by Gail Bowen
Zack’s opening was quiet. He wheeled over to the jurors and in a voice so soft it was almost a whisper, he introduced himself. “My name is Zachary Shreve,” he said, “and I’m Sam Parker’s lawyer. My task is to show you the kind of man Sam is and to show you what was in his mind and heart on the afternoon of May 16. It’s a duty I’m proud to undertake, because Sam Parker is a decent man.
“My learned friend, the Crown prosecutor, has done a commendable job of laying out the facts in this case, but you and I know that facts without context are like paving stones before they’re set in sand. Until they’re anchored, you can make paving stones point in pretty much any direction you choose. With all due respect, I think my learned friend is pointing the stones in the wrong direction. So I’m going to put the facts into context – anchor them down. I’m trusting that you, as ‘judges of the facts,’ will make certain that we come out in the right place.
“You have a serious responsibility ahead of you. Serious responsibility is something that Sam Parker understands. Sam is a father who loves his child. That’s why he’s in this courtroom today. When Glenda Parker confided a matter of the utmost privacy to a journalist, and she betrayed him, Glenda’s father acted. That’s what parents do for their children. That’s what a father does for his son.”
Before that moment, Zack had always been careful to refer to Glenda in the feminine. The reference to Sam and Glenda as “father and son” had been a slip, but the jury, which to this point had been dutifully attentive, was now alert. Zack picked up on the change in the emotional temperature immediately. He shook his head and a little half-smile played on his lips. “There’s a primal bond between a man and his son,” he said, and his emphasis on the word son was unmistakable.
Beside me, Brette breathed the words “son of a bitch.”
As he continued, Zack’s voice was sonorous, pitch perfect for the tale he was telling about a decent man thrust into unthinkable circumstances who was guilty of a grievous error in judgment but not of attempted murder.
I glanced across at Glenda Parker. Her outfit for court was smart and androgynous: grey slacks, a black turtleneck, and an unstructured black jacket. Her only jewellery was the heavy gold band she wore on her ring finger. When Zack first used the phrase father and son, Glenda flinched, but from that moment on, she was stoic. All of the horror – the pictures of her competing as a male swimmer, the unpacking of her private life – everything she feared most was coming to pass, but it was in aid of a good cause. Her father’s trusted barrister had found a note that resonated, and so Glenda swallowed hard.
Zack wheeled close to the jury. “Sam Parker loved his son,” he said. “That was his crime. That was his ‘sin.’ Four hundred years ago, a poet lost his first-born son. He wrote about a father’s anguish. ‘Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; / My sin was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy.’ ”
The meaty man rubbed his eyes with the back of his hand.
Zack went to him. “The poem makes me weep too. But those lines didn’t make Kathryn Morrissey weep. For her, they were just material. She needed a title for her book, so she took what she wanted from a father’s heartbreak. She needed a best-seller, so she took what she wanted from the broken lives of young people who trusted her. All Sam Parker did was love his son. He did not attempt to murder Kathryn Morrissey.”
The courtroom was silent. Linda Fritz stared studiously at her files.
“Bull’s eye,” Brette said admiringly. “Also bullshit.”
When Zack wheeled back to his place behind the counsel table, he touched his client’s arm and said a few words. Glenda Parker was sitting directly behind them. She stood, squeezed Zack’s shoulder, then bent to kiss her father’s head. The gesture delivered a message more powerful than words. “Whatever it takes,” the kiss said. “Whatever it takes.”
Later, as I stood on the courthouse steps with Rapti Lustig running through the points I was going to cover in my report of the trial for Canada Tonight, I didn’t mention the kiss. But as the snow swirled around me, and Rapti dabbed at my imperfections with Max Factor, the memory of Glenda’s pain was sharp. So was the memory of the gusto with which Zack had played his trump card. But when he came through the glass doors of the courthouse, his focus had shifted from the trial to me, and I remembered why I loved him.
