Authors: Gabriel Boutros
The intensive care unit at the Montreal General was probably not much different than that of most other major hospitals. Bratt felt a small sense of gratitude for not having been in enough of them to know the difference.
The last place he had expected to find himself on that Saturday morning was there, at Leblanc’s bedside. His partner was heavily sedated and breathing with the help of a respirator. The doctors had told Bratt that the first forty-eight hours after the attack were the most crucial. If he got through those all right his chances for recovery improved dramatically.
When Bratt had shown up at the ICU the attending nurse had asked him if he was part of Leblanc’s family. It seemed they were still waiting for someone, anyone, who was a relative to arrive. Leblanc had divorced over ten years earlier. His ex, Sandy, a mean-spirited bitch who Bratt had despised from the get-go, had remarried and moved out west somewhere. There was also his junkie son, Luc, but Leblanc had had no news from him for nearly a year. Bratt had never heard his partner mention any brothers or sisters in the time he had known him. He thought he might be the closest thing Leblanc had to family.
Over-all, he thought it was a pretty sad state of affairs. No matter how closely he worked with someone, Bratt knew it wasn’t the same thing as real family. He looked down at Leblanc’s peaceful face, and wondered if it mattered to him that he had no relatives to come see him, perhaps mourn for him, at this time.
He turned to look at the other beds in the unit. Three were occupied, but only around one of them had the curtain been pulled shut, and no nurse went in there to check on a pulse or to adjust the I.V. He tried not to think about what the reason for that might be.
As it was, he still couldn’t believe that Leblanc, who seemed to be sleeping comfortably in front of him, was halfway between life and death. He touched his old friend’s hand, tentatively at first, then more firmly, squeezing the chubby fingers together.
It occurred to him then that he had not done as much for his own father. Few of his friends were aware that he hadn’t spoken to his father during the last seven years of his life, not since Bratt’s heartbroken mother had drunk herself to death. When his father entered the hospital for the last time in 1994, paralyzed by the second stroke he’d had in a year, Bratt only went because Jeannie had begged him to, certain as she was that her grandfather’s final hour was near.
Earlier that year, when the first stroke had occurred, Bratt had refused to even call the hospital to see how his father was doing. He had only found peace with his father once they had become strangers and he wasn’t ready to face him again, even in a hospital bed, for fear of reopening old wounds.
After the second stroke, he gave in to his daughter’s tear-filled pleading, if only partially. At the hospital, he stood outside the private room that would be the final home of Joseph Bratt, and occasionally looked in through the small window in the door while Jeannie sat for hours on end at her grandfather’s side.
She never understood how Bratt could have refused to be with him in his final hours. It was many years before he himself had been able to understand that he had no longer been angry with his father, but with himself. The stubbornness he had inherited from Joseph Bratt had led him into defying both common sense and his own heart, and by the time his father was close to death he felt it was too late to repair their relationship.
On this day Bratt came to see Leblanc wondering if it would be for the final time, but found himself stuck in the past and feeling sorry for himself. He looked down on the large, inert form and wished that it was his father’s hand that he was holding.
A movement behind him brought Bratt back to the present and he turned to find Kouri standing diffidently near the door.
“It’s OK, Pete. You can come closer.”
“Sorry. I thought you were praying,” Kouri whispered as he approached.
Praying for Leblanc,
Bratt said to himself.
Now that’s something I never would have thought of.
“Any news?” Kouri asked.
“Nothing overly bad, I guess. He’s stable.”
Kouri looked down at Leblanc’s still form, then quickly around the room.
“There’s nobody? Family, I mean.”
“No. None.”
“I faxed Parent the names and addresses of Jordan and Sims this morning. I know I was supposed to do it yesterday, but I forgot. You know…”
Bratt nodded. He didn’t want to think about Jordan and Sims just then. He felt that his friend’s precarious condit
ion should take priority over any work-related issues.
Kouri nodded back solemnly and looked around again, his expression showing a touch of embarrassment. Then he stepped closer to the bed, nudging Bratt off to the side in the process.
“Do you mind?” he asked quietly.
“No, not at all,” Bratt answered, and he stepped back a couple of feet, having no idea what it was he was supposed to mind.
He watched wide-eyed as Kouri bowed his head and crossed himself, the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand pressed together.
S
on of a gun,
Bratt thought.
He wasn’t kidding.
He stood still, unsure if he should stay or go. He watched as Kouri prayed silently, crossing himself again as he finished, then wiping a tear from his cheek as he stepped back from the bed.
“I feel bad because I hardly got to know him,” Kouri explained, turning to look back at Bratt. “Now I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance.”
I’ve known him for over twenty years,
Bratt thought.
How bad am
I
supposed to feel?
He was surprised to see Kouri take a hesitant step toward him, looking at him with a
strange expression, then advance quickly, his arms opening to hug him. Bratt stiffened for only a second at Kouri’s touch, but he let himself be hugged as he felt his own hot tears rolling down his cheeks.
Bad enough
, he answered himself.
Bad enough.
The rest of the weekend wasn’t much more upbeat. The somber weather matched Bratt’s mood as he waited for news of any improvement in his friend’s condition. He only made a desultory effort to reread his notes for Monday’s motion, having lost all ability to concentrate.
Unable to work, he spent several hours at the hospital on Sunday, the lonely keeping company with the lonely. Occasionally, some of the other lawyers dropped in for a few minutes. Ralston and Kalouderis stayed a little longer. But, eventually they all moved on. Unlike their senior partners, most of them had families to be with, lives to lead.
