Straight No Chaser (11 page)

“Well, maybe just some criminals.”

“Which ones?”

“Ones who are guilty.”

“According to the latest statistics from the courtrooms of the nation,” I said, “that would be most of them.”

The main courses came. Annie's cannelloni looked as other cannelloni does but smelled better than most. My chicken Taipei had the same two ingredients that elevated the mussels to gourmet class— ginger and honey. There was also some peanut and soy in there. A little corner of Thai paradise.

“That man you're defending who did the terribly clever things with the apartment building,” Annie said. “He's got the money, he and his partner, and what they did was illegal, and I don't understand why you have to defend their illegal acts.”

“First,” I said, “a quote.”

“Lawyers are always quoting somebody or other.”

“From a playwright.”

“Playwright doesn't necessarily make it gospel.”

“Robert Bolt wrote this in his play about Thomas More,” I said. “
A
Man For All Seasons
.”

“Right, I saw the movie,” Annie said. “Paul Scofield played More. Got an Oscar.”

I said, “More was the Lord Chancellor, and in one scene he's having a conversation with this very idealistic guy, More's son-in-law, I think. More says to the son-in-law something like, ‘I know what's legal, not what's right, and I'll stick to what's legal.' So the son-in-law thinks he's got More in a corner, and he says,‘Then you set man's law above God's.' More comes right back. ‘Not far below,' he says, ‘but let me draw your attention to a fact. I'm not God.'”

Annie worked some cannelloni on her fork. I drank from my glass of Vouvray. Nothing like a few lines from the theatre to dry a man's throat.

“Where's this Robert Bolt stuff taking us?” Annie said. “I already know you're not God.”

“You don't have to say it so emphatically.”

Annie patted my arm. It was a pat that meant state the point.

I said, “A guy in my job can't think about idealism, playing God, or anything in that vein. That's what Bolt was talking about. A criminal lawyer deals with facts and law and the system.”

“This is beginning to sound familiar from past lectures,” Annie said. “The adversarial system. Presumption of innocence. Da-dah. Da-dah. Da-dah. What am I leaving out?”

“No fair sneering. It's a nifty system. Only one thing wrong with it.”

“Yeah,” Annie said. “You're in it. Which I think is why we're having this little heart-to-heart.”

I took a bite of my chicken, drank some more wine, and pressed on.

“The thing wrong,” I said, “is the system is tilted badly against the people accused of the crimes.”

“Your noble clients.”

“Noble doesn't come into it.”

“Right there we agree.”

I said, “Stick with me a minute. All the machinery gears up to put the accused guy on trial. There's the cops and the crown attorney, medical experts, forensic scientists, court officials, God knows who else, dozens of people all lined up on the same side. That's one tilt. Okay? But something else works against the accused guy, more fundamental even.”

I stopped talking. Annie chewed away on her cannelloni. When Cam Charles paused for dramatic effect, people sucked in their breath and made sounds of awe and exclamation. I couldn't get a rise out of the woman in my life. I was also developing a dose of Cam Charles envy.

“The something else more fundamental,” I said, “is a bias.”

Annie nodded. It looked to me like the nod of someone who's turned out the inside lights.

I said, “The defendant is protected by what you mentioned earlier, the presumption of innocence. The court has to presume he didn't do what he's charged with until the crown proves it.”

“Beyond a reasonable doubt,” Annie said.

“Neat. You've been listening.”

“Like I said, I've heard some of this before.”

“But even with the presumption of innocence, there's this bias built into the system.” I was talking slowly, like a lecturer addressing a class of jerks. I stepped up the pace. “It's a bias to get a guilty verdict. That's why everybody's sleuthing and investigating and questioning and keeping files and policing and prosecuting. To convict the guy.”

Annie waited until her mouth was free of cannelloni.

“I'm in favour of that,” she said. “Especially where the guy's ripped off a company for two million or so with a dishonest scheme. Arkansas?”

“Oklahoma,” I said. “But you're leaving something out. There has to be a voice speaking against the bias I just told you about.”

