Throwing himself into the Brown case, he was exasperated to find papers and records from the file scattered all over Pomeroy’s office. Some of his scribblings didn’t make sense, though that was to be expected, given his illness. Wentworth felt guilty; he should have alerted the partners to his last conversation with Brian. (“Do you know where I get my orders from?” “Where?” said Wentworth with a nervous laugh. “Hector Widgeon himself.”)
His weekend visit to Garibaldi was a disaster. Mr. Beauchamp didn’t recognize him, though they’d met four times: at a guest lecture at UBC, in an East End Bar dinner, in the hallway outside provincial court 10, and while serving documents at the great one’s firm, Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham.
He’d been more comfortable with Margaret Blake-who’d fed him, despite his protestations-though he’d made the hugely embarrassing slip of calling her Mrs. Beauchamp. “He’s just being crotchety,” she said as he helped with the dishes. “He’ll soon get over it.”
But the icon seemed to be holding him at a distance. He was grumpy, saw this intriguing case (multiple suspects, political entanglements, hot sex in the boudoirs of the rich) as some kind of millstone. He flinched at the mere mention of the client’s name.
Mr. Beauchamp had chided him in Pomeroy’s office. (“Wentworth, I find myself wilting under your barrage of nervous energy. And stop calling me Mr. Beauchamp. I have a first name.”) Further unsettling him was April Wu, whose alluring presence always left him sweaty and tongue-tied. If she weren’t gay, he’d be in love.
When he sought advice about how to handle Cud Brown on Sunday, Mr. Beauchamp said, “Test him. See if his story holds up.”
He’d come second in the footrace but fourth in the swim, and now, on this final day of the triathlon, he must win the bicycling to earn the gold. His lungs were raw, he didn’t know if he had enough left in the tank, and the Nigerian and the Czech were still five metres ahead. The ultimate test was approaching, Heart Attack Hill. He dug deep…
Wentworth braked, swerved to avoid a car door swinging open in front of him. Had the exiting driver not yelled, “Sorry,” he would have given her the finger-she had almost killed a lawyer involved in one of the biggest trials of the decade.
He powered up the hill to Eighth Avenue, pulled up in front of a tall, ramshackle wood-frame building, the Western Front, a theatre and artists’ residence, an East End counterculture shrine where Cudworth Brown was writer-in-residence for the next two weeks.
He found him in a two-room flat, swigging beer, bare-chested except for his peace medallion. His girlfriend was here too, Felicity Jones, sitting at a typewriter, puzzling over a dictionary.
Cud had a steely grip. “I forgot your name.”
“Wentworth Chance. We met once at the office.”
Cud didn’t seem to recall that. “What’s with the bicycle helmet?”
“It’s a health thing.” He didn’t want to admit he couldn’t afford a car on what they paid him.
“You’re a lawyer?”
“Winner of the McKenzie Prize in Evidence.”
“I hope Arthur ain’t going to foist you on me like he did with Pomeroy.”
“Be nice, Cuddlybear. He looks hungry, you could warm the lasagne.”
“Thanks, I just ate. Mr. Beauchamp wants me to go over your story again.”
“Okay, but I want to watch the game after.”
“Game?”
“The Super Bowl, man. It’s super Sunday.”
“What rhymes with yonder?” Felicity asked.
“Launder,” Wentworth said. “Fonder.”
“Perfect.”
“Tell me about the judge I got. This Kroop character. I hear he’s an assmunch.”
Wentworth had worked up a personality profile on Kroop for the Gilbert Gilbert trial. With his profound dislike of dissenters and radicals, the chief justice wouldn’t like Cudworth’s arrogance and hairy chest and peace medallion and views about proletarian revolution.
“Mr. Beauchamp will dance rings around him.” No point mentioning the history of enmity. One old clipping recounted a trial at which the chief jailed Mr. Beauchamp three days for claiming his head was set in concrete. “He’s just there to direct traffic. The jury decides.”
When Wentworth declined a beer, Cud opened another for himself. They settled in a nook by a window. “Okay, Woodward, where do we start?”
“Wentworth. First of all, that medallion has to go; you can’t wear it in court. Witnesses are going to be identifying you, there’s no point in helping them. No suspenders either.”
“Good thinking, man.”
“Tell me how you got invited to Judge Whynet-Moir’s house.”
“I’d been nominated for the GG in poetry, as I guess everyone knows, and writers of a certain rank get asked to prostitute themselves for the Literary Trust-and believe me, I felt like a fucking whore in a Tijuana bordello.”
“There were three other similar events going on that evening, right?” Wentworth had done his homework.
“Yeah, in fact I was originally supposed to go to a soiree in Point Grey, which was closer, but a few days before, they switched me to this one. I was kind of resentful, but it’s all for the cause.”
“Why did they switch you?”
“One of them inscrutable events of fate, man. Wish they hadn’t.”
Felicity asked, “Is there a word like nymphean?”
“Never heard if it,” Cud said. “Anyway, I was all day getting there, ferry, bus, thumb, and taxi, and I was in a mood to tie on a good one and not worry about getting my ass back home. When Whynet-Moir greeted me I let the conversation drift to where I didn’t have a bed for the night.”
“How did he seem to you?”
“In what way?”
“Generally. His demeanour.”
Cud looked hard at him. “You could see behind the jovial mask that this dude was tormented. I felt his vibrations right away. I got a nose for people.”
“Okay, then what?”
“So he gave me this home and garden tour, and I’m thinking, there are people living in the street, and him and his wife have got eight baths and an elevator to the wine cellar.”
“Did you express these views, or get in any kind of political argument?”
“He’s not the kind of guy you can strike up an argument with. Too soft and squishy, if you get my meaning. There was this other heavy pockets, Shiny Shoes, who I took a dislike to for making cracks at my medallion. He had some kind of business with the judge, I saw them in a corner bending over some papers.”
“You didn’t mention this to Mr. Pomeroy.”
“I remembered it later, thought it might be important. Shiny Shoes didn’t look happy after that little discussion. He kind of rushed off with his wife. But maybe that’s because I pissed on his Lamborghini.”
Wentworth made a note. Cud’s constant smoking was getting to him, bringing on hiccups.
“Anyway, a martooni or two later, I’m out on the deck and the judge is directing traffic and here comes the mink with her, ‘Want to fire me up?’ She had both my books, she’s an appreciator of the arts.”
“Those are the ones you signed?” Hic.
“Yeah…” A hesitant look at Felicity. “Maybe we should continue this over a beer.”
“We are.”
“Down at the Pig.”
As Cud led him toward the Pigskin, a sports bar a few blocks away, he said, “I never told Felicity about how I got seduced by that dame. It’s embarrassing.”
“I ain’t been beat in twenty-eight straight,” said Two-Ton Tony, “and I ain’t gonna let some rank amateur stop my run.” He racked the balls as Wentworth tossed back his whisky. “What’s your wager, four-eyes?” Wentworth pointed to his gorgeous girlfriend. “Her. For the night.” He chalked his cue, broke the triangle, and the seven ball rolled into the right corner pocket. The rest would be easy…
The back end of a cue almost struck Wentworth’s glass of ginger ale. “Hey, fat man,” Cudworth growled, “you’re bothering my friend; watch what you’re doing with that thing.”