The Guilty

by Gabriel Boutros

  “Not any more,” Parker smiled proudly. “I did a cure while I was in the pen.”

  “You were in the pen? Of course, you were sentenced. What did you get?”

  “For the thirty grand, or for the credit cards?”

  Queasiness now had total command of his internal organs. It thought about inviting frustration and depression in for a visit.

  “What’s the story with the credit cards? No, wait.” Bratt resisted the urge to throw his legal pad across the room in frustration, needing to get all the details of Parker’s criminal past straight. “Tell me everything, about all your convictions, from the beginning.”

  Parker took a deep breath in preparation of telling the epic story that was his life as a criminal. First, there were a string of petty thefts as a juvenile. Then, he began stealing credit cards from his neighbors’ mailboxes and passing their spending limits as fast as he could. At the same time he was running various scams among area merchants, smooth-talking several of them out of thousands of dollars in merchandise. Most of the money he stole or conned people out of went to pay his growing drug habit. He had been in and out of jails for two years when his mother had found him a regular job with a construction company in the illusory hope of keeping him out of trouble.

  “I was still on probation when I got caught signing my boss’s signature on those checks. They added three years to my sentence for those checks. I got out on day parole, and was in a halfway house for two weeks when those guys got shot.”

  “Tell me, did you have a curfew to keep at the halfway house?”

  “Sure, eleven o’clock. But, hey, I never worried about that.”

  Bratt sat quietly, musing on the little ironies of life. Ashley Parker spoke well, had his facts straight and was able to think quickly on his feet. But that should not have come as a surprise, considering he was an experienced fraudster. A full-time, professional liar. On top of that, he had been violating his parole at the time he was supposedly being Small’s alibi.

  Nothing came easier for an experienced lawyer than discrediting a witness whose whole life had been predicated on successfully lying to people. No matter how credible the witness sounded, the jury would always ask itself if that wasn’t just because he was such a good liar. As a matter of fact, witnesses like Parker often ended up bragging on the stand about what great liars they had been all their lives and how many people they had been able to defraud. First that idiot, Clayton. Now, Parker, who was clearly too clever for his own good. Bratt gently put his legal pad down on his desk, his hands shaking slightly from his frustration.

  “Thank you for coming to talk to us, Ashley. Peter, could you please see him out?”

  Once the witness had entered the elevator and headed for the ground floor Kouri returned to Bratt’s office.

  Excitedly, he asked, “So, what do you think? He seemed to have his facts straight.”

  Bratt didn’t answer right away. He stood now, looking out of his window at Notre Dame Basilica across the street. He watched the tourists and the churchgoers intermingle on the massive church’s front steps. A light snowfall came down, rendering a postcard quality to the whole scene. All those people spending their Sunday with such peace of mind. None of them would suspect that from a window above them they were being watched by a man struggling to formulate a plan that would let a murderer go free. Alleged murderer, thought Bratt. Yeah, fucking alleged!

  “We’re screwed.”

  “Oh,” Kouri’s voice was small, hesitant. “I had gathered from Clayton that you weren’t very impressed with his answers”

  “No, not very impressed,” said Bratt, his anger building. “The kid’s an idiot and a liar, and both those facts will be very evident ten minutes into his cross-examination. As for Parker, he’s no idiot, he’s just a plain liar. Who the hell does Small think he’s kidding, telling me these two are his best alibi witnesses? And Jesus Christ, why do these kids all have to dress and behave like, like…”

  “Like they’re auditioning for a Spike Lee movie,” Kouri suggested.

  “What? Yeah, whatever. Can you imagine how they’d look in front of a jury?”

  “No, I-”

  “You know the make-up of an English-speaking jury in Montreal? It’s a bunch of West Island retirees and Toronto expatriates. You think these people have a clue about the latest urban dress code? They’d take one look at Mr. Shoot to Kill and go hide in their suburban cellars.”

  Kouri opened his mouth to speak, then stopped, waiting for any further rants from Bratt. When none were forthcoming he jumped in.

  “Maybe they wouldn’t look so bad if we could get them dressed a bit more conservatively. You know, and tell them to watch how they speak. Then they wouldn’t come across as being too…different, to the jury.”

  Bratt felt totally exasperated. As if Small’s alibi witnesses weren’t bad enough, now Kouri thought he’d come up with a plan.

