“I then asked, ‘Mr. Brace, where is your wife located?’ He pointed up the hall, and I went to the lavatory there.” Without prompting by Kennicott this time, Singh walked back up the hall.
Kennicott walked behind and stopped him just before he got to the bathroom door. “Mr. Singh,” he said, pointing to the front door, “when you walked back up the hall, did you look at the front door? Do you remember what position it was in?”
For the first time since he’d entered the apartment, Singh seemed a
little unsure of himself. “Let me see,” he said. “Mr. Brace did not move from the kitchen. He just pointed. I walked here. I must have looked back at the front door.”
“Don’t assume, Mr. Singh. Try to remember.”
“I was most concerned about Mr. Brace’s wife.”
“Of course you were.”
Mr. Singh closed his eyes. Kennicott could see that he was beginning to reenact things in his mind. His head started to bob, as if he were walking. Suddenly his eyes flew open. “My goodness,” he said. “I hadn’t thought of this before. The front door was back the way it was when I first arrived, half opened. I remember thinking it was strange, because I had been most careful not to touch it for fear of fingerprints.”
Kennicott remembered the exhilaration he used to feel in court when he’d gotten a key fact from a witness in cross-examination. “Thank you very much, Mr. Singh,” he said.
Singh’s mouth was agape. “But that could only mean—”
“Yes, I know exactly what that means,” Kennicott said, ushering Singh back out the front door. “And I’d ask you not to discuss this with anyone but myself and Detective Greene and Mr. Fernandez.”
“Such a wide hallway. Such a large door,” Singh said. “The possibility had never occurred to me.”
“You’re not the only one,” Kennicott said as he walked Singh to the elevator and shook his hand. “Please excuse me, sir,” he said. “I’ve got a few calls to make.”
“Most certainly, Officer Kennicott.”
Kennicott turned and walked quickly. You’re working a homicide now, he told himself. You are not supposed to run. But as soon as he was around the corner, he sprinted back to the condominium. To call Greene.
I
t felt strange for Albert Fernandez not to be driving downtown on a weekday morning, but instead to be heading north to the suburban wasteland, on the way to an industrial park he once knew so well. He was surprised that before seven in the morning the traffic was as heavy as it was, a sign that the unabated urban sprawl surrounding Toronto had led to constant gridlock in all directions. It’s as if my car has muscle memory, he thought after he exited the main highway and drove seamlessly through the twists and turns of the antiseptic streets of the industrial park. He stopped at the last building.
The big parking lot was packed. In a few minutes it would be shift change, the night workers would roll out, and soon half the cars would be gone. Fernandez parked on the far eastern extremity, just inside a bend in the chain-link fence, and started toward the front door. He passed through the rows of workers’ cars—aging trucks, large vehicles, worn-out-looking vans—many of them adorned with blue-and-white Maple Leafs flags or
GO LEAFS GO AND MEMBER OF LEAF
nation bumper stickers. Tucked under the windshield of each one was a black-and-white leaflet, flapping in the wind and making a birdlike fluttering sound.
Fernandez leaned over a rust-colored Pontiac and yanked out a flyer. He recognized the bold typeface and the grainy card stock. How many thousands of similar leaflets had he tucked under windshields or tried to hand off to scoffing workers?
WORKERS—UNITE IN OUR STRUGGLE
FRIDAY—MEET TO SUPPORT THE TRANSIT WORKERS’ UNION
SPECIAL SPEAKERS—PRESTON DOUGLAS—VICE PRESIDENT—TWU
190 CLINTON STREET—8:00
REFRESHMENTS SERVED
Underneath the headline, a few paragraphs in achingly small type outlined in mind-numbing detail the alleged transgressions of the “employer.” Fernandez forced himself to read through the prolix prose, then folded the flyer once vertically and slipped it into his shirt pocket, where it stuck out like a flag.
He spotted the coffee truck parked near the factory entrance, and keeping his head down, he eased his way into line. He was much too well dressed to fit in, and it didn’t take long until he was recognized.
“Hey, Little Alberto, that you?” It was a man carrying a helmet and goggles.
Before Fernandez could say a word, a second man chipped in. “I saw you on TV last night. It’s a big trial, eh?” His accent was even stronger than the first man’s.
