by Gail Bowen
When Zack asked Sam how he typically dealt with stress, there was nervous laughter in the courtroom.
Sam was prepared for the question. “I pray, I swim, and I go to the shooting range,” he said.
Zack smiled. “Your abilities at prayer and swimming are none of our business,” he said, “but how would you estimate your skill as a marksman?”
“I’ve been shooting all my life,” Sam said. “I hit what I aim at.”
“What do you normally aim at?”
“Metal targets,” Sam said. “Just the standard recreational shooting setup.”
“So when you’re shooting for recreation,” Zack asked, “how far away are you from your target?”
“When I’m feeling sharp, six hundred yards. When I’m feeling old, five hundred yards.”
There was more laughter in the courtroom. Sensing that people were beginning to like Sam Parker, Zack waited until the laughter died down.
“And whether you’re feeling sharp or old, you generally hit your target?” he said finally.
“I always hit my target,” Sam said. There was no boasting in his voice. He was simply stating a fact.
“If you were aiming at a target a yard away from you,” Zack asked, “would you say your chances of hitting it were 100 per cent?”
Sam nodded. “100 per cent.”
“How far from Kathryn Morrissey were you standing when the gun you were holding went off?”
“Very close,” Sam said. “A couple of feet.”
“Yet you only grazed her shoulder,” Zack said.
“Yes,” Sam said. “The shot only grazed Ms. Morrissey’s shoulder.”
Kathryn Morrissey was sitting in the front row behind the Crown’s desk. Sam’s eyes found her. “I am thankful every moment of the day for that, Ms. Morrissey,” he said. “I hope you believe that.”
It had been a strong finish. To close its case, the Crown had to get Sam to admit that he wanted to kill Kathryn Morrissey. Try as he might, Garth Severight was unable to get that admission. His cross-examination put a couple of dents in Sam’s testimony, but it didn’t do any serious damage. When Sam stepped down, everyone in the courtroom knew it had been a good day for the defence.
During the trial, Taylor and I had created a comfortable routine for our evenings: an early dinner, homework, some time to goof and gossip while we watched TV, and then bedtime. That night after I read Rapti’s notes, Taylor and I watched something as funny as it was forgettable and were in bed by 9:00 p.m. I called Zack to say good night before I turned off the lights. The trial had consumed him. The dark circles of exhaustion under his eyes had become permanent. I had stopped asking him when or if he slept.
“How’s it going?” I said.
“Not great,” he said. “Did Sam seem okay to you today?”
“Where did that come from?” I asked. “Everybody I talked to this afternoon thought Sam did well.”
“I’m not talking about his testimony,” Zack said. “I’m talking about his health. When he got off the stand, he looked as if he’d been bled dry.”
“It’s been a gruelling experience for everybody,” I said.
“I guess,” Zack said. “And I’m about to make it worse. My closing statement is six times longer than it should be, and it’s boring as hell.”
“I can help,” I said. “Get a pencil.”
“Is this a joke?”
“You’re beyond jokes,” I said. “My cheat sheet from Rapti says a closing statement is where you bring your story to a close and make certain the jury writes the ending you want. She also says you should end with a bang: move from the particular to the universal – convince the jury that your case gives them insight into the mystery of the human condition.”
“Not bad,” he said. “So where did Rapti go to law school?”
“Actually, she’s a proud graduate of the cosmetology program at Kelsey Institute in Saskatoon.”
“Well, the cosmetology program does good work. That’s sensible advice. Anything else?”
“Be sure to wear your red tie.”
“I’ll be wearing my robe. The jury won’t know what colour my tie is.”
“But I will.”
The next morning as the jurors filed in, their faces were grave. The tension in the air was thick. I checked the room for familiar faces. Charlie and the other Too Much Hope kids were in the first row. Krissy Treadgold was notable by her absence. Howard was sitting at the back.
