"Negative," reported the roadblock north on Quarry Road.
"End of the trail," Chandler said. "General alert Coquitlam."
ACCUSED
New Westminster Tuesday, March 1, 1994
Three months later . . .
The statue of the Hanging Judge in Begbie Square looks south across the plaza of the New Westminster Courts, over the roofs of the buildings along Columbia Street at the muddy Fraser River flowing left to right toward the sea. This blustery March morning without a cloud to mar the sky, Morgan Hatchett left her home on 1st Street near Queen's Park, a fine Victorian mansion marking its centenary, with turrets, gables, balconies, and lots of stone, to walk west down Agnes Street to the Law Courts. Descending fifty-seven hillside steps to the forecourt plaza, which used to have cobblestones until the cracks between broke too many high-heel shoes, Hatchett paused at the bottom to pay her respects to the Hanging Judge.
Sir Matthew Baillie Begbie was Morgan Hatchett's idol.
In the 1840s and '50s, America was in an expansive mood. Fresh from Mexican conquests and annexing Oregon in 1846, the Manifest Destiny was moving north, driven by Polk's election cry of "Fifty-four-forty or Fight!" That number was the parallel where the eleventh President of the United States hoped to redraw the border with British North America. A line up near where the Alaska Panhandle ends today.
In 1857, gold was discovered in the Fraser Canyon, so 30,000 American miners swarmed north from California, which was almost panned out, to make their fortune in a land of Indians and Hudson's Bay fur traders. With them came gamblers, claim jumpers, and gunmen restrained by no law but the lynching rope. Britain's army
was months away around Cape Horn (the Panama Canal opened in 1914); so what if the miners undermined the Queen's Realm and summoned the States like Oregon?
To stop that London sent a single man.
With royal proclamations to establish the Mainland Colony of British Columbia in his bag, Begbie docked on the West Coast on November 16, 1858. Three days later, beside the Fraser River, he swore James Douglas in as first governor, while Douglas swore him in as first and only judge.
The Royal City of New Westminster, named by Queen Victoria to be the capital, was literally carved out of the bush on the "first high ground after entering the Fraser River." Stern-wheeled steamboats carried miners upstream to the gold fields from here. On drafting the Gold Fields Act in 1859, Begbie trudged up the Fraser Canyon through Hell's Gate to hand it around the mining camps clinging to the precipitous drop. The rough-and-rowdy miners thought the judge a joke until he returned with the lash and the rope.
Bedecked in the robes and wig of a British judge, Begbie held court from astride his horse, a huge man of stern gaze with a waxed mustache and goatee, who quoted Greek and Latin poets in sentencing, then tacked whip strokes on the end. "My idea is," he maintained, "that if a man insists on behaving like a brute, after fair warning, and won't quit the Colony, treat him like a brute and flog him." The rope helped the Hanging Judge make his name.
A traveler named Cheadle reported in 1863, "Passed Judge Begbie on horseback. Everybody praises his just severity as the salvation of the Cariboo and the terror of rowdies." In 1865 alone, Begbie rode 3,500 miles, sleeping under canvas and living off the land. Juries that crossed him felt the lash of his tongue. Those who threatened to kill him were mocked in court with the admonition to get on with the shooting. Sitting on the balcony of a hotel, he overheard a plot to plug him as he rode out of town. Begbie found a pail of slops and dumped it over the heads below to express his contempt. Soon word the judge was coming would clear a mining camp.
On a rare vacation to Salt Lake City, Begbie met a
man who accosted him with "How do you do, Judge. I was one of your jurymen up in the Cariboo. You certainly did some hanging." Begbie replied with dry wit, "Excuse me, my friend, I never hanged any man. I simply swore in good American citizens like yourself as jurymen, and it was you that hanged your own countrymen."
Begbie kept the "British" in British Columbia.
In 1871, the colony became part of Canada, which then consisted of the Eastern Provinces. As first Chief Justice of British Columbia, by 1894—the year he died— Begbie's Court had four more judges. One, Sir Eustace Hatchett, was Morgan's granddad.
Morgan Hatchett firmly believed what modern times required was a return to the lash, the rope, and judges with Begbie's backbone.