He glowered at my bare neck. “Where’s your scarf?”
“I couldn’t find it this morning.”
“How long do you have to stand out here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Probably another ten minutes.”
He reached up, flicked off his own scarf, and handed it to me. “Take this.”
I knotted his scarf around my neck.
“Better?” he said.
“Much,” I said. “It’s still warm from you.”
“Anytime you need a little body heat.”
Rapti scowled. “Hey, you two – get a room.”
Zack raised an eyebrow. “Don’t I wish?” At that moment, Linda Fritz came through the courthouse doors, and Zack called her over. Without her barrister’s robes, Linda looked surprisingly vulnerable. It was clear from the hectic glitter in her eyes and the rasp in her voice that the volley of sneezes in court had just been a prelude: Linda was well on her way to the miseries of a cold.
She took in the scene. “What’s up?” she said.
“I wanted Joanne to meet you. Although since she’s already seen you in action, I guess we can skip the formalities.”
“You were terrific in there,” I said.
“Not terrific enough,” Linda said glumly. “But tomorrow is another day – speaking of which, I have a ton of reading to do.”
Zack’s tone was matey. “If you’d accept our invitation to join Falconer Shreve, eager associates would simplify your life.”
Linda blew her nose loudly and turned to me. “This man can’t get it through his head that I actually like my work. He believes that when Falconer Shreve calls, I should just put on my lipstick and hightail it over to the dark side.” She coughed. “Zack, for the record, I don’t get my thrills from pulling the hair out of other people’s drains. I’m happy where I am. Je ne regrette rien.”
“The offer’s always open,” Zack said. He took my hand. “Gotta go. I’m going to meet my guy back at the office. I’ll call you tonight.” He pulled me towards him and kissed me. “I love you,” he said.
Linda Fritz pounded her ear the way a swimmer does to get the water out. “Did I hear what I thought I heard?”
Zack frowned. “I told you Joanne and I were seeing each other.”
Linda blew her nose. “I thought it was like all your other relationships. Slam bam, thank you, ma’am. You’re always a pal afterwards, but love … hey, who knew?”
Zack grinned. “I wasn’t counting on it either, Linda, but I got lucky. Take care of that cough.”
My first report on the Sam Parker trial was complicated by a wind that was either keening into my lapel mike or lashing my hair in front of my eyes. But I stuck with it, and my report live to the East Coast was on time and on target. We all agreed the spot had gone well and as I removed my microphone, I felt a wash of relief. One show down, probably twenty more to go.
On the way to my car, I spotted Ethan Thorpe. He was walking through the parking lot behind the courthouse. He was wearing a full-length black coat with the collar pulled up against the weather – a figure of Gothic romance. I called to him. “Hey, Ethan.”
He whirled around and recognized me. “Ms. Kilbourn – hi!” Turtle style, he pulled his head even farther down inside his collar.
“What are you doing down here?” I said.
“A project,” he mumbled. “For social studies.”
“Well, court’s over for the day.” I said, “Can I give you a lift home?”
“No!” His voice cracked with adolescence and emotion. Clearly, he didn’t want me invading his private space. He tried to smooth the rough edge of his response. “Thanks, but it�
�s okay. I like walking in storms.” Then he turned on his heel and, in an exit worthy of Soul-fire, vanished in the swirl of snow.
Taylor and I watched my debut on Canada Tonight together in the family room. When the host gave a rundown of the stories the show would be covering that night, an image of me flashed on the screen. Taylor’s new fashion radar was on full alert. “Hey, that scarf you’re wearing would look really great with my orange boots.”
“You’ll have to talk to Zack. The scarf belongs to him.”
Taylor’s smile started small and grew. “Zack would give you anything you asked for.”
“Of course, he would,” I said. “He’s passion’s slave.”
Taylor’s eyes widened.
“I picked up the phrase passion’s slave from Soul-fire,” I said. “Which reminds me, I saw Ethan downtown today. He was in the parking lot behind the courthouse.”
