“You have that young fellow, what’s his name?”
“Wentworth Chance. He’s much too green, Arthur. But here’s the deal-we’ll give him to you; you couldn’t get a brighter junior. You can have Brian’s office, his amazing secretary-”
Arthur broke in once more. “What I suggest you do tomorrow, Maximilian, is insist that Kroop reset the trial for three or four months hence, at which time many skilled counsel will have lined up for such a headline-grabbing trial. Please keep me apprised of Brian’s condition. Poor fellow. Overwrought. Well, big day tomorrow, I’ll want to rise early.”
“If I can get Kroop to put it off till Monday, that gives you and Wentworth tomorrow and the weekend to-”
“Max, I wouldn’t dream of taking it on without months of preparation. I have already managed to make a fool of myself on Garibaldi several times, I’m not prepared to repeat the experience in a court of law. Must run. Ta-ta.” He disconnected.
Into the silence that followed, he said, “Only a moron would expect a barrister to step into a major trial on three days’ notice.”
Margaret shifted uncomfortably in her chair, spoke softly. “He did make a pass, Arthur. I rebuffed him.” More silence. “Maybe Cud can’t help it. He suffers from an unregulated sex drive; I think you resent that.” Arthur blushed, he felt shamed, a little queasy, he didn’t like this conversation-so he answered the phone, which he’d sworn not to do.
“Arthur, so glad I got through.” Abigail Hitchins. “Max told me you might be able to bail us out.”
“Max told you-” He began fuming.
“I’ve got to get this trial in, my witnesses are raising a row, fat cats, friends of the Attorney General. I haven’t got an airtight case, I’m in a weakened state, this is your chance, beat me up. It’s in your client’s best interest-”
“He’s not my client.” He subsided again into a funk. He wanted a drink. That innuendo by Margaret still smarted, like a slap in the face.
“Listen, Arthur, with all the fooferah, all the publicity, with Bry imploding like that in court, the Attorney General, the whole government, is pulling out the stops so justice is seen to be done. The case is so sensitive that the minister has bribed the Legal Services Society to pay you triple senior counsel rate. Complete disclosure, no hidden rabbits; I’ll sit on my fanny while you cross-examine at will, and I’ll produce any witnesses you want to have a go at, even if I have to subpoena them from Outer Mongolia. We can make a fresh start on Monday-Kroop has indicated he could bend that far. The episode shook him. He’ll be easy meat for you.”
As she carried on, offering the moon and the stars, he felt suffocated by the pressure: family, friends, neighbours, all of Garibaldi, various arms of the government, the entire free world was on his back. And now someone was arriving, doubtless another petitioner, maybe the Pope. “Just a minute, Abigail.”
He joined Margaret at the front door. A tall, skinny young man was bending over a mountain bike, unhitching a pack and saddlebags. “I’m sorry if I’ve interrupted dinner or anything.” A squeaky tenor, a bobbing Adam’s apple. “I ate on the ferry, so don’t worry about me. I’m not going to barge in; I brought a tent. If that’s okay.”
That was met with silence, which caused him to talk rapidly. “I brought Mr. Pomeroy’s file, which is pretty thin, and some Internet printouts about the main witnesses. I thought you’d want to discuss strategy before I go further.” He seemed to strangle on his words, had to clear his throat.
“Who are you?” Margaret asked.
He removed his goggles and gloves, put on wire-rimmed spectacles. A stringy fellow, late twenties. “I’m blowing it. I’m Wentworth Chance. I hope Max said I was coming; he was supposed to. Excuse me, but I’m a little nervous meeting you, Mr. Beauchamp. You wouldn’t believe it, but I’ve got a whole drawer of clippings about you.” He couldn’t seem to look at Arthur directly, as if he were blinded by the sun.
“For God’s sake, Arthur, just do it,” Margaret said.
“Come inside,” he said, still bruised by her insinuation he was a jealous and incapable lover. Well, the courtroom was one venue where he wasn’t impotent. He’ll show her.
He retrieved the phone. “Abigail?”
“Still here.”
“I shall want your undertakings in writing.”
16
Where was his damn manuscript? Obviously stolen, this rehab asylum was full of thieves. Brian will outsmart them yet, he has backup disks secreted back in 305 of the Ritz. This morning he’d demanded a Mac laptop and got a used PC. Who knew what diseases it had? He threw it at a nurse, who ducked, and it crashed and died against the wall.
They pumped clozapine into him, the house drug, and the headmaster-the Facilitator, they call him, his stage name-asked him to apologize to the nurse. Brian explained he wasn’t aiming at her, that the computer was infected with deadly viruses.
Now he had nothing but a pen, a device he was unused to, and his hand was so shaky he couldn’t read what he’d written. A scrawl. Something like, “Help me escape.”
Hollyburn Hall, this infirmary was called. Hotel Paranoia. A rich benefactor must be paying for it. Overstuffed furnishings, balconies overlooking mountains and rushing creek, five-star food, staff always in your face. Downstairs, a big stone fireplace around which his fellow inmates gathered to confess to the Facilitator. Brian refused to partake. They’re not getting any information from him.
He’d taken a leap of faith with Dr. Epstein, that’s why he was here. She thought Brian had talent, his manuscript was eccentric but entertaining. To please her, he agreed to go to Hollyburn. He’s not crazy, but she doesn’t know that. He’s one step ahead of her.
He didn’t tell her about the ring, the opal scintillating with the colours of flame and desire. He keeps it in a zippered pocket of his wallet. Occasionally he will take it out and hold it to the light to divine its secrets, its arcane messages. One day it will reveal them, one day it will tell all.
He gave a phony address when signing in, he didn’t tell them about his safe house at Main and Keefer. He can make a run there anytime, slip out at night, flag a cab, fetch the zip-lock bag from his room and be back in two hours. Nearly an ounce, enough to get through a week of facilitation.
Florenza LeGrand, that’s where he’d left off. He scribbled, “Raffy was prowling outside the maid’s room as we were making love. Then he just…just disappeared.” Bursting into tears on the witness stand, is that how it will be written? He hasn’t told anyone about Lance Valentine’s visit to Flo at her chateau. That’s their secret. He’s not going to say anything about Carlos, he promised.
Groggy with anti-psychotics, he was having difficulty decoding his writing, its hidden meanings. He rose, slid open the glass door to his balcony, stepped out into the drizzle, looked over the railing, two storeys down. If he aimed for those rocks he could smash his head open.
He decided not to do that yet. One of the custodians had just opened the door, lugging in a suitcase, a garment bag, and a large cardboard box. Custodians just come in, there are no locks. “Miss Wu is here to see you. Do you mind if I look at this stuff, Mr. Pomeroy?” Ms. Wu came in, grim, unsmiling.
As the custodian went through the bags, she drew Brian to a corner of the room. “The manager of the Ritz phoned to say you’d abused his clerk and he wanted you gone. I brought your clothes, toiletries, books, computer, printer, a box of manuscript, and five backup disks I found hidden in crevices.” She looked severely at him, then added, “Plus there was something else.”