“Not really,” Fernandez said.
“You going to nail the bastard, aren’t you, Alberto?” It was the first man speaking. “My daughter, Stephanie, you remember her? Now she’s living with an older guy. They come for dinner on Sunday, and an hour later they’re gone. Like she’s his prisoner. But this Brace, he’s rich. The judge will want to help him out, no?”
“Rich. Poor. It’s all the same,” Fernandez said.
The two men exchanged cynical glances. “But you going to win?” the second man asked.
Fernandez shrugged. “The Crown never wins and never loses,” he said. “My job is to let the judge or jury decide.”
“Yeah, I heard you say that on TV. Same old Little Alberto,” the first man said. He clapped a meaty paw on Fernandez’s shoulder. “Your dad’s over there. Still with the leaflets. Every Friday another meeting.”
“And his own mug of coffee,” Fernandez said, giving the men a knowing smile.
They both nodded. As Fernandez began to walk away, the first man said, “Think of Stephanie, and nail that old guy, Alberto.”
Fernandez approached his father from the side, just out of his line of vision. His dad’s hair was still thick and matted, but significantly more gray than the last time he’d seen him.
“Meeting this Friday . . . take a leaflet . . . important meeting . . . help out the transit workers’ union . . . take a leaflet . . .” His father spoke in a constant patter, like a popcorn vendor at a baseball game, working the passing crowd.
Fernandez counted as ten men walked past. Only three took a leaflet, and none even bothered to look at it.
Gradually his father felt a presence at his side. He turned with his arm out, trying to hand off a leaflet. “Here, there’s an important meeting Friday night, take a . . .” His voice slowed as he recognized his son, and his arm slid back down to his side.
“Hi, Father,” Fernandez said, filling the sudden silence.
“Albert,” his father said, regaining his voice. “What are you doing back here?”
“I came to talk to you,” he said, watching his father’s jaw clench. “It’s been long enough.”
His father eyed him suspiciously. “What is it? You getting divorced or having a baby? Got fired and need your old job back?”
Fernandez shook his head. “I’m not getting divorced. And, no, we’re not having a baby.”
His father frowned. “They’re firing you? Why? You’re on this big case. Your mother has been following it in the newspaper for months. Okay, we’ll talk. But this is the best time for the leaflets.” His father turned back to the row of men passing by. Fernandez waited. About a dozen men walked past, and only a few took the leaflets.
“Here, Dad,” he said. “Give me half of those.”
For the next fifteen minutes they handed out leaflets together, falling back into the rhythm of Fernandez’s youth. When the flyers were all gone, they sat on a nearby bench. His father pulled a battered green thermos from his old backpack.
“Coffee?” he asked.
“Sure, Dad,” Fernandez said. He sat down and watched his father unscrew the lid on the thermos. Fernandez smelled the deep aroma of the coffee. He was just eleven years old when his parents moved from Chile, and he still remembered them complaining about Canadian coffee. Even when money was desperately low, they always bought their own espresso beans to grind. This smell had been with him all his life.
“All these years with the workers, you still can’t drink their coffee,” Fernandez said.
His father shook his head. “It’s not coffee they drink. It’s just brown hot water. Albert, there are some things even a committed worker like me can’t do for the cause.”
He took a sip from his detachable cup and handed it over to Fernandez. The taste was as familiar as the smell of the pillow in his old bedroom.
“Have they really fired you?” his father asked.
“Not yet. But I think they will, next week.”
“Albert, I don’t agree with what you do. Working for the state to prosecute the poor—”
“Dad, I didn’t come here to have a political—”
“But I know you work hard. And I know you’re honest.”
Fernandez clasped the cup firmly.
“Your mother’s been cutting clippings of the trial from the paper,” his father said. “Yesterday she told me this Sunday was Mother’s Day.”
“Disgusting capitalist institution,” Fernandez said, doing a pretty good imitation of his father’s voice.
They looked at each other, and both chuckled.
“I might need some help,” Fernandez found himself saying, not really sure how to talk to his father like this. How to ask for guidance.
D
AY TWO = BORING!
” Nancy Parish wrote in big, dark print in her trial book, then used her yellow highlighter to magnify the point. She couldn’t even think of anything to draw.