“What was he doing there?”
“He said something about a social studies project. Anyway, I offered him a ride home, but he wanted to walk in the blizzard.”
“He doesn’t like being around other people much,” Taylor said.
“How come?”
“Because he thinks other people don’t like him.”
“Is he right?”
By a stratagem I had come to recognize well from my years as a mother, Taylor deflected the question by changing the subject. Luckily for her, she had help. Just as the silence between us was growing awkward, my segment on Canada Tonight began. Taylor’s relief was palpable. “Hey, your show’s starting,” she said.
We both watched critically. When it was over, Taylor flopped back on the couch. “Too bad about your hair weirding out in the wind like that, but what you said sounded good.”
“Thanks,” I said. I stood up. “And since I get to perform again tomorrow, I’d better do my homework.”
Taylor ran her fingers through her choppy bob. “Maybe get some hairspray too,” she said thoughtfully. “Gracie says Curlz Extra will keep your hair glued down in a monsoon.”
Like many best-laid plans, my plan to make a quick run to Shoppers Drug Mart for industrial-strength hairspray and curl up with the background information Rapti had sent went awry. As I was rinsing our dishes, the phone rang.
It was Angus telling me he and Leah had a blast in New York, and that he was available 24/7 if I needed help with any legal points. I thanked him, told him I loved him, and went back to the dishes. I’d just put the last plate in the dishwasher when Howard Dowhanuik called.
His voice was thick. “I fucked up,” he said.
“Stop the presses,” I said.
“Okay,” he said. “I deserved that.” His voice was muffled and barely comprehensible.
“Howard, hang up and call me again. There’s something the matter with this line.”
“It isn’t the line. It’s the towel I’m holding up to my goddamn face. I fell and cut myself.”
“How bad is it?”
“Bad enough. I’m bleeding like a stuck pig. I need to see a doctor.”
“Keep the pressure on the wound,” I said. “I’ll be right there.”
Like a gracious host, Howard was at the door waiting. A bloody bath towel was pressed to the left side of his face. Behind him on the tiled entrance floor was a liquor store bag that appeared to be leaking booze and blood. Recreating the sequence of events didn’t require much imagination.
“Let me guess,” I said. “You tripped coming in the door and fell face forward on your bottle of rye. It broke and cut your cheek.”
Howard eyed me malevolently. “You always were a smart broad. Now take me to the emergency ward.”
Two of my four children were risk-takers, and I knew from experience that the waiting time in emergency could be hours. I drove Howard to a walk-in clinic near the hospital. Whether it was the basset droop of Howard’s good eye or the blood that was dripping from his towel to the clinic floor, we were attended to quickly. Howard had just finished answering the admitting clerk’s questions when a nurse appeared and directed him to examining room F. I went with him.
“Are you going to hold my hand?” he asked.
“No, but you might have trouble remembering the doctor’s instructions. I’m here for backup.” I had just memorized the symptoms of West Nile Fever from a poster on the wall when the doctor came in. He was middle-aged and courtly. He glanced at the admission sheet on his clipboard. “Good evening, Mr. Dowhanuik,” he said. “My name is Winston Govender.” He removed Howard’s bloody towel and peered at the wound. “A nasty one,” he said. “What made the cut?”
“Glass,” Howard said.
“Was the glass sterile?”
“Bathed in alcohol. As was I,” Howard said gloomily.
Dr. Govender’s smile was perfunctory. He went to the sink and scrubbed his hands. “I’ll stitch you up now. You were fortunate, Mr. Dowhanuik. Just a few millimetres higher and you could have damaged your eye.”
“My lucky day.”
“It was indeed,” Dr. Govender said, and he set to work.
Howard’s cut required nine stitches. When the procedure was completed, Dr. Govender washed his hands again and then pulled up a stool next to Howard and scrutinized his handiwork. The flesh around the black line of stitches was already puffing up and blooming purple. Howard was going to look like hell in the morning and for a lot of mornings after.