Judges like herself.
Turning from the statue, she cut diagonally across Begbie Square to reach the high wooden doors of the Law Courts, so heavy they took both hands to tug open. Sunbeams slanting through the glass roof of the Great Hall within spotlit the Registry on the ground floor and two tiers of courts stacked above. Most judges snuck in the back door off their private parking lot. Hatchett used the main doors, so, as with Begbie, scum and outlaws would know trouble was in town.
An L-shaped staircase rose to the second floor, by the largest portrait of the queen in the world, so big you had to view it from across the hall. While Hatchett climbed, two laughing lawyers came down, mirth gone the instant they spotted her. Both straightened collar tabs and realigned their robes. Rumor was The Hatchet noted the rumpled in a book and gave them hell in court as a consequence.
Morgan rode the elevator up to the chambers of the Chief Justice of the Supreme Court on the fourth floor. There she robed in front of a full-length mirror: black silk robe with scarlet trim, matching vest over a plain black skirt, white wing collar with upside-down V tabs, and sensible black shoes. The wig had been retired in 1905, a desecration she rued. Iron gray hair chopped in a butch cut, eyes hard to drill into minds harboring guilt, mouth permanently pursed from decades of
accusation . . . Maggie Thatcher was soft and fluffy compared to her.
At five to ten, Hatchett rode the judges' elevator down to the second floor, then walked the back corridor to Court 2-3.
"Order in Court! All rise!" the sheriff barked as she climbed four steps to the bench.
From every point of view, the Heritage Courtroom was a stage. When the new Law Courts replaced the Old Courthouse in 1980, Begbie's trial rooms were carefully dismantled and reassembled here, such Victorian craftsmanship a treasure from the past. The judge's bench was a stage indeed, with sashed red velvet curtains to both sides and a carved oak canopy, the high-backed throne flanked by two lesser chairs, oak paneling behind and tall brass lamps on the wide oak desk. From high in her private theater box, Hatchett gazed down on the rabble: robed barristers facing her at the counsel table, the accused raised beyond in the prisoner's dock, then the great unwashed filling the public gallery of her court, a murmuring mass of commoners summoned to this assize for jury duty.
A portly man rose from the counsel table. "Lyndon Wilde appearing for the Crown, My Lady. With me is John Crook."
The junior counsel bowed.
A tall gaunt man rose from the counsel table. "Vic Knight for the defense."
Hatchett's scowl deepened. She had an ax to grind. Before this trial was over he'd face the Knightmare of his career.
"Read the indictment," she ordered.
The court clerk read the count of murder to the accused. "Having heard the charge, how do you plead, guilty or not guilty?"
"Not guilty," said the man standing in the dock.
The clerk turned to the judge. "The accused pleads not guilty."
"Proceed," Hatchett ordered.
A wooden box of names in hand, the clerk addressed the dock. "These good persons who shall now be called are the jurors who are to pass between Our Sovereign Lady the Queen and you at your trial. If therefore you
would challenge them or any of them, you must challenge them as they come to the book to be sworn, and before they are sworn you shall be heard/'
The clerk addressed the gallery. "Members of the jury panel, answer to your names when called and come forward please."
It took half an hour to select twelve jurors. In Canada, both Crown and defense can
challenge twelve times. The jury list provides names, addresses, and occupations. That and the silent face in court are what you get to decide. Those who survived challenging took a seat in the jury box. During selection, Morgan assessed the accused: blond hair short in a military cut, blue eyes firmly meeting hers. The Hatchet's glower said, My friend, you're going down.
After a brief coffee break while the jury chose a foreman, the court—now packed with Mounties—reconvened. "Mr. Wilde," Hatchett said, "please open for the Crown."
The portly prosecutor rose from the counsel table. He, too, locked eyes with the accused, then turned to the triers of fact. "Members of the jury," Wilde began, "this man stands charged that on the seventh of December, 1993, in the City of Port Coquitlam, in this Province, he did commit the second-degree murder of Dora Craven. The evidence for the Crown will take you back to that day. . . .
