little and listened less, proving himself not to be as attentive and amiable a host as the late Justice Whynet-Moir, whose spectre visited, his look of shock and horror as he began his headlong flight. Arthur imagined him getting a flashing glimpse of the last man to see him alive, prayed he hadn't seen a broken nose and red suspenders.

Arthur had become increasingly bothered by his little chat with Cud, who had almost seemed close to confessing, in his guarded what-if way, who'd seemed ready to believe Florenza had bent him to her will by witchcraft.

Stealing a car, one can understand that, the Aston Martin was a temptation too compelling–Cud was always borrowing vehicles on the island. And yes, he had a small record for assaults–barroom scuffles, avenged insults and the like. But propelling someone to his certain death, a man who had caused him no great offence–that seemed not in his makeup. It was hard to accept that Flo's urgent
help me escape
turned him into an obedient automaton.

Fortunately, Florenza's bowdlerized edition lacked those three damning words, and with Cud on the sidelines, the jury wouldn't hear them. Yet Arthur worried they might read between the lines and conclude she was an accessory to murder, the prompter.

Nicholas had got tipsy from a guest's homemade hooch, was becoming voluble. “I like it here, makes you feel one with the earth. Milked a goat, what an experience.” They settled onto porch chairs. “Guess you're wondering where Pamela is. She was going to come over, but…I guess she's not hip to the country life. Things aren't going well between her and me, Arthur, she's kind of…I hate to say it…stick-in-the-mud.” He laughed. “That's what Deborah used to call me.”

With truth, sadly.

“Nick thinks I was doing a lot better with Deborah, he never cottoned on to Pamela. I phoned Deb this afternoon. Woke her at three o'clock tomorrow morning, but she was okay about it. She said I should let the matter be, the thing with Nick and that…Baltic floozy. Too traumatic, she said, he'd forever resent me. She's a teacher, I guess she knows these things. Plus Nick is devastated over pulling that stunt with the e-mails. Too complicated for me.” He called. “Nick, come here, join us.”

He was coming up the steps, a slouch, a backwards-facing cap, a bottle of pop.

“You better run off to bed,” Nicholas said. “Early ferry to Vancouver tomorrow.”

“Yeah. I have to get something first.” He went within, reappeared in a few moments with his laptop, took a deep breath, shuffled over to Lavinia, and presented it to her. A parting gift. She balked at first; he insisted. She seemed about to kiss him on the cheek, but he whirled about, raced back to the porch, paused there.

To Arthur: “I'm sorry I messed things up for Margaret.”

“Can't be undone,” Arthur said. “Don't let it oppress you.”

“I'll try. Guess I won't see you for a while, Grandpa. Kind of hard to say goodbye.” He choked. “I love you.” He raced inside.

After the guests left, Arthur did tai chi on the grass. It had been a long time since he'd performed these graceful movements, and he felt the tension melt from him, leaving only melancholy from Nick's sweet parting words. Afterwards, he wandered along the beach. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “hallowed in our law is the concept of reasonable doubt…”

 

YEAR OF THE RAT

F
inally, an off-day for Wentworth, and after a lie-in during which he replayed, critiqued, and catalogued the boss's duel with Florenza, he set out for the office on his Outback. It was a warm day in the winter's dying, but he was blue. Arthur had started off brilliantly, but struggled at the end, like a great opera singer who could no longer reach the high notes. Where was the Pavarotti of the legendary sixties, of the late eighties, the golden decade after he went off the sauce?

An even deeper concern: where was this trial was going? The jury wouldn't hear from Cud. No defence evidence at all. Florenza LeGrand will have got the last word. She hadn't been shy about being seen as spoiled and loose, and in fact was so candid about it she gained credibility. Arthur will have to pull it together for his speech.

It was mid-morning as he dismounted. He was confounded to find Brian Pomeroy arguing with the scrawny born-again outside the Leap of Faith Prayer Centre.

“Find refuge in the arms of Jesus.”

“Sorry, I'm an idolater.”