Here, finally, was someone willing to talk to him, Nelson Forbish, wedged between the new freezer and the junk food shelves. “I got a hot scoop, Mr. Beauchamp.” Forbish secured the bag of Frito’s he’d been fishing for. “I found out who killed that judge Cud is charged with. It’s all in here, I got this long e-mail letter to the editor.”
He showed Arthur several stapled pages. “It’s from an old farmer named Vogel up at Hundred Mile House. He got his woodlot and half his land swindled off him by Clearihue Investments, and the case went before Judge Whynet-Moir.”
That piqued Arthur’s curiosity. Todd Clearihue was a familiar name-he was known locally as Todd Clearcut. He’d held Gwendolyn Valley hostage, profited handsomely when the federal government was forced to buy it for parkland.
“Except that Whynet-Moir got himself killed before he wrote the judgment.” Forbish waved his printout. “So this farmer says Clearihue bumped him off so there’d have to be a new trial, and now he can’t afford a lawyer for it. He tells the whole story, how he was defrauded by Clearihue, how he thought he was just selling an easement to a lake.”
“This came to the Island Bleat?”
“He’s reaching out to me for help.”
“Mr. Vogel has obviously sent this to every paper in the province, and not one of them will dare use it.”
“Then I’m his only voice.”
“I shall not defend you on a libel action, Nelson.”
“I didn’t expect you would,” he grumbled.
“Give me the letter.” No harm will be done by passing it on to Pomeroy. It seemed unlikely that anyone, even Clearihue, would kill a judge to get a new trial, but the prospect of seeing him behind bars, however remote, brought a glow to the heart.
He stuffed a few purchases into his pack and before leaving made an elaborate point of sticking a fifty-dollar bill into the Cud Brown Defence Fund jar.
On his return home he called Pomeroy’s office, and again was put on to April Fan Wu. “He has gone for two weeks to Cuba, Mr. Beauchamp.” A holiday before the trial, not a bad idea. He will need to restore himself, gain strength for Wilbur Kroop.
On Saturday evening, he found himself in a meeting hall on Vancouver Island, awaiting Margaret’s crowning as Green candidate for the election five weeks hence. Honouring his pledge to her, he mingled, shook hands, talked about the weather, avoided politics.
The crowd was sizeable, over three hundred, more than he had expected. Print media, TV cameras. Margaret was working the room, guiding Malcolm Lewes about, the fellow who dropped from the race, as if showing off a trophy. Something was changing in her. A false face showed, a too-wide smile, a too-loud laugh, rapt attention to the bon mots of bores.
Here was portly Eric Schultz, the corporate lawyer, motioning him to caucus in the corner. Three-piece suit, briefcase, a truly anomalous soul with his business connections, his long-distance jump from the right wing. “Not happy. Angus Reid has Chipper breaking out of the pack on top.” This was gobbledygook to Arthur. “Forty-three per cent, margin of error three points plus or minus.”
Arthur responded with a tentative “Hmm.” He guessed Schultz was referring to a recent poll. Chipper would be Chip O’Malley, the Conservative candidate. He’d seen his TV ad, a chicken-farming mesomorph with sleeves rolled up, promising fewer laws, a leaner bureaucracy, expanded services.
“Got to push him under thirty to have a chance. Good scandal would help.”
The meeting had got underway with announcements that cars may be towed from the medical-dental lot next door and that organic pastries and coffee were for sale at the back. Schultz led Arthur there, bought him a coffee.
“Your Mr. Pomeroy hasn’t responded to my calls.” Schultz pulled a thin computer from his case. “Too bad. A hint that Whynet-Moir paid millions for his judgeship would get the press digging. Would help if Pomeroy raised the issue in the privileged sanctum of the courtroom.”
Here it was. Heavy-handed politics. “It would help whom?”
“Our candidate. Your wife.”
A photo filled the screen, a guest table at a banquet. “That’s Jack Boynton.” The late justice minister. “At a wedding, just before he keeled over with a stroke. That’s Chip O’Malley beside him.”
“Ah, yes, Chipper, the candidate. He knew the minister well?”
Schultz seemed taken aback by Arthur’s political illiteracy. “Served two decades as riding president, bum boy to Boynton, his impatient successor. And no stranger to Raffy Whynet-Moir. All members of the same cabal. Shit sticks.”
Arthur excused himself.
“Nominations once,” called the chairman. “Nominations twice.”
“Yay, Margaret,” someone yelled.
“Nominations three times. Hearing no further nominations, I declare Margaret Blake elected.”
A great cheer went up. Someone raised Margaret’s arm. She was held in a circle of clicking cameras, then led grinning to the podium. A chant: “Margaret! Margaret! Margaret!”
Arthur made himself small. Please, he prayed, don’t drag me up to the stage.
“Arthur Beauchamp, where are you?” the chair shouted into a mike. “Don’t be shy, come on up here.”
14
“Rafael likes to watch, that’s how he gets off. Cudworth and I did it on the dining-room table so he could lick off the custard after. We had lots of leftover custard. Poor Rafael, he was dead in an instant.”
Florenza smiled seductively as she recounted this merry tale. She and Lance were in her sitting room with Heathcliff, the Doberman. Carlos the Mexican had not shown his face since Lance felled him with a left hook. Rashid had returned to his guard post.
“I dosed the custard with this new product that stops your heart; they can’t detect it. All Cudworth did was dump the body. Would you like another gingerbread cookie?”
“I prefer my facts straight, Ms. LeGrand, like a fine single malt.” Lance rubbed Heathcliff’s neck. Dogs loved Lance. “The prosecutor is wetting her knickers at the prospect of indicting you. They found his semen in the steam room, all over the towels, not to mention your skivvies.”
“That’s not true, I washed them.”
He had her at his mercy. “This is the version I would prefer to hear: Distraught upon your return from your romp with Cuddles, Raffy waits until you’re asleep, then, overcome with depression, he shuffles off into the night. After a few heart-rending moments contemplating the fickleness of love, he climbs on a chair, leaps, and joins the church triumphant. What we do not want to hear are the words ‘Help me escape.’”
Brian was annoyed at himself, he’d just given away a dark secret of the criminal law, the crafty tactic of enticing a witness to alter testimony. No wonder the author had disguised himself as Lance Valentine for this shysterism. One ought not to add to the public loathing of lawyers. Select paragraph. Delete.
He’s got to stop Valentine from oozing his way into these creatively non-fictional pages. The fellow has begun to wear, infuriating Brian with his snide advice and plummy accent. Brian can’t get rid of him; alter egos cling. He’d fired the syrupy gumshoe but never properly killed him off, that’s the problem.
Having persuaded himself he could coax his body back to health, clean out his system, Brian had spent two weeks in Cuba, swimming, hiking, but he’d got lost a few times and had to phone Dr. Epstein collect to ask directions. Then there was that scene at the Havana airport, after his return tickets went mysteriously missing. The matter had gone up to the highest level, resulting in a decree from the presidential palace that he be immediately deported to Canada.