Arthur’s jaw dropped as she described the scene, a public drawing and quartering. He excoriated himself, he shouldn’t have left the lad in the sandbox with the neighbourhood bully. This was payback for Wentworth’s role in the Gilbert Gilbert trial. Arthur’s fury would have to be controlled, he didn’t want Kroop taking revenge by denying a motion to dismiss.
“By the way, Bry Pomeroy popped in for a while this morning. With some woman-his nurse?”
“How odd.”
“We were all holding our breath. And get ready for this. We’re sitting tomorrow so Kroop can free up Monday.”
Arthur almost spewed his coffee. “Tomorrow? Saturday! I have plans!”
“Softly, softly. He intends to sit until all the testimony is in, but maybe we can wrap it up early.”
“Do I understand you may not oppose a motion for a directed verdict?”
“Depending how it goes today.”
“Abigail, you have been most evenhanded during these proceedings. More decent to me than I deserve, frankly.”
“Well, there’s a reason for that.” She pinched his cheek. “I’m secretly in love with you.”
“Give me this boon, Abigail, don’t allow Leich a look at the lineup photo until she’s had a chance to pick my man out in court.”
“For you, Arthur.”
He’d like to believe Abigail was motivated by affection for the old fogey, but of course that wasn’t it. The prize fish she hoped to catch was Flo LeGrand, and if Cuddles got swept up in her net like some helpless guppy, too bad for him. Doubtless, she ached to pull in this wealthy, predacious playgirl, an embarrassment to the feminist movement.
He confronted Wentworth, blocking his view out the window. No immediate sign of recognition until he sighed. “Where were you?”
Since the answer was obviously known, Arthur took that as accusatory-why weren’t you there in my time of need? “Let’s call it a chicken-plucking emergency, I’ll explain later.”
“I should have become an archaeologist. That was my second choice.”
“Abigail said you did splendidly. As to Kroop, you’ll just have to shrug it off; if he’s not rewarded appropriately in the afterlife, we’ll know there’s no God. I assume the police and media are scurrying about looking for a British tabloid reporter.”
“I left it at that. I didn’t drag Brian into it, I worried he’d go off half-cocked. He was in the gallery with April Wu. I was pretty confused about that. They’ve gone somewhere for lunch.”
“Did you take note of his mental state?”
“He still thinks this trial is some kind of novel.”
Arthur felt he’d be a step up if he could solve Pomeroy’s whodunit, if he could pin the tail on the right donkey, the right perp. He had a sense the key to the mystery lay hidden in the messy tangle of Pomeroy’s synapses-something had happened during that two-hour tete-a-tete with Florenza LeGrand, something other than an exchange of pleasantries. Had she told him who the perp was?
And what role was the unpredictable Lady of the Proverbs playing? If she wasn’t still on Donat LeGrand’s payroll, had she gone off on some fancy of her own? Was she serving as ward to Brian out of sympathy, affection, or simple curiosity? She was an enigma. Arthur was troubled by her in ways he couldn’t define.
In the locker room, he ran a comb through his British Ambassador, shrugged into his robes. As he slipped outside for a quick puff, Felicity Jones burst past him and down the street, tears streaming. This grand exit looked more permanent than the last, her face set with unforgiving stubbornness.
On his way up to level six he detoured past his pestering client, who was on a landing thronged by chirruping nubile Cudaholics. One of them was giving him a back rub. Cud’s latest creative effort, as related by Wentworth-his heroic leap into the Aston Martin to catch a killer-has persuaded Arthur he would be a fool to put him on the stand. There, Cud could be cross-examined about his two prior assaults-leaving it open to the jury to conclude he was prone to violent acts.
Wentworth was waiting near the door to court 67, anxious, jittery, apparently not much perked up by the pep talk Arthur had just given him. Several young lawyers were laughing at the bon mots of Judge Ebbe, in good spirits, back here to enjoy the savaging of Raffy and Boynton, the savaging of the dead. Wentworth had cheerlessly described their contretemps in the El Beau Room. Very snappish fellow, this judge, he had a history of angry outbursts.
Almost inevitably, here was Charles Loobie with his “Hey, Artie, I got something for you.” Arthur’s suspicions about this overly helpful reporter were renewed each time he played prompter to the defence, keeping him prominently on the short list. Arthur listened patiently. This one was about a long-ago sexual conquest by Cud, the teenaged daughter of the president of Steelworkers Local 305 in Edmonton. There’d been a small scandal around that, and Cud had taken a powder from town.
“You want to worry about that union guy, he’s been looking fish-eyed at your client.” Tom Altieri.
If this rumour was true, the client had again been hoisted by his unregulated sex drive-the last thing Arthur needed was an unsympathetic juror.
As Cud came striding toward him, Arthur hurried his junior inside the court but couldn’t get distance. A tug at his gown, the dreaded importuning voice. “I don’t get it, my life’s on the line, and my counsel takes a bunk? Leaving me defended by a gawk who gets beat up by the presiding fascist despot. I need protection from this judge, man, he even looks like Hermann Goering. On top of everything, Felicity has a fit because I get tied up with my reading public.”
Arthur directed him to a seat near the back where short-sighted Astrid Leich might not quickly spot him, placing him between an older woman and a man in a leather jacket whom Arthur knew to be a plain-clothes officer. There were always a curious few of these here, cops killing time, under subpoena for other trials. The room also attracted its share of law students, mostly women, but enough men to give Leich pause. Several lawyers from the aborted Morgan appeal were sharing the counsel bench with Silent Shawn. Sergeant Chekoff was in the back row, beside two reserved seats.
Moving in to claim them were cleancut Brian Pomeroy and his keeper, April Fan Wu, sliding past Chekoff, trying not to step on his shoes. They picked up their markers, a hat and a scarf, and sat. Pomeroy looked medicated, not much emotion showing, but he caught Arthur’s eye, a form of recognition. Arthur didn’t want him here, a time bomb in the back row. Kroop could be the one to light the fuse.
Several jurors gave Arthur smiles of relief that he hadn’t abandoned ship. There was an air of expectancy-all the circumstantial evidence was in, and the trial was moving toward its defining moment, the eyewitnesses, the stars.
“Order in court!”
Enter the bullying martinet, lumbering onto the bench, glowering at Arthur, as if daring him to give him a bad time today. Kroop located Cudworth, squinted at Pomeroy, and then, for some reason, fixed for a moment on Judge Ebbe.
All eyes turned to Astrid Leich, pausing at the door, sizing up the audience, then regally walking up the aisle. Seventy-three but hiding those years well, a reasonable facsimile of the slender belle Arthur recalled from the Playhouse Theatre. Modern fluffy hairdo, a little darker than it ought to be, an ersatz rose at her left shoulder. No glasses, presumably contacts.
Kroop seemed instantly under her spell. “I hope that chair is comfortable for you, madam. Mr. Sheriff, bring her a fresh glass of water.” She smiled her appreciation.
Abigail led her through a personal history: forty-year stage career, divorced a decade ago but left in comfort by her spouse, a financier. Long-time homeowner at 5 Lighthouse Lane. Chair of the North Shore Arts Council. No dramatic flourishes. Increasingly warm smiles for the judge, eye contact with several jurors.
She had spent the afternoon of Saturday, October 12, at a show of an artist friend’s seascapes, returned home before nine o’clock, ate, made tea, and was about to settle in with a rented movie when she was reminded, by the lights and activity across the inlet, that her neighbours were holding a fundraiser for the Literary Trust.