For the last six hours Fernandez had been questioning Detective Ho. The man loved to hear himself talk. He’d gone over everything he’d examined in Brace’s condominium in minute detail, right down to the fact that the bathtub Katherine’s body was found in didn’t have a soap dish. It was almost 4:30, and Parish was hungry and tired and sick to death of Ho, who looked like he could happily talk for another century.
“And finally, to wrap up your evidence for today,” Fernandez said, approaching the railing in front of the court clerk, “I want to ask you about the knife you found.”
“Certainly,” Ho said, as eager as a dog at its dish at feeding time.
There was a box on the counter. Fernandez reached in and pulled out two pairs of thin plastic gloves. He passed one set over to Ho, and then, with meticulous care, he slid on the gloves and opened the rectangular box that held the knife.
The court grew silent, still. The court reporter pulled the recording mask from her face and looked over. Summers pushed up his eyeglasses and stared down. Fernandez knew he had everyone’s attention, and he took his time. This was only a prelim, and there was no jury, but Parish could see that he was playing to Summers and the press. His
strategy was clear. End the day on a high note. Give the onlookers a memorable image they’d carry with them for the next eighteen hours. The murder weapon.
“Do you recognize this, Detective Ho?” Fernandez asked, gingerly lifting up a big black kitchen knife.
These are the moments at trial that defense lawyers dread—when a key piece of physical evidence is presented. It is one thing to hear about a knife or to look at photographs of a knife, but the moment when you actually see it has its own natural drama. Even from where she sat, Parish spotted specks of dried blood on the silver blade. She’d spent hours studying the pictures of the knife that had been provided to her as part of the disclosure of the Crown case, but actually seeing it for the first time sent a chill down her back.
At law school her professor had told them about the cigar trick of the famous defense lawyer Clarence Darrow. He’d take one of his wife’s hairpins and insert it into the head of a cigar. The wire prevented the ash from falling, even as it grew precariously in length. Darrow timed it so that just when the worst piece of evidence was coming out, the ashes at the end of his cigar would be impossibly long. The jury would be distracted. Transfixed, they’d watch his cigar and ignore the prosecution.
Parish did the only thing she could. Looked right at the knife and tried to pretend she was completely bored.
“Yes, I recognize that knife,” Ho said.
“Where was it found?” Fernandez asked as the clock ticked past 4:30.
Ho pointed to the floor plan sketch. “On the floor in the space between the counter and the stove.”
“And did you find it during your initial search of the condominium?”
This was a smart question by Fernandez. A subtle way to underscore that the knife appeared to have been hidden.
“I didn’t actually find it. After my initial review of the scene, Officer Kennicott and Detective Greene did a more detailed search, and they discovered this knife.”
“Can you describe this knife for us?” Fernandez said, nicely dovetailing his question with the last answer.
“It’s a black Henckels kitchen knife,” Ho said, picking it up and running his fingers just over top of the blade. “It’s ten point eight inches in total length. The handle’s three point four inches long, and the blade’s seven point four inches in length. The blade tapers to a fine point, the width going from one point seven five inches to the tip.”
He managed to describe the knife for a full ten minutes. When he finally finished, it was 4:45. Ho looked pleased with himself. Summers looked as if he wanted to kill him. The reporters looked like a bunch of children who had to go to the bathroom, so anxious were they to get out of there and file their stories in time for their deadlines. And somehow the drama of the moment seemed to have dissipated.
“This court will resume tomorrow at ten in the morning,” the clerk finally said, dismissing the court at ten to five. Everyone rose. Judge Summers gave Fernandez an aggrieved look and flew off the bench. As Parish started packing up her books, she saw a folded piece of paper on her desk with the name “Nancy” written in Fernandez’s neat script.
She looked over at him. He was looking away, toward Greene. He must have just passed it to her when he sat down. She opened the note. It said, “Nancy, can I talk to you after court in my office? Thanks, Albert.”
When a Crown wants to talk to a defense lawyer, it means one of two things. Either he wants to make a deal or he has some new—inevitably bad—evidence to hand over. She clicked her pen and wrote, “Hey, Al, glad to see we’re on a first-name basis. See you in ten. Nance,” and slipped it back to him.