Garth Severight’s closing statement was carefully composed. He commended the jury for the gravity with which they had assumed their burden; he gave a careful précis of the evidence. The facts he cited were the same as the facts that would be cited by the defence, but the story he chose to tell was very different. The Sam Parker of his story was a brash, wealthy oilman who was accustomed to getting his way at all costs. As he spoke I watched his face, and I was struck with the realization that Garth, the clown whom we had dismissed as stupid and egotistical, believed every word he was saying. His case had gone south on him. Linda, a smart lawyer with confidence in her ability, had believed Sam Parker should be charged with attempted murder and that she could prove her case. Had the Crown gone for a lesser charge, the outcome would have been different, but to prove beyond a reasonable doubt that when Sam entered Kathryn Morrissey’s backyard he had murder, not rapprochement, on his mind had been a tough sell for Garth Severight.
During the trial we had mocked him, but as Garth delivered his earnest closing statement, I was moved. His address to the jury touched upon truths to which we all paid lip service. No one, not even a millionaire, not even a person with powerful political connections, is above the law. If the justice system that governs our dealings with one another permitted people to take the law into their own hands, none of us would be protected. The words he uttered were aphorisms, but they had power because it was clear that Garth believed what he said.
I glanced over at Zack. He was alert but impassive, and I remembered Ed Mariani saying that Zack could have argued either side of a case with equal fervour because his interest was not in justice but in winning. As Garth made his final plea to the jury to summon the courage to bring in the verdict that the evidence supported, I knew Zack could have uttered Garth’s lines brilliantly, but brilliant as he was they would have lacked the fervour I heard in the voice of this limited man who believed every word he said.
At the outset, Zack’s closing statement was tight and quietly emphatic. He analyzed the evidence and found it wanting – not because the police hadn’t done their job but because they had brought forth no credible witness to establish that the shooting had been anything other than an accident – the result of a terrible, terrible lapse in judgment by a good man who had been under incredible pressure. He underscored Howard’s lack of credibility. Zack’s point was simple. For a conviction of attempted murder, the Crown must prove forethought and that the defendant’s action was deliberate. They had, he said, failed to do this.
Then having dealt with the facts, Zack went to town.
“Once upon a time,” he said, “there was a man who loved his child. How many stories do you know that begin like that? Ten? Twenty? Every culture in every time has a story that begins with that one simple sentence. And that’s how Sam Parker’s story begins – with a father who loved his child so much that when his child was betrayed and despondent, he was prepared to do anything to save her. As a God-fearing, law-abiding man, Sam Parker went to his lawyer to see if the law could help him. It could not. Faced with a shattered family and a child prepared to die rather than cause him further pain, Sam Parker flew to Regina, took the gun from his child’s hands, and went to talk to Ms. Morrissey. He was hoping to appeal to her humanity. It was a faint hope, but it was all he had.
“We all heard Ms. Morrissey testify that her obligation is to her text and that the suffering of those who trust her is not her concern. I was chilled by Ms. Morrissey’s statements. Judging from your faces, you were too. Can you imagine
how a loving father would respond to those words?
“Only two people know for certain what happened in Ms. Morrissey’s backyard. You’ve heard from them both. As importantly, you’ve seen them both. You’ve been able to take their measure.
“You heard Sam Parker testify that, unlike Ms. Morrissey, he knows what he did was wrong. He would not repeat the stupid and harmful action he took on the afternoon of May 16. He’s a good man, and good people recognize their mistakes and learn from them. I ask you, as judges of the facts, to see that justice is done here. Don’t punish a good man because he loved his child. Humans are fallible. We make mistakes. Sam Parker made a mistake. Love makes us foolish, but it also ennobles us, transforms us into people who put the needs of those we love above our own needs. Please remember that when you determine the future of Sam and his family.”
As Zack wheeled back to his table, Brette whispered, “Shreve gets both ears and the tail for that one.”
“What are you talking about?” I said.
