“I use a tablespoon of Alka-Seltzer with honey,” said Felicity, who’d morphed into a better humour. “Oh, you should’ve been with us last night, Mr. Chance, when the power went out. Cud had to do a reading by candlelight in the Cinco de Mayo Bar and Grill. It was, like, transcendental.”
“I had the place rocking.” Cud took Wentworth’s arm and drew him away. “Let’s try this on for size. When I hear Raffy scream, I jump out of bed, rush outside in time to see the perp run across the lawn, through the rose bushes, or whatever they’ve got, and over the wall. But I catch a look at him, and he resembles me, same brawny build, which is why Astrid picked me out in the lineup, right? The Mexican guy, Carlos, what’s his complexion, could he pass?”
Wentworth showed him a picture he’d copied from the Net last night, Carlos Espinoza handcuffed to a Mexican cop, both of them grinning at the camera. Bronze-skinned, thin-waisted, an unbent, aquiline nose, jet black hair. Cud’s hair was light, almost sand-coloured.
Cud frowned over the picture, disappointed. “Well, there were only a few outdoor lights. That neighbourhood snoop, how was she gonna see details? Let me continue. I figure I’ll jump in a car and follow him. And I zoom out in the Aston Martin just in time to see him running down the street. And I…maybe I slip on a wet patch-did it rain that night? — or if that doesn’t work, I swerve to avoid a cat or dog…and bang, I hit that tree. Think it’s got legs?”
Wentworth made no effort to respond. “Look invisible. Astrid Leich is in the far witness room.”
A girl came by with a copy of Karmageddon. “It’s for my mom’s birthday.” Cud didn’t look so invisible signing books and CDs.
Abigail exited the witness room, took Wentworth aside, grimacing, slugging from a bottle of Mylanta. “I’m not going to let the chief know my pain. Bertha Rudweiler’s death has confirmed for him the essential weakness of women. What’s up with Arthur?”
“Riding in at high noon. I’m the whipping boy for the morning.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t have sent that fax to an open mailbox.”
It would be easy to blame the boss, to claim he was acting under orders. But Wentworth Chance wasn’t made of custard filling, he won’t squeal even if they apply electrodes.
“There’s a chance we won’t go ahead out of respect for her ladyship. The chief wants to see us in chambers.”
“When?”
“Now.”
Hardly anyone got invited to Wilbur Kroop’s sanctum; why was junior counsel being so honoured? Maybe he wanted to take his shots at Wentworth out of view of the jury. That’s fair. He’ll stand tall, die bravely. “Give me liberty or give me death.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” Abigail was looking oddly at him.
“Um, nothing. Okay, let’s go.”
Haley was not among the invited; Wentworth took satisfaction from that, giving her a pitying smile as he walked by. She won’t have the pleasure of seeing Wentworth get slapped around.
The thirty-inch TV in the chief’s room seemed totally out of place, as did the library of DVDs. Otherwise it was right out of Dickens, gloomy and cluttered, wall-to-wall books and musty law reports. Old English masters on the wall. A small-wattage bulb under a flower-patterned lampshade. A yellow pool under a lit brass desk lamp, spotlighting a gnarled, hairy hand signing papers with a fountain pen. A hulklike form on a high-backed throne. His gown and vest were on a hook, and he was in shirtsleeves. Yellow suspenders. Smiling…
“Miss Hitchins. Mr. Chance. Very kind of you to join me. Please sit. That chair is more comfortable than it looks, Mr. Chance.”
Wentworth took it, feeling discombobulated. He had trouble drawing his eyes from a desk photo of a steely-eyed young man in a 1950s haircut, beside him, a smiling woman, Kroop’s late wife. She’d died in an accident forty years ago. He’d never remarried.
“A sad day, milord,” Abigail said. “Madam Justice Rudweiler was a powerful voice on the appellate bench. I know you had enormous respect for her.”
“And for a very good reason. She regularly upheld my rulings. Hmf, hmf.” He didn’t seem to be mourning that much. “Bertha had little time for modernist ideas that divorce laws from ancient authority. Old-fashioned, you might call her, but her breed is fast disappearing.”
If he was baiting Abigail, the ultimate modernist, she wasn’t rising to it. Wentworth dared throw in his two-bits’ worth, a mindless bit about Rudweiler’s reputation for hewing to principle.
“Well said, young man.” Wentworth sneaked a look at Abigail, who seemed equally amazed at this display of bonhomie. “But where is my friend Arthur Beauchamp? Are we to expect he’ll be wandering by at some point?”
Wentworth sought to leave the impression Arthur had been called away briefly on vital matters. He didn’t mention fishing.
“Normally, of course, we would adjourn to mourn the passing of our sister Rudweiler, but that would be unfair to our jury, given all the interruptions they’ve endured. You’re up to it, Miss Hitchins?”
“Raring to go, milord.”
“Whom do you have left? Obviously the deceased’s spouse, and Miss Leich-whose Hedda Gabler, by the way, was among the finest I’ve seen-and did I hear there may be two others?”
Abigail said she’d added the maid and guard to her list.
“Surely they won’t take long.”
“The Crown’s case could be wrapped up by day’s end.”
“And you, Mr. Chance? How long do you anticipate the defence will take?”
Wentworth was bold: “Well, sir, if the Crown’s case doesn’t shape up by the end of the day, I’m sure you’ll hear Mr. Beauchamp move for a directed verdict. Otherwise I can’t honestly say what he plans to do. It depends on those two main witnesses.”
“Then it’s best we press ahead. But I propose-and I’ll hear you on it-a slight digression from the usual timetable. I have in mind that we plough ahead this week until all the Crown witnesses are in. That means sitting tomorrow, Saturday. Defer our weekend by a day, with Sunday and Monday free. Happily, that would allow me to attend to my state duties in the nation’s capital. Then we can all be back here on Tuesday. Does that seem practicable?”
Tuesday, election day. Wentworth strived to frame a complaint. Words didn’t come.
“I see no alarms being raised, hear no howls of protest. Excellent.” He rose. “Thank you, both of you; you’ve been most considerate. Now shall we all return to the tasks at hand?”
Wentworth walked out in a daze. Ebenezer Kroop had been visited by the Ghost of Judgments Past, or maybe by Bertha Rottweiler, and had evolved into a repentant, kindly human.
Judge Ebbe was again in the gallery, giving him the evil eye, still smarting from Wentworth’s insinuation of guilt. Sitting behind him was another familiar face…He jumped, startled, recognizing her, a ghost from his own recent past…was that really April Fan Wu? Shouldn’t she be in Hong Kong? Wait…sitting beside her was an even scarier visitation, Brian Pomeroy, looking totally cleaned up. The nicotine-stained moustache was history. Blue suit, blue silk tie, tailored off-white shirt. The blank stare said he was not at any advanced stage of recovery.
As Wentworth bore down upon them, April looked up from a clipboard, smiled her ultra-cool smile. “Either your legs have grown or you’re wearing someone else’s trousers.”
“They’re mine,” Pomeroy said. “Did you find the ring? Check the pockets.”
“Why are either of you here?”
“The info feed into Hollyburn Hall is zero,” Brian said. He held a pad of lined paper, a sharpened pencil. “We’re getting close to the final chapter. I don’t trust the court reporter.”
Wentworth had to check his own sanity. Okay, he was in court 67, all normal, sheriffs, clerk, prosecutors, Silent Shawn, the jury filing in.
“April, why aren’t you in Hong Kong?”
“I renewed my visa.”
“She’s come back for the climax, Wentworth.”
“I have taken him out on a day pass,” April said.