“A mouthpiece. Is that where the odious term came from?”

“It isn't odious,” I said. “Listen, someone has to argue for the accused guy, one single voice that tries to make sure all that massive machinery on the other side doesn't screw up. That's where the defence lawyer comes in. He speaks against the bias. It's his duty.”

“Duty to whom?” Annie said. “A bunch of guys you admitted yourself were more than likely guilty?”

“Not just to the clients,” I said. “To society.”

That rang pompous.

“A duty to everybody who might some time get pulled into court,” I said.

That rang lame.

“A duty to the system,” I said.

“You make it sound like the garbageman,” Annie said.

“It's a dirty job, but somebody's got to do it?”

Annie took a little wine.

She said, “I suppose the part that really bugs me about you acting for these terrible people, you
like
it.”

Annie had her hand up as a signal I shouldn't interrupt.

“Even if you are right about the bias and the lonely voice of the defence lawyer and all that romantic stuff,” she said, “it seems, ah, unseemly you should get such a kick out of being on the side of crime.”

“First,” I said, “I don't defend crime. I defend people, and all of them happen to be innocent at the time they retain me.”

“What's second?”

“You're right,” I said. “It gives me a boot, the whole courtroom process, me and my client against the machinery.”

“Hopeless.”

“That's your rebuttal?”

“I'm regrouping my forces for a return engagement.”

Annie had polished off the dish of cannelloni. My own plate was strewn with chicken debris. On the other hand, I'd made the larger dent in the Vouvray.

Annie said, “One thing in favour of your current client the musician, from what you say, he doesn't seem to be a threat to society or its money.”

“On the contrary, Dave's the victim of the piece.”

“That's novel for you,” Annie said. “What're you going to do for him?”

“Make a call or two.”

“Who on? The porn mogul, right?”

“Yeah, my sparring partner, Raymond Fenk. Just a small matter of a pickup from him is all.”

Did dissembling come that easy to everyone? Or was I in the upper brackets of dissemblers, up there with Richard Nixon, Uriah Heep, all-time greats like them? If I revealed all to Annie about the planned covert operation at the Silverdore, our dinner date might turn flat. Better to get the job done, restore Dave Goddard's tenor saxophone to its rightful blower, make everybody happy, with the possible exception of Fenk, and when all was wrapped and packaged, tell Annie the story. That wasn't dissembling. That was postponing.

“I wouldn't mess with that Fenk,” Annie said. “Mean face on him and built like a house.”

“The dealings are going to be what you might call arm's length.”

The waitress picked up our plates, and Annie asked for dessert.

“Bananas au rhum,” she said, reading from the menu.

“With two forks,” I said.

Emilio's had a Friday-night SRO crowd. The standees lined the wooden bar at the front. But the room was open and airy, and nobody's conversation spilled over onto Annie's and mine. It felt cozy in the crowd.

I asked Annie, “How's it shaping up for Cam's festival?”

“Nicely,” Annie said. “He's bringing in at least a dozen movies you wouldn't see booked into the commercial theatres in a million years.
A Quarter to Three
isn't in that category. Harp Manley's film. It'll be in release all over the place later this fall. But, you have to hand it to Charles, it's a sweet little coup he's pulled, snagging the movie for its world premiere. All the press on Manley and the movie won't hurt Charles's festival one bit.”

“At a cost in credibility,” I said.

“Because
A Quarter to Three
doesn't fit the festival theme?”

“Political content, minorities, oppressed people, and all.”

Annie said, “Well, Charles made a lot of noise at the press conference about Manley representing a breakthrough in American film for black actors.”

“That'll come as news to Sidney Poitier,” I said. “And Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Dexter Gordon. Harp Manley's about the fifth breakthrough.”

“The way Charles talked, it came across as very plausible,” Annie said. “Criminal lawyers are good at that.”

The bananas were slathered in brown sugar and nutmeg and cinnamon and a squirt of rum. The waitress forgot the second fork. I used a coffee spoon.