“You’re going to experience some pain tonight,” Dr. Govender said. “I can give you something to ease it, but you must answer a question for me first. How much do you drink, Mr. Dowhanuik?”
Howard sighed heavily. “Not enough, Dr. Govender. Not nearly enough.”
We left without a prescription, but with written instructions about how to care for the wound. When I pulled up in front of Howard’s, he thanked me and beat a path to his door. I wasn’t about to let him escape that easily. I followed him in, found the phone book, opened it to the number for Alcoholics Anonymous, and handed it to Howard.
Howard glanced at the page. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“You’re supposed to call the number,” I said.
Howard glared and thrust the phone book back at me. “Ian always said that you were a goddamn Sunday-school teacher.”
I felt the sting. “What else did my husband say?”
“That you were a moralist – a pain in the ass who never got over being twenty-two and idealistic. That everything was black or white for you. That you never grew up enough to understand that life is lived in shades of grey.”
A lump of sadness formed at the back of my throat.
Howard peered at me. “Jesus, now you’re crying. I’m sorry, Jo. What can I do?”
I handed him back the phone book. “Call the number,” I said. “Call Alcoholics Anonymous.”
When I got home, Zack’s car was in my driveway, and he was in my living room staring at his BlackBerry. I came into the room and he held out his arms. “At last,” he said.
I went to him. “Have you been waiting long?”
“Nope. Just got here.” He looked at me closely. “Have you been crying?”
“Yes.”
“You want to talk about it?”
I took a tissue from my coat pocket and blew my nose. “Am I a moralist?”
“No,” he said, “you’re moral. There’s a distinction.” He leaned back and gave me an appraising glance. “I take it your question didn’t just come out of the blue.”
“Howard fell and cut his cheek open on a bottle of booze. I spent the last couple of hours at the Medicentre getting him stitched up.”
“And after Howard was stitched up he called you a moralist?”
“According to Howard, he was just quoting Ian, who apparently also called me a Sunday-school teacher and a pain in the ass.”
“Well, Ian’s not here to defend himself,” Zack said. “So why don’t we find ourselves a place where we can sit down and talk this out?”
As soon as we got into the
family room, Zack pushed himself out of his chair onto the couch. I moved close to him, ran my hands over his chest, and breathed in his aftershave.
“Better?” Zack said.
“Yes,” I said. “You are always exactly what I need.”
“And you’re always exactly what I need.” Zack squeezed my shoulder. “Try not to let what Howard said get to you. He made an ass of himself tonight. He was probably just lashing out.”
“Maybe. But what he said had the ring of truth. At the end, Ian and I had a lot of flash points.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So am I.”
Zack leaned towards me in his arms. “I love you very much.”
“I love you too,” I said.
“In my opinion, that means we should be together.”
“Unfair,” I said. “I’m tired and vulnerable.”
“I’m tired and vulnerable too,” he said. “But you don’t hear me whining.”
“That’s because you’re tough.”
“Says who?”
“Brette Sinclair.”
“The pretty girl with the silky hair that you were sitting next to in court.”
“We had lunch together too,” I said. “I’m learning a lot from her.”
“For example …?”
“For example, she predicted you’d do that LifeSaver trick with Sam – very clever.”
Zack laughed softly. “Just a variation on a theme,” he said. “If a female lawyer has a male client who’s accused of a violent crime, she touches his arm, gives him a little pat on the shoulder just to show that her client’s not all that scary.”
“Maybe I should give you a few more touches and pats in public – humanize you.”
“Bad idea,” Zack said. “It’s my job to be scary. As long as I don’t scare you …”
I didn’t respond.
Zack pulled away. “I don’t scare you, do I?”
I touched the furrow that ran down his cheek. “You did today,” I said. “You’ve always been so careful not to refer to Glenda as Sam’s son. I thought it was a matter of principle.”