  “We’ve got less than three weeks. You think we can turn these two guys into brilliant, cultured gentlemen in that time? Maybe that works in the movies, but in my version of reality, which you’re welcome to join at any time, you try that and you look like a fool. Do you have any other brilliant ideas?”

  Kouri shook his head, looking embarrassed. His face was flushed red, as if he took personal blame for the witnesses’ lack of credibility.

  Bratt had no time to worry about that now. His defense had a huge hole in it, and he should have been prepared for that eventuality. It probably hadn’t been realistic for him to expect Small’s friends to come across as perfect witnesses, although he couldn’t have known how unrealistic his expectation was.

  He sat down again, trying to envision how the trial would unfold. Even if he were able to rattle the Crown witnesses, would it be enough to win? Two young men were dead. The jury would surely expect the accused to say something in his own defense. But Small probably wouldn’t make any better impression on the jury than his two buddies. If the jury found him as unlikable as his own lawyer did they might not listen to anything he had to say.

  Bratt’s frustration grew as he wracked his brains to find a way to defend a man he seemed to dislike more with every breath. While he knew he was competitive and his desire to win would always keep him going, it didn’t hurt to occasionally have a client that he felt a trace of sympathy for. Once in a while he liked thinking his motivations weren’t entirely self-serving or mercenary. The truth was, it had been quite a while since he had cared much for any of the people that he defended, and that thought saddened him.

  “Listen, Pete. I’m going to go home and forget all about this case for today. I recommend you do the same. Tomorrow I’ll call whoever the hell’s the detective in charge and arrange to get a copy of that tape. Then, in a couple of days we’ll go have another visit with Small, and discuss what we can do to salvage this case. In the meantime get the message to him through his mother that these witnesses were a waste of time.”

  Bratt picked up his briefcase and headed out of his office. Kouri had hardly moved, and the look on his face made Bratt wonder if his assistant saw the case, and their client, in quite the same light as he did.

  It didn’t matter, Bratt thought. Sooner or later he’d learn what every criminal lawyer eventually found out: this was a great job, if it weren’t for the clients.

  Monday morning at the office all the other lawyers came by to congratulate Bratt on his successful defense of Cooper Hall. While he tried to maintain his usual outward appearance, bragging and laughing about the trial, on the inside he felt there was little to celebrate. It wasn’t long before John Kalouderis poked his head through the door, catching Bratt staring off into space.

  “Hey, great leader and shining beacon of justice, you don’t look as happy as you’re supposed to be.”

  Bratt considered briefly telling him to get lost, then decided that a friendly ear to listen to his tales of woe might not be such a bad thing.

  “Come on in, doctor, and bring your notepad. I’ve
got a lot of venting to do.”

  Kalouderis came in and sat down at his favorite spot, stretching his legs out along the sofa.

  “I thought the patient was supposed to be the one lying down,” said Bratt.

  “You didn’t call dibs,” Kalouderis responded with a smile. “So, tell me your problems, and please make them interesting. I’m usually not a very good listener when I’m sober.”

  Bratt wondered where to begin. He wasn’t quite ready for an existential discussion about his role as a lawyer or the morality of his courtroom tactics. As for the conflict that these tactics had caused between him and Jeannie, he had never liked talking about family problems, always keeping a clear demarcation between work and home.

  He considered talking about the problems he was facing preparing Small’s defense, but these were the kinds of things that came up fairly regularly in a criminal practice, and were probably too commonplace to keep his friend’s interest.

  That left Nancy. He looked at Kalouderis’s slightly sarcastic smile and decided that this was about as far as he was ready to open up.

  He told his friend about the wedding reception, while tending to paint himself as a surprised innocent in the whole matter. He wasn’t used to being dumped on the first date, and his ego fought with his heart over what his next step, if any, should be.

  “She really had no business taking her anger out on me. We could have just left and gone somewhere else,” he said.

  “Do you think she was reacting as a woman or as a cop?”

  “That’s the problem. Those are two species I’ve never been able to understand. So, imagine how inscrutable they become when they’re combined.”

  Both he and Kalouderis chuckled.

  “Well, maybe it was to be expected,” said Kalouderis. “After all, two fellow police officers were killed. You couldn’t expect her to turn a blind eye to what the guy did.”