Brette leaned towards me. “In a bullfight if a matador does a lot of manly cape-swooshing before he kills the bull, the crowd awards him both ears and the tail.”
“So you think Zack won his case?”
“I don’t know,” Brette said. “But he sure swooshed his cape.”
Mr. Justice Harney began his charge to the jury by giving what I had learned were standard instructions about the credibility of witnesses, the weight of circumstantial evidence, and the concept of reasonable doubt. His charge on the law centred on proof of intent.
He read the relevant passage from the Criminal Code: “ ‘A conviction for attempted murder requires proof of the specific intent to kill. No lesser mens rea will suffice. The key element of the mental element in this offence is the intention to cause the requisite degree of bodily harm, coupled with the necessary recklessness as to its effect.’ ” He ruled that the jury could find Samuel Parker guilty of attempted murder only if the Crown had established proof of intent; that is that they had proven the accused intended to cause bodily harm to the victim.
“One for the defence,” Brette said, and I felt a small blooming of hope.
The judge outlined the evidence presented during the trial; then, without drama, the jury filed out to begin their deliberations. There was the usual hubbub in the courtroom. Brette and I packed up our things, said we’d see each other on the day the verdict was returned, and exchanged goodbyes. When Zack left the courtroom with the Parkers, he looked over and mouthed the words “wait for me.”
We caught up with each other in the lobby under the mosaic of the God of Laws. Zack rubbed his hands over his face and yawned. “Well, the ship has sailed,” he said. “I’m going to back to the office with Sam for a few minutes. After that, we’re free. What do you want to do?”
“What I want to do is irrelevant,” I said. “What I have to do is paint eyeballs for Taylor’s Halloween party. Are you up for that?”
“Hand me my brush,” Zack said.
CHAPTER
10
The days before the jury’s verdict were a time of limbo, but if this was limbo, I didn’t need Paradise. For weeks, Zack’s life had centred around Sam’s trial and now there was nothing to do but wait. I thought he would be preoccupied and on edge, but with Zack there were always surprises. After the case went to the jury, he spent a few hours at the office catching up, then at 5:30 p.m., he arrived at my house with a bottle of wine, and we made dinner together. We had eaten with Taylor and were clearing up when Delia Wainberg arrived with Isobel and Gracie Falconer. The girls had made a last-minute decision that everybody at the party should carve a pumpkin with prizes awarded to the coolest, the lamest, and the grossest, so Delia was taking them off on a final pumpkin run.
Alone at last, Zack and I settled at the kitchen table with a bowl of white floating candles and brushes and paints to transform the candles into bloodshot eyeballs. Zack set about his task with quiet concentration. A visitor from another planet might have believed he’d never seen the inside of a courtroom.
“This is nice,” he said.
“It’s called Ordinary Family Life,” I said.
Zack smiled. “Well, I like it. It’s good to think about something other than the case.”
“Then I miscalculated. I assumed you’d want to talk about the trial tonight, so I invited Charlie and Pete over.”
Zack applied a stroke of red to an eyeball and held it out to me. “Does this need more anything?”
“Taylor tells me the first rule of art is always take one thing away.”
“I notice Taylor chooses not to work in eyeballs,” Zack said. “What are these for, anyway?”
“The night of the party we float them in a bowl of slime and light them.”
Zack nodded. “As long as I know. And I don’t mind seeing Charlie. He’s been a reliable ally.”
“So I noticed,” I said. “Pete’s bringing over his new dog.”
“A new dog? When did that happen?”
“Today. I saw him this afternoon. He’s an English mastiff and he’s huge.”
“But good-natured?”
“Very. He’s just been neutered, but he seems pretty happy.”
Zack winced. “I wouldn’t be happy.”
“Well, Pantera’s braver than you – he was still in there smiling and twitching.”
Zack stopped painting. “Pantera, huh? That’s a nice tribute to a great metal band.”
“You know who Pantera is?”
