“And me?” Dougherty suppressed a yawn, but his attention was fierce.
It was Marc who replied. “You win admittance to the Upper Canadian bar and an opportunity to show the world, here and back home, that you still have what it takes.”
“You’re telling me that John Beverley Robinson, who was born with a poker up his arse, is going to bend down and buss my big toe after I waddle into Lawyers’ Hall?” The green eyes ignited, and suddenly those were the only features of his outrageous face worthy of notice.
Robert held that gaze in his own. “I am. In fact, the way has already been cleared.” (That the man would likely be disbarred the day after Coltrane hanged need not be mentioned.)
Unfortunately, Broderick Langford chose this moment to enter the room from the kitchen, taking two tentative steps and pausing to stare at the interlopers. They stared back.
Noting their amazement, Dougherty laughed again. “Come on in, Brodie, and meet these gentlemen of the law.”
Dougherty’s “nephew” was a near copy of his sister. He too was alabaster blond, with curls only slightly shorter than Celia’s, startling blue eyes, and almost bleached skin. He was of slight build and impeccably dressed. A youthful intelligence shone in his eyes. He shook hands with the visitors, touched Dougherty fondly on the shoulder, and went back to the inner door. “I’ll be at the bank until about eight.”
They heard a far door open and close.
“Brodie labours at the Commercial Bank. He’s doing well.”
The room fell silent. The pouches above Dougherty’s eyes met those below them. He was sweating. The littered expanse of his waistcoat rose and sighed.
“Have you read The Republic, Mr. Baldwin?”
“I have. Some time ago.”
“In the original Greek?”
“I’m afraid my school Greek didn’t take me that far.”
“No one remotely interested in political constitutions can ignore that great treatise. And there aren’t enough words in our paltry lexicon to capture its logical niceties. The Athenians were born to articulate law. We eschew them at our peril.”
“And what about the Euthyphro?” Marc said quietly.
The slit in the eye pouches widened slightly. “You are referring, of course, to Euthyphro’s boast to Socrates that one must prosecute a murder, even if the accused be one’s own father.”
Marc smiled. “I am. And would not the same ethic apply, obversely, to the need of the accused, however heinous he may be, for a proper defense?”
Dougherty was now looking directly at them-first one, then the other-as he might scrutinize and appraise witnesses on the stand. Seemingly satisfied with whatever he discerned, he spoke.
“I have decided to be Mr. Coltrane’s defense attorney,” he said without emphasis. “I am fully aware of the risks and unpredictable consequences. If I lose, I may be seen in the country to the south of us as a turncoat and dupe of a detested monarchy. I care not about that. I have burned all those bridges-or, rather, they have been burned for me and the water under them poisoned. Nor do I give a fig for the petty and intractable political squabbling you’ve all got yourselves into. I disdained it in New York, which no doubt contributed to my squalid downfall. But I was nonetheless devoted to the spirit and letter of Jefferson’s liberative words, and to the law itself.”
A sudden and unexpected animation seized his wayward features, sending askew earlobe, jowl, nostril, eyebrow, cheek pouch, and dewlap. “Only the law with its crisp, incorruptible language is worthy of our passion and our humility. All else is ‘writ in water,’ as the poet said.”
“You won’t regret this, sir,” Robert said.
“Indeed, I may, Mr. Baldwin. That is the whole point of risk. But be forewarned. I am taking this brief with a single objective in mind.”
“You’re not serious,” Marc said, before he could help himself.
“I am. I fully intend to see that the wicked Mr. Coltrane is acquitted.”
Outside on the snowy walk, Robert sucked in the cleansing, wintry air and said to Marc, “It looks as if any or all of the stories about the man’s demise could be true.”
“I was not impressed by the way he had that young woman dressed or the manner in which he ogled her. I hope that’s all he does.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such a distasteful mien. But, oh, the mind inside that repellent body!”
“Whatever happened in New York was a tragedy of sorts, don’t you think?”
“What I’m thinking is that we may have crossed some moral or ethical divide here. Are we being merely expedient? And does the end justify the means?”
“Well, he may do his damnedest to keep the major from the noose, but it’ll take more than a New York lawyer to get Coltrane off. The Crown has a dozen witnesses to his atrocities. And his claim to military status will hold no water in the Court of Queen’s Bench.”
“True. And the more vigorously Dougherty argues, the more he serves Sir George’s purpose to have both a proper trial and an outcome favourable to Her Majesty.”
As they turned into the British-American Coffee House for tea and scones, Marc asked, “By the way, how did Dougherty get the nickname of Doubtful Dick? Was it a question of reliability as his vices began to affect his performance?”
Robert stopped. “Lord, no. He got that moniker in mid-career, an ironic and somewhat barbed tribute from his peers, but a tribute nonetheless.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, whenever he went to trial in New York, the result was, in fact, never in doubt. Dougherty has yet to lose a capital case.”
SEVEN
The next morning found Marc strolling in leisurely fashion westward along Front Street. It was out of his way, but he had plenty of time to get to his ten o’clock appointment at Chepstow, and besides, he never missed an opportunity to view the bay in wintertime. Lake Ontario was iced over as far as the eye could travel, and only a fringe of evergreens and other skeletal trees suggested the presence of the peninsula and nearby islands between him and the distant shore. The snowdrifts that rippled the near distance, the island woods, and the white plain beyond created the comfortable illusion of a unified groundswell upon a solid, unbroken foundation. A few yards offshore near the Queen’s Wharf, Marc could see a gang of youths on skates, playing some age-old game of tag on a rectangular area they had cleared of snow. He even imagined a son of his own doing the same someday.
By now the memory of this morning’s brief exchange of views over Beth’s going in to work a full day had begun to fade. (She had merely pointed out that with the gala coming up on the weekend and Dolly nearly useless in the shop, she had no choice in the matter.) However, passing by Somerset House, where the Twelfth Night extravaganza was to take place, brought their argument back to him. When Marc had suggested that the baby’s intermittent kicking during the night was an obvious protest against rough treatment received at Smallman’s, he knew he had gone too far. He had conceded defeat but less than graciously, he regretted. As he turned north up Peter Street, he was thankful to direct all his thoughts towards the difficult task ahead.
None of the habitual protesters had chosen Chepstow as their target that morning, and Marc was able to approach the front door unimpeded. He passed a pair of uniformed sentries and pulled the bell rope. As he waited, he quickly reviewed the salient points in his planned approach to Caleb Coltrane. As Marc saw it, he had two trump cards to play. First, he could claim justifiably that he had helped secure for the major the services of a skilled New York lawyer. Second, he would reveal to him the sobering truth that the young man he had challenged to a duel and landed in jail was the enemy soldier who had saved him from bleeding to death four weeks earlier. The rest would have to be improvised, and Marc trusted his own ability to read character and manage personalities in shifting circumstances. It had not let him down thus far-well, not very often anyway.