BIRTHDAY PARTY
Port Coquitlam
Tuesday, December 7, 1993
After conversing with Craven and MacDougall by the car, Kidd rounded Dora's house to check on Ident's progress collecting forensic clues. "Ten minutes will see the kitchen once-over done," said the senior tech. "H
you keep to the path of contamination, you can come in then. Go for a coffee."
Rachel used the "coffee break" to cross Mary Hill Road to Winifred Parker's house, intent on questioning the woman who had called OCC. As she reached out to rap on the door, it opened by itself as in a schlock horror film.
"Saw you coming," said a disembodied voice.
The face that peered around the door was that of a human weasel, long pointed nose jutting inches from her cheeks, receding chin and forehead accentuating it, the beady eyes either side close-set and suspicious. "Nosy" Parker was seventy, eighty, ninety years old if she was a day, with tight white curls, Grand Canyon wrinkles, and glasses on a chain. Though she wore an Indian sweater and a knitted shawl, the temperature in her house was still eighty degrees.
Kidd knew Nosy well from having worked Burglary, and couldn't understand why she was proud of the name, putting the fact down to eccentricity. "Nothing gets by you, Winnie. Bull's-eye this time."
"He that eats the Queen's goose shall be choked by the feathers. I'm the feathers, Corporal."
Kidd smiled. Trust Winnie to know of her promotion today.
Nosy Parker's parlor looked out on Mary Hill Road, across from Dora Craven's front yard, porch, and door. Beyond her neighbor's house was Colony Farm. From here, FPI was visible to the left down where the Fraser met the Coquitlam River, but the site of the attack on Bert and Ernie was hidden by Dora's home and the wooded rise to the right. On top of the TV backed by the window sat binoculars.
"She's dead, isn't she?"
"Yes," replied Kidd.
"Poor Dora," Winnie said, crossing herself. "Think the nut killed her, like I feared?"
"We don't know. The doors were locked, so how'd he get in?"
"Saw you talking to Nick. Is he a suspect?"
Kidd was about to state no, but stopped herself. "Should he be?"
"It's easier to raise the devil than to lay him."
"Okay, Winnie. What'd you see?"
Kidd sat, notebook in hand, like a secretary. She glanced out the window now and then to picture events described.
k Tt was getting dark when Dora's son arrived. He pulled in off the road and parked in the yard. As Oprah was half over, the time was four-thirty. A street lamp shines on Dora's drive. His overcoat was open as he got out of the car, so I could see Red Serge underneath. He went around back where I lost sight of him at the far porch corner/'
"Eyesight?"
"Binoculars sight," she corrected. "Twilight's the best time to watch barn owls and coyotes down on the farm."
"Of course," said Kidd.
"After Oprah finished, maybe ten minutes, the son came out the front door in a big hurry. He was dressed in Red Serge without the overcoat, and carrying a large plastic bag."
Tea stain and birthday gift, thought Kidd.
"Soon I heard sirens on the Lougheed, eh? Didn't pay much attention since there's sirens all the time. I watched the early news at five, and near the end caught a flash about the nut's escape. When I looked out the window, I saw the glow of red-and-blue lights from down on the farm behind Dora's house. No way was I going out with a nut on the run, so I phoned Dora to ask what was going on."
"Time?" Kidd asked.
"About six. I thought maybe she was in the bath or had unplugged the phone—sometimes she does that to be left alone—so I waited awhile, then called back. When she didn't answer by seven I got worried. She could see the action out her kitchen window. I figured she'd plug in the phone so Nick could check she was safe. That's when I rang you."
"From when Nick left just after five until Constable Stekl arrived, did anyone else approach the house across the street?"
"No," Winnie said.
"How long were you at the window?"
"The whole time. A crazy on the loose, no way I'll let down my guard."
"The bathroom?"
"Nope."
"The kitchen to make dinner?"
"All the excitement, I haven't eaten yet. Even if I watch TV, one eye's out the window."
"You asked if Corporal Craven was a suspect. What prompted that?"
"He who speaks of others burns his tongue."
Rachel was armed for Nosy's game. Parker was dying to tell her, but had to be coaxed. She closed her notebook as a sign her lips were sealed. "Better to ask the way than go astray," she countered. "A clear conscience is like a coat of mail. Life without a friend is death without a witness. It's not as thy mother says, but as thy neighbors say."
