He led them into court 67, where Wilbur Kroop was bickering with counsel. “Your argument would put the police in handcuffs, not the culprits. Surely in these perilous times wiretap laws must be given a broad and liberal interpretation.”
Impaled by his glare, the young counsel stammered incoherently.
“Well? Do you have more to say?”
“No, sir, that’s my case.”
“Appeal is denied, reasons reserved. I see, Madam Clerk, that the combatants in today’s main event are present.” Kroop acknowledged Arthur, advancing up the aisle, with a gracious smile belied by his pitiless eyes, black holes in a galaxy of wrinkles and skin folds. Abigail Hitchins was already at counsel table, with a couple of helpmates, arranging files. Her well-known animus toward Kroop-he’d made a couple of anti-abortion rulings-would help deflect some of his shots at the defence.
Arthur motioned Cud to enter the prisoner’s box and introduced Wentworth as his junior.
“Ah yes, Chance, I believe you were involved with Mr. Pomeroy in that Gilbert matter.” A menacing glint of a smile. “And for the Crown we have Miss Hitchins and a young lady I’ve not met.”
Haley was the name of this freckled, Rubenesque redhead. Young lady. Arthur must refrain from echoing such expressions-for reasons he couldn’t fathom, they were no longer in season.
Kroop studied Cud solemnly. “You’re Cudworth Brown, the accused?”
“Last time I looked.”
Arthur directed a harsh look at his client. This flipness was a bad start; Kroop had taken on colour and spoke sharply: “As is the usual practice in these courts, accused will be taken into custody and remain there until termination of these proceedings.” Cud’s mouth fell open.
“Before Your Lordship so directs, I wonder if I may be heard, if I may be so bold.”
Abigail was quick to pitch in. “Milord, there’s agreement between counsel to maintain the conditions of interim release during the trial.”
A pause as Kroop digested this cozy deal, then sniffed. “Very well, but you might have considered alerting me. Let’s bring the first batch in, Mr. Sheriff. We’ll take about twenty.”
And the first batch filed in, anonymous souls pulled from kitchen, office, and factory to serve their country. Names, addresses, occupations-that is all the information the sheriffs divulge. One must rely on a talent to read faces and body language. As they stepped up in turn, Arthur sought eye contact-long experience had taught him to read intelligence in eyes, empathy in smiles. He let go those with frown and worry lines, and a few who might lack strength to endure a fractious jury room.
He wanted a cheerful lot, and with no interference from Abigail, that’s what he got. He picked a few plums from the second batch, a retired classics professor he’d once met; a Steelworkers organizer, Cud’s old union; a restaurant hostess from hip Commercial Drive, Cud’s milieu. (“I’ve been at poetry bashes at her joint,” Cud whispered.) To Arthur’s surprise, he ended up seating eight women, only four men. But his instinct in doing so seemed reliable. Men, with their petty sexual jealousies (An unregulated sex drive; I think you resent that), seemed less likely to side with the accused libertine.
“Well done, we’re moving right along. Let’s keep it up, stick to the timetable-I have to be in the nation’s capital Monday for the Order of Canada ceremonies. We’ll take five minutes.”
Abigail came by. “I think he wants us to know he’s getting the Order of Canada. You okay with those admissions of fact? Same ones Pomeroy approved in his brief lucid state.”
“I’m fine with them. I’d like to mull over Astrid Leich, if you can put her off for a few days.”
“Your word is my command.”
“I assume she has been breathlessly following the news coverage of this titillating case.”
Abigail raised a hand: “I swear. She hasn’t seen your guy’s face since the lineup. Hank Chekoff, who has been babysitting her, insisted she cancel cable and morning paper in favour of a line of credit at Blockbuster’s. She’s actually a very honest woman.”
Arthur doubted that, doubted she could be so incurious, but said nothing.
“Gag me, but I’m going to suck up to Kroop by dispensing with an opening. I don’t know what to say anyway, and I’ve got impatient witnesses.”
It was almost noon when jury and judge returned. Arthur was pleased to note the thin, bespectacled classics professor, Jane Glass, was foreperson. Sitting beside her was the Steelworkers organizer, Tom Altieri, a robust man with an air of confidence, probably a good tongue on him, an experienced persuader. The jury, Kroop directed, could spend their nights in their own beds but were admonished to ignore news reports of the trial-though everyone in the court system knew such directives were ineffectual.
The registry had cleverly assigned as clerk a stout woman whom Kroop rarely badgered, possibly because of their reputed affair many years ago. She rose and bawled out an indictment charging that on the fourteenth of October, in the year of our Lord 2007, in the Municipality of West Vancouver, Province of British Columbia, Cudworth Brown did commit the murder in the first degree of Rafael Whynet-Moir against the peace of our lady the Queen, her Crown and dignity.
Cud entered his plea with a modicum of theatrics, a firm “Not guilty” and a slight nod for emphasis.
“Identification issues are in play, milord.” Arthur wanted the jury to know this early. “So may the accused be seated in the body of the court.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, in nearly four decades on the bench, I have yet to countenance that kind of arrangement…Yes, Ms. Hitchins?”
“The Crown has no objection, milord.”
Kroop was taken aback. “Well, I do.”
“In fact, the Crown consents, milord.”
A long pause. Kroop wasn’t bound by her consent, but he regularly sided with the Crown, he was infamous for it, and now looked confused as he worked through his dilemma. He tried to salvage the moment by turning to the jury with a mock helpless look. “There doesn’t seem much role for a judge here. Those two agree on everything.” He got a ripple of laughter as compensation for having been shown up.
Cud joined mother and girlfriend in the third row. Too close to the front for Arthur’s comfort-he must meld him with the hoi polloi in the back when Astrid Leich takes the stage.
“You may open to the jury, Ms. Hitchins.”
“I’ll forgo it, milord. We want to get you on that plane to Ottawa.”
A grunt of satisfaction, the old boy mollified by the blatant pandering. “We’ll break now. Fourteen hundred hours, Madam Clerk; let’s be on time.”
Arthur packed his files, roused Wentworth from a trance.
20
His cry for justice still echoed through the courtroom. Then silence, except for sobs from the jury. Suddenly the gallery erupted in applause. Mr. Beauchamp looked up at him with newfound respect. “Exceptional piece of work, Wentworth, absolutely brilliant…”
Wentworth returned to this world: a sub shop. He was on a stool, the old rancher beside him was bitching about the rotten justice system. He riffled through the mammoth transcript of Vogel v. Clearihue, wondering when he’d have time to read its eight hundred pages. He was besieged. Consult with Vogel, help him out. Handle Cud. Talk to Loobie. Look up the law. Mr. Beauchamp was testing him, putting him through boot camp; he’d better not buckle. Arthur, he must learn to call him Arthur. The boss, that felt more natural.
A visit to Pomeroy tonight-he wasn’t looking forward to that. Someone else is going to die.
“Mr. Vogel, why didn’t you see a lawyer before you signed this deal?”