Whitson nodded. “Yes.”
“Now the underpants.” The sheriff borrowed a ruler from the clerk and picked up the underwear with it, white briefs discoloured a sickly yellow. Wentworth imagined they smelled rancid, because the witness curled his nose.
“Looks like something quite messy was going on, doesn’t it?”
“I would hesitate to say.” He reared back from the exhibit.
Kroop chided the deputy. “You don’t have to hold it right at his nose.”
“Madam prosecutor, I take it this substance has been analyzed.”
“Yes, it’s butter.”
“Butter.” A long pause to let the jury absorb this. A few were stifling smiles. Someone in the gallery gave a snort, the sound made when you suppress laughter.
“Mr. Whitson, how long had you been the deceased’s investment counsellor?”
“Oh, for seven or eight years.”
“So I take it you were fully conversant with his net worth during that time?”
“Of course.”
“Before and after his elevation to the bench?”
“Yes.”
“And prior to his appointment in 2006, what was his worth, in round figures?”
“Mr. Beauchamp, is this really necessary?”
“For every question, there is a reason, milord.”
“I’ll be the judge of that. You’re on a leash, counsel. Proceed at your own risk.”
Wentworth saw where Arthur was going: the alleged bribe to the justice minister. Whitson replied that his client’s net worth was just under two million dollars in 2006, and when Arthur asked if there’d been a substantial shrinkage shortly before he was named to the court, Whitson said, “Not at all.”
Nor was Arthur able to show that a major sum moved from Whynet-Moir’s accounts after his appointment. His assets actually grew after his marriage to Florenza, “in the form of a beneficial interest in the house at 2 Lighthouse Lane.”
Arthur wasn’t getting very far with this, but when he snapped his braces again, Wentworth felt prickles-the boss was about to move in for the kill. “Mr. Whitson, I understand you and the deceased were jointly engaged in a business venture.”
The witness seemed taken off balance. “I wouldn’t put it in those terms.”
“A venture that cost you a substantial loss.”
Whitson looked astonished. “Not at all.” Wentworth didn’t like this. He glanced at the press table, at Loobie, who wouldn’t meet his eye. “I’m an investment counsellor, Mr. Beauchamp, I don’t enter into joint deals with clients. I don’t take advice from them, I give them advice. And I don’t suffer substantial losses.”
Kroop was getting off on seeing Arthur take one on the chin. “Counsel, exactly where is this going?”
“Nowhere,” he muttered to Wentworth, who was distraught. He thought Arthur might drop this like a hot potato, but maybe he was into it too much. “You were observed having a spirited conversation with the deceased just before you left. You were showing him a document, wagging a finger.”
“I was reprimanding him, but…no, it wasn’t anything like that.”
“Why were you reprimanding him?”
“For making such a large donation to the Red Cross from his bond holdings when he was overweighted in equities.”
You could tell this was like a hammer blow, at least you could tell if you were Wentworth Chance. The way Arthur’s face went dark. A fierce look at Loobie, whose head was down, like a dog who’d been bad. Kroop did a soft “Hmf, hmf.”
There was time for one more witness, Professor Chandra, a political writer often seen on TV, a tall older woman, in a business suit this time, not a sari. She was composed, well spoken, but didn’t have much to add-she’d been corralled all evening by guests, admirers of her opinion pieces.
“Did you talk to the accused?” Abigail asked.
“For thirty seconds. I asked him if he was enjoying himself, and he said, ‘Pretty good’-he gestured at the elegant surroundings-‘considering all the famine and disease and poverty in the world.’ I told him I’d be interested in hearing his solution to those problems. A waiter came by with shrimp dip, diverting him, and I was drawn into another conversation.”
She wasn’t so acerbic when describing Whynet-Moir, who was engaging, charming, and witty. Wentworth could picture him fawning over her at dinner, pelting her with praise for her new collected pieces, listening spellbound to her views on current events.
She recalled that Cud’s bawdy recital was followed by embarrassed silence, guests scuttling about for their coats. “Judge Whynet-Moir seemed in a very sombre mood indeed as he led us out. I imagine he felt his party was spoiled.”
Wentworth whispered, “Is that admissible, what she imagines?” But there was no life from Arthur, who was morose, not paying much attention. That zinger from Whitson still stung; the boss had asked one question too many. Maybe not a historic first but a rare event. A sign the great man might be over the hill.
Chandra was one of the last to leave. On her way to her car she smelled cigar smoke and turned and saw Whynet-Moir on the deck talking to Cud in low tones. She thought of pausing to watch. “My sense of propriety, I suppose, held my curiosity in check, and I carried on to my car until they were out of view.”
“No more questions,” Abigail said.
“Professor Chandra, this court and all who serve here are forever in your debt. I deeply regret you waited so long…” Kroop finally noticed Arthur standing. “Ah, a moment, madam, I think Mr. Beauchamp may have a few questions.”
“Your Lordship is very kind. But may I suggest we break for the day? I’d like to complete my cross-examination in one fell swoop.”
“Are we on time?” Kroop asked.
“At least fifteen minutes early,” Abigail said.
“Then you’ve earned your reward. But we shall be doing shopkeeper’s hours starting tomorrow. Nine-thirty. On the dot.”
21
Arthur left Wentworth to park the Chrysler in a lot near the Pomeroy, Macarthur offices, and as he entered, April Wu was at the copy machine. She removed a bundle of papers, handed them to him. “Mr. Pomeroy’s collected works. It’s five o’clock, so if you don’t mind, I’ll end my work day.”
“Yes, of course. I hope we haven’t overburdened you.”
“There’s no greater burden than having nothing to do.” She left with some homework in a file folder, nearly bumping into Wentworth on his way in.
“Intriguing young lady,” Arthur said.
In Pomeroy’s office, he eased himself into the big swivel chair, put on his bifocals. He needed a new prescription, his eyes were aging. All his systems were aging. Why had he been so foolish as to have enlisted in this opera bouffe? He’d just been getting into the trial, a little bit, when he pulled that gaffe, the nadir of a taxing day pulling teeth from the West Coast patriciate. He sighed. Quod incepimus conficiemus; what we have begun we shall finish.
He flipped through the pages April had assembled. Some were marked up with edits. Here was Detective Sergeant Hank Chekoff making Swiss cheese of Rosy, whoever she was. Cud Brown was woven prominently into the story. The hero seemed to be snooty Lance Valentine, surely the nom de guerre of Pomeroy himself.
Arthur spun his chair to the window. A late afternoon deluge was washing pigeon excreta from the statue of Gassy Jack, Gastown’s guzzling founder. Scaffolding rising around Maple Tree Square, the quarter getting a facial for the Olympics. Cars clogging the five streets that joined here, fleeing the inner city, honking and braking, reminding him of where he’d rather be.
He must call home, check on Nick. Try to get through to Margaret on her cell, wherever she is, in Shelter Bay or Oyster Beach or Gypsy’s Landing. But he was in too black a mood to talk to anyone.
“I’ll kill Loobie!” A bellow that elicited a startled yelp from behind him, Wentworth, who’d just walked in. “That idiot and his harebrained theories.”