“Everybody knows who Pantera is. The day Dimebag died was the 9/11 of rock.”
“Who was Dimebag?”
“Pantera’s one-time guitarist. He was shot by a deranged fan.”
I shook my head. “How do you know these things?”
Zack finished his eyeball and held it up for my approval.
“Perfect,” I said.
“Not bad,” he agreed. “Anyway, when I have lunch with my clients during a trial, we talk about what they want to talk about. One of my guys was a serious Pantera fan. After the trial was over, he sent me some CDS.”
“To thank you for getting him off.”
“No, to console me for not getting him off.”
“There’s a lot about you that I don’t know,” I said.
“There’s a lot about you that I don’t know,” he said. “I thought that’s why we were getting married – to find out.”
“What happens if you don’t like what you find?”
Zack shrugged. “I’ll live with it,” he said. “Speaking of our marriage. When are we going tell your family?”
“Taylor’s birthday’s on a Friday. I was thinking we could invite Mieka and Greg and Angus and Leah down on the weekend to celebrate her birthday and make the big announcement.”
“Let’s invite the Falconers and the Wainbergs too. They’re as close to family as I have.”
“Sounds like a major shindig,” I said.
Zack looked at me hard. “You don’t look very happy about it – cold feet?”
“Just a twinge. Everything’s happened so fast with us.”
He reached for my hand. “Too fast?”
“No,” I said. “Every time I look at you, I know I don’t want a miss a moment of our life together.”
It was a nice moment, short-circuited as many nice moments in my home were by the arrival of one of my kids or their friends. This time the friend was Ethan, and he was positioned at what appeared to be his favourite post: the kitchen door.
I walked over and invited him in. He was wearing a black knit watch cap that made him appear older than thirteen. As always, he was jumpy and abrupt. “Is Taylor here?” he asked.
“She and Isobel and Gracie went out to buy more pumpkins for the party.”
“I didn’t think I’d be invited,” Ethan said. “But Taylor asked me today at school.” For a beat, the three of us stared at one another, waiting for deliverance. “I should get out of here,” Ethan said. “If Taylor sees me, she’ll think I�
�m stalking her.”
It was an exit line, but Ethan didn’t exit. Finally, accepting the inevitable, Zack threw Ethan a lifeline. “Why don’t you stay for a while? I’ve wanted to talk to you since I noticed you in the courtroom.”
“You saw me?” Ethan’s voice cracked with alarm.
“You were always somewhere around the doors at the back, right? So what’s the deal? Are you interested in becoming a lawyer?”
“No,” Ethan said. “I’m interested in justice.”
Zack’s mouth twitched to suppress a smile. “They’re not supposed to be mutually exclusive.”
Ethan flushed. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound like a dork.”
“Neither did I,” Zack said. “So, do you think justice will be done in this trial?”
“I don’t even know what justice is in this trial. At first I thought I did; now I’m not so sure. That’s why I keep coming back.”
“That’s why I keep coming back too,” Zack said.
“To make sure that the right people are punished.”
“And to make sure that the right people go free,” Zack said.
“That’s a noble aim.” Ethan’s fingers crept towards the pentangle around his neck. “The poet says that Gawain possessed five virtues that made him a noble knight – love and friendship for other men, freedom from sin, courtesy that never failed, and pity. His five senses were free of sin, his five fingers never failed him.” Ethan’s eyes were glazed as he quoted the ancient lines. “ ‘And all these fives met in one man / Joined to each other, each without end / Set in five perfect points / Wholly distinct, yet part of one whole / And closed, wherever it ended or began.’ ”
For a moment he seemed to exist in a parallel universe; then he vaulted back to ours. He stood up so suddenly that, in what appeared to be his signature move, he knocked against the table. Zack reached and caught his jar of paint just in time.
“Now you really will think that I’m a dork,” Ethan said.
“Not at all,” Zack said gently. “I enjoyed our talk, Ethan. Maybe we can do it again sometime.”