Nosy twitched her nose. "Yo mama taught you well."
"We Mounties are lucky to have you on guard. What you say stays between us. If it's crucial, I'll find a backup source. I wouldn't be true to my job if I didn't check every angle. You were Dora's friend in life. Now you're her witness."
"What sort of cop is he?"
"Good as far as I know."
"All I meant is there's a wild streak in Nick. His mother had an accident when he was in his teens. There used to be a paper shack next to their home. A squatter used it to sell drugs."
Nosy pointed to a scrapbook on a table spread with newspaper clippings. Rachel knew Winnie was a mainstay of Coquitlam Archives, tracking municipal affairs since troglodytes walked the earth, retain colony farm as 'a park forever' to preserve area's wildlife, naturalist says trumpeted one headline, coquitlam mounties deplore crumbling building blared another. Damn right, thought Kidd. The scrapbook lay open— Trust Nosy! —at a 1975 clipping from The Vancouver Sun.
Jekyll to Hyde? Rachel wondered, staring at Nick's photo.
"Tell me, Winnie," she said.
The summer Nick got his driver's license, his mom was badly injured, hospitalized comatose from a head-on col-
lision. Up to then he had walked the straight and narrow, avoiding teenage pitfalls for her sake. But now alone at home with a drug trafficker next door, Nick's repressed anger and guilt about his father's death blew like a volcano. From pot, to booze, to LSD, that school year was a blur. With money earned from selling lids of Maui Wowee, he purchased a 1200 cc. Harley-Davidson Low Rider. Cruising a personal highway to hell, he soon fell afoul of the cops. Nothing serious, but it was a start.
The tattoo on Nick's biceps dated from his school daze. Stoned and drunk, he remembered little of the procedure, except the artist was topless with piercings through her nipples. The tattoo depicted an hourglass almost out of sand, with the words here comes above and the night below. In his state, it probably seemed deep at the time.
Two months before graduation, the Harley got him expelled. Mr. Clayton, the vice principal, looked like Spiro Agnew but was less liberal in thought. Clayton viewed Nick as a long-haired punk to be knocked down a notch. Nick viewed Clayton as a blockhead and fascist old fart. Both itched like dogs with fleas to take the other on.
It
was a warm April day and the girls' track team was running the oval. Clayton stood outside the school enjoying a little voyeuristic T&A. As he ogled the team in jiggly T-shirts and skimpy shorts, the throaty roar of a motorcycle shook the field. Like an Indy pace car, Nick fell in behind the team. "Get off the track, bum!" Clayton bellowed.
Reining the hog in a wheelie, Nick gunned by his nemesis. He flipped the bird at Clayton as the v.p. ate his dust, then shot up the loading ramp used to stock the woodwork room. Thundering down the main hall of the industrial wing, the Harley exited airborne out the opposite door. Evel Knievel might have approved . . . but Clayton gave him the boot.
As luck would have it, the principal was a levelheaded woman, so she softened Nick's expulsion with a fighting chance. He was suspended from classes for the rest of the year, but could write the government exams at the end. Pass them through independent study and he would graduate.
The thought of Clayton's balls for bookends made Nick hit the books. By burning the midnight oil he scored 84 percent. Graduation day saw Nick absent from school. Absent until his name was called over the PA. "Nicholas Craven," the voice repeated, pausing for ten seconds, then the Harley kicked in and Nick wheeled into the hall. Hair in a ponytail and dressed in bike leathers, he climbed to the stage, boot chains jangling, to accept his grad diploma from Clayton's shaking hand. As you'd expect, his classmates gave him a standing ovation.
Ironically, it was the Harley that saved Nick's soul.
That summer of graduation, his favorite thrill was racing the CPR through Maple Ridge, hell-bent to beat the train to Fool's Crossing. Armed with warning lights but no barrier, the crossing had claimed lives over the years. Hair streaming behind him free from any helmet, pavement zipping beneath him in a tarmac blur, muffler rapping like a werewolf s growl, Nick would veer the bike uphill and descend toward the tracks. Crosscutting the nose of the train, he'd split-second cheat death. Nothing like it to jolt an adrenaline high.
Then came the tyke.
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