Old Riley, she meant, the geriatric mole from the fortieth floor, many times Arthur’s saviour. He almost lived in the library, had rarely been seen outside it.
“I sent him the usual.” Chocolate truffles. “I had to come in Sunday myself, but no big deal.”
A blatant hint. Flowers to her doorstep.
“Beware of Mr. Bullingham. He wants you to do a murder.”
Too late. Alerted to Arthur’s arrival, here he came, last of the founding partners, ninety-one and still on his horse. Another ancient who couldn’t stop working. People should read more poetry.
“Ah, Beauchamp, a rare honour. Visiting the troops, are we? Looking for an entertaining diversion, perhaps?” He drew Arthur toward his anteroom.
“I shall be quickly in and out, Bully.” A nickname that only the upper-tier partners dared use. “A vital issue of civil liberties this morning, a couple of days repose at my island sanctuary, then I must scurry back to our lovely capital.”
“And miss a treat? If I know Arthur Beauchamp, he will not be able to resist it. The Cameron murder. Gravelstein is handling it, but he’d be more than eager to serve you as junior.”
“The Cameron murder? I forget.”
“The highways minister, surely you remember. Found dead in an Abbotsford bordello twelve years ago?”
It came back. Headlines about orgies, love drugs, hot-tubbing hostesses. Cameron in a closet, impaled through the heart by a spear. DeCameron, they called it.
“His widow was arrested last week. A sting, or whatever you call it — they had a woman officer pose as a psychotherapist, and she inveigled Mrs. Cameron into some incriminating statements. Some issues there to slack the old thirst for justice, eh?” Ribbing him about the biography, a friendly punch on the arm.
“Far too pedestrian. I do only cases of international import now.”
Bully, taken aback, turned sardonic. “Let me guess. You’ve been retained by Alta International to represent their five ignoramuses. Off to Igorgrad, are we, to raise constitutional issues in the people’s democratic court?”
“For your ears only, Bully, I’m looking into the possibility of representing the family of Abzal Erzhan.” A case to truly slake the thirst for justice, the defence of the disappeared, the inexplicably disappeared. “An informed source tells me Erzhan may have been shanghaied, perhaps murdered. It would be interesting to learn if agents of the federal government were involved.”
“Do say.” Bully seemed intrigued, if only because Arthur might turn up more dirt against the reviled Conservative government. If Erzhan had been kidnapped, mysteries abounded as to who did it. DiPalma had insisted Erzhan’s wife and landlord could shed light on the matter — maybe enough light to affirm the alcoholic spook’s good intentions. Margaret was working through friendly channels to set up a meeting with them, and Arthur must remain ready to jump on a plane.
“There may be expenses. I don’t imagine the Erzhan family has vast resources.”
Bully frowned. He was famously stingy, but Arthur’s high-profile cases brought in substantial business. “Spend prudently.”
“Bully, I also want to enlist the help of our Ottawa branch plant. I’d like to make some quiet inquiries about a CSIS agent named Ray DiPalma.”
“Antoine Salzarro is your man, recently joined us from the government side, was number three in Public Security. I’ll get on to him about this DiPalma fellow. He’s your informed source? Never mind — I’ve always held to the tenet that if you can’t keep a secret, don’t expect anyone else to keep it for you.”
Arthur didn’t have time to visit Zachary in the cells, so he wheedled the sheriffs into bringing him into court before the sitting. On entering, Zack raised two defiant handcuffed fists in salute to his many supporters, young environmentalists who stood up to honour their martyr.
Brittle-tempered Zack was less angry than Arthur had expected, his attitude one of cynical bemusement, as if his arrest were the sort of thing one should expect from the guardians of a dying order.
“They came by twice this weekend, high-level bulls. Because I freed some captive timber from a log boom, I’m a prime suspect for blowing up nine Bhashyistanis, right? Problem is, I was in custody on this bogus charge when it happened. So these fascisti implied I was the instigator, Mr. Big pulling strings from Cellblock A of the Burnaby Correctional Centre. Alternatively, I’m accused of stirring up hatred, spurring the rabble to acts of murder. They finally gave up on that line and went to Plan C, promising to do right by me if I rolled over on my Eastern contacts. A financial reward, plus witness protection. The government’s in a stinking pile of shit over this, man, they’re looking to bust anyone, your aunt Albertina and her three-legged cocker spaniel.”
Zack had declined to talk on the phone from jail, thus this outpouring, and it didn’t cease as the clerk called the court to order. He clutched Arthur’s sleeve, whispered: “Give my love to Savannah if I don’t get out. Give it if I do, because I’m going to need a couple of days to warn friends about the heat. Can’t do it by telephone, obviously. And you got to believe they’re reading all our emails.”
Paranoia. Another growing aspect of the Canadian condition. “Keep out of trouble,” Arthur said. Zack had earned a fearsome reputation as a hothead.
“Mr. Beauchamp, are we ready?”
Arthur looked up: Mr. Justice Gundar Singelar, whom Arthur remembered as a young, aggressive prosecutor. Suddenly he was a judge. Arthur had worked against him a few times. These ex-Crowns often tended to nurse long-term wounds from their losses.
“Ready, milord.” Arthur retreated to counsel table, Zack to the prisoners’ box. Arthur prayed the young man would not again show the bad taste of urging a judge to go to hell. Mind you, Arthur had been known to say similar himself, in more eloquent ways.
“I’ve read your brief, Mr. Beauchamp, and that of the justice minister.” Represented here by a Ms. Kwon, a new face, pink-cheeked with inexperience. “Excellent both. I have a busy list here today, so I wonder if either of you wish to emphasize any points.”
Shorthand for: keep it brief, I’m on overload. Arthur spoke for only five minutes, ex tempore, a rumbling salvo about the freedoms of speech and assembly, about how the right to make vigorous, peaceful protest was the hallmark of democracy and the bane of totalitarian regimes.
Singelar frowned at the rippling of applause from the gallery, pursed his lips with the air of someone in doubt. Arthur decided that was play-acting because the judge immediately lit into Kwon. “Mr. Flett was arrested at a demonstration that you concede was lawful.”
“That’s right, milord. But my position is that the parole board, not the court, has the duty of determining whether the petitioner broke a condition — ”
“But Mr. Beauchamp is saying that condition is unconstitutional, it flies in the face of the Charter. If so, what’s left for the parole board to determine?”
“Well, ah, they have an overriding discretion in parole matters, and given that Mr. Flett has shown no indication of repentance — ”
“Just a minute — they have an overriding discretion? You mean they override me?”
It went on like that for a few minutes. Singelar had obviously made up his mind early, but he had a good house to play to, and as a former prosecutor he probably saw a chance to establish credentials for being even handed. Arthur tended to get such breaks these days, after kicking around the courts for several decades. Respect came more with age than talent.
An ancient and lovely remedy, the habeas corpus, and it freed the corpus of Zachary Flett, who walked proudly from the room and gave Arthur a hug. “If I’m away three or four days, Savannah will understand. We have much work to do.”
Arthur took that as the royal we. He watched as Zack was hoisted briefly by his disciples and borne to the escalator. He disappeared amid the throng waiting for him at the courthouse door.