In a moment of desperation, sensing how alone he and Leblanc both were, Bratt tried calling Claire to see if she knew where his daughter could be. The taped message from the operator telling him that her number was no longer in service left him feeling despondent.
By Sunday night he had to admit to himself that the only person he
could talk to about what had happened was Nancy. He only hoped that, once she heard about his partner, she’d at least be receptive to talking to him.
Before he had the chance to reconsider he picked up the phone and dialed her number. It rang several times and, as he waited, he tried not to picture her on the other end, seeing his number on her call-display, and walking away from the phone.
After several rings, his heart sank as her voice mail came on. Even the sound of her recorded voice did nothing to cheer him. He wasn’t sure if he should hang up or leave some sort of message. Before he could decide, the greeting ended and he heard the beep. He looked at the phone in his hands, unsure of how much or how little to say.
Then he realized that he was leaving nothing more than dead air and this would be the worst kind of message.
“Hi Nancy,” he blurted out, unsure what was going to come out of his mouth. “It’s me, Robert. Obviously. I, uh, just wanted to say hello. And good luck; in the trial of course. I hope Parent appreciates what he has in you.”
God, this sounds pathetic,
he told himself.
But just now I really don’t care if that’s how I sound to her.
“So this is me,” he continued, “asking for forgiveness again. For the last time we met, I mean. I feel pretty bad about how that went. Um, I know I can be a bit stubborn, and I don’t usually worry too much about the other person’s feelings. Well, I guess until now. So, admitting guilt is the first step toward rehabilitation, right?
“Anyway, I guess I’ll be back to gazing longingly at you across the courtroom again. Kind of looking forward to it, actually. Keep well.”
H
e paused again, then decided that anything else he said would be superfluous, and he hung up.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized he’d never mentioned Leblanc.
When Monday morning dawned, it was as if the weekend’s feeling of despair had slipped away with Bratt’s bad dreams. He felt a small surge of excitement because he finally
had something to do other than mope around his home. He was going to appear before Judge Benjamin Green, perhaps the sharpest and most experienced judge on the Superior Court. That meant being on his toes and ready to defend every argument and allegation he had made in his motion to exclude the damaging videotape.
Green was known for holding everybody,
defense lawyers and Crown prosecutors alike, in the most obvious contempt, and delighted in peppering them with sarcastic comments. Bratt figured that as long as he had blood pulsing in his veins he’d be able to get up for such a courtroom confrontation. Nothing would get him out of his doldrums faster than butting heads with the old warhorse.
He and Kouri walked the block and a half from his office to the court, arriving a few minutes early for the hearing on their motion. Bratt carried both their robes in plastic suit bags, while Kouri was laden with their two bulging briefcases.
Bratt could feel his blood beginning to pulse stronger than it had for days. When he stood in the hallway, looking at Parent sitting inside the courtroom, he smiled in anticipation of the upcoming battle.
Kouri did a double take at this shark
-like grin. He hadn’t seen Bratt in battle before and so didn’t recognize the expression that showed his mentor at his happiest.
A
s Bratt strutted through the doors Kouri followed silently, like a slave carrying his general’s standard onto the battlefield.
Bratt spotted Nancy as soon as he entered, but managed to not miss a step as he advanced to the defense lawyers’ bench. He was going to have to concentrate on the work before him today.
Parent looked coldly in Bratt’s direction, and gave him a small nod, barely acknowledging his presence. Bratt nodded back and flashed a smile that exuded fake warmth. He allowed himself a quick peek in Nancy’s direction, but she seemed to be deeply immersed in a stack of documents in front of her, never even looking up at him.
He turned to the prisoner’s box as two guards led Marlon Small into the court. Small was dressed in an old jacket and tie that his mother must have dug up for him in a church rummage sale. Bratt leaned over the rail and smiled at his client.
“Now it begins,” he said.
Small said nothing. His usual arrogant look contained just a touch of apprehension.
Good,
Bratt told himself.
Maybe he’ll lose that cockiness totally by the time we’re in front of the jury.
At precisely 9:30 a.m. Judge Benjamin Green entered and took the bench. He was a small, thin man who walked with a slow, careful step, leaning tentatively on a cane. His body had reached retirement age, but his mind had retained the
vigor of youth and it allowed him to wield his tongue as if it were a sword.
Both lawyers bowed slightly in his direction and murmured their good mornings. He flipped open the file in front of him, not responding to their greetings. He wore his half-moon glasses near the end of his nose, and licked his index finger in a deliberate manner before using it to turn each page.
After what seemed an eternity he finally peered over his glasses in Bratt’s direction, seeming to have noticed the lawyer’s presence for the first time.
“Well, Mr. Bratt. What can we do for you this morning?”
Bratt grinned back, showing that he wasn’t in the least put off by the judge’s indifferent manner.
“And how are you today, My Lord?”
Green winced, as if Bratt’s false cheeriness pained him.
“You do have a motion to present, don’t you?”
“Right there in your hands,” Bratt answered. He then pointed to a television set, which was placed up on a high stand at the side of the room. “And to get your week off on the right foot, we’re going to watch a little video first. About three hours’ worth.”
Hardly moving his head, Green’s eyes slid from Bratt to the television, and he raised his eyebrows.
“I hope you brought the popcorn,” he commented dryly, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs to get comfortable. He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers in the air. “Roll’em.”