“The only trouble with Charles's festival is the timing,” Annie said. “For me personally, I mean. It's already taking hell's own footwork to cover two festivals going on at once, and the Alternate hasn't even started showing movies yet.”

“That's Cam's way of making a statement,” I said. “Confrontation. Nose to nose. Up against the wall. Festival against festival.”

“Take tomorrow,” Annie said. “Between Charles and Helga Stephenson, I got a choice of four press conferences, not to mention I can't miss two movies the Festival of Festivals is running.”

“And a party?”

“No more parties. Last night's was de rigueur, the opening bash and everything, but as far as getting material, forget it. Too many faces, too much crush.”

“Dan make the party?”

“Dan?” Annie scrunched up her face. “I'm trying to think Dan. Dan Rather? Danny DeVito? Daniel Ortega? ‘O Danny Boy'? Am I getting warm? Which Dan at the party?”

“Day-Lewis.”

“Daniel Day-Lewis,” Annie repeated, her face unscrunched. “Brother, you really got a bee in your bonnet about the man. No, he wasn't at the party. He isn't on my calendar until Tuesday or even in town till then for all I know. Besides, he isn't my only interview. I got two more solo and a bunch of others in general scrummy media conferences.”

“Dumb word.”

“Which one?”

“Media.”

“Plural of medium,” Annie said.

“You know what someone clever once said of medium?”

Annie said, “Your definition of clever doesn't always match up with Webster's.”

“Television is a medium,” I said. “So called because it is neither rare nor well done.”

Annie laughed.

“For a quip,” she said, “that one's worth stockpiling.”

Annie did most of the damage to the bananas au rhum. We had coffee, lingered another half-hour, and left. The Volks was parked at a meter on Jarvis Street. Walking to the car, Annie had her arm around my waist, and my arm was draped over her shoulders. I made a U-turn on Jarvis and drove to Annie's place. It's a flat on the third floor of a fine old house in Cabbagetown with an equally fine reno job. In the bedroom, Annie had two more black garments under the black blouse and trousers.

“Want me to tear those off with my teeth?” I said.

Annie went into the bathroom, and when she came out five minutes later, she'd removed her makeup and her black bra and panties. I was already in bed.

Just before daylight, Annie and I came awake at the same time. We didn't make love again. We snuggled. Like spoons. I lay on my left side facing toward the window. Annie lay on her left side facing in the same direction. Her right arm was around my waist, and her body touched mine in nice places.

“I remember who said it,” I said.

“Ummm.”

“About medium.”

“Um.”

“Ernie Kovacs.”

Annie was asleep.

14

B
Y THE TIME
Raymond Fenk walked out of the Silverdore Hotel at two o'clock on Saturday afternoon, James Turkin and I had been lounging inside and outside the Volks for almost three hours.

A little after eleven, I'd gone into the hotel and asked for Fenk's room on the house phone. Someone male, presumably Fenk, answered. That you, Bill? I said. Wrong room, the male voice said. He sounded bad-tempered. Had to be Fenk.

The Volks was on the north side of Charles east of the Silverdore. The hotel was on the south side. James filled in the wait with tales from the pickpocket world. He said, apart from South Americans, Soviet émigrés ranked near the top of the craft in the United States. Émigrés was James's word. They had a touring company, James said. Hit the big conventions in the midwestern cities. Cute, I said.

At twelve-thirty, I sent James over to Yonge Street for coffee and doughnuts. I wanted my doughnut plain. James reported back none of them came plain. The one he chose for me oozed something in raspberry paste.

At one-fifteen, James asked did I know whether Fenk carried a hotel key with him or left it at the front desk? The one occasion I knew about, I told James, a key was in Fenk's pocket when he went into the hotel. James seemed to like my answer.

At two o'clock, Fenk emerged. He had on a deep-blue jacket with lighter blue piping around the lapels. The guy collected jackets like Lord Thomson of Fleet collected newspapers. Fenk walked west toward Yonge. He was carrying a briefcase. It was slim and black and had more locks than most bank vaults.