  “Why not? It’s not like she even knew them. They were anti-gang and she works white-collar crime. Besides, remember that nut, Castle, the guy who shot Dougal McDonald? I didn’t have any problems defending him. It’s not like I said, ‘Oh, no. You shot another lawyer, so I can’t have anything to do with you.’ And I knew McDonald fairly well.”

  “Yeah, you knew him just enough to hate his guts. What if it had been a lawyer that you liked? What if it was somebody from this office?”

  “I guess that would depend on how much he was billing.”

  The two friends laughed again, able to enjoy the tasteless joke in the privacy of Bratt’s office. Bratt wondered why they could make jokes over what had happened to McDonald, while Nancy had been brought close to tears just by the sight of Nick Tortoni.

  Maybe we do need a bit of sensitivity training, Bratt thought. Then again, maybe laughing at some of the less pleasant aspects of this job is the only way we can do it.

  “Anyway,” continued Kalouderis, “from what you told me she really had the hots for you. So, if you already told her how sorry you were and you got her out of there right away, I don’t think she’s going to continue holding it against you. Why not call her? Even apologize again.”

  “Maybe I should forget about her. I don’t want her thinking I’m desperately chasing after her.”

  “No, you certainly wouldn’t want her to think that,” said Kalouderis, sarcastically. “Anyway, maybe you should forget about her. But, if you’re not going to, then call her, for Christ’s sake, and quit pining over her like a lovesick teenager.”

  They talked for a while longer before Kalouderis went back to his own office, waving his finger at Bratt, who was still considering whether to take his friend’s advice. Bratt opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a little plastic folder full of business cards. He flipped it over to the back, to a separate section for various police officers whom he had dealt with on occasion, some of whom he actually liked.

  He pulled out S/D Philippe St. Jean’s card. The lead investigator in the Small case wasn’t a personal favorite of Bratt’s, although he held a grudging respect for the veteran detective. St. Jean had conducted Small’s videotaped interrogation and Bratt had an idea of what it had been like before even seeing it. Where other cops often tried bullying and intimidation to extract confessions, St. Jean put on a much more amiable face. He tried building a rapport with suspects, getting them to like and trust him and, hopefully, admit their crimes once they were convinced it was in their own best interests to do so. Those who knew the detective were aware there was little similarity between the easy-going, almost warmhearted guy who conducted the interrogations and St. Jean’s true bulldog personality.

  Bratt held St. Jean’s card in front of him, but his mind turned to the card that rested in the front pocket of his shirt. Nancy’s card.

  It’s almost noon, he thought. I guess if I call her up now I won’t look too desperate.

  He dialed the number of the fraud squad and punched in her personal extension, unsure if she was even on duty. It rang several times, then she picked up.

  He sensed some hesitation on the other end of the line before she finally said, “Bonjour, Robert.”

  I’m really going to have to get call-display, Bratt thought.

  “Good morning, Nancy,” he said tentatively. “How’ve you been?”

  “Well, my weekend was a bit of a bust, if you’ll pardon the pun.” There was silence for a few seconds, as if she were deciding whether to continue the conversation. Finally she asked, “How about you?”

  “Mostly I’ve been feeling pretty bad about the other night. I realize it wasn’t the best idea I’ve had.”

  He waited for her to respond, but was met with more silence. Well, she hasn’t hung up yet; that must mean something.

  “I guess it was more than just a bad idea. It was totally, ridiculously stupid of me. And I, I guess I was hoping you’d forgive me.”

  “Wow, Robert. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you grovel before. You actually sound sincere, too.”

  “I guess I’m even surprising myself,” he said. “So, what do you think? Can you forgive me?”

  “I don’t know,” she said, her voice sounding suddenly perkier. “Maybe I should let you grovel some more.”

  “If that’s what it takes.”

  “No, dear Robert,” she said with the light laugh he so enjoyed hearing. “That’s enough groveling for you. I can’t stay furious with you forever.”

  “You had every right to be furious.”

  “Oh, I know. Of course what really made me angry was sitting through that God-awful trial for two months having naughty little fantasies about you. Then you almost went and ruined everything.”

  “Almost? So things can be fixed?”

  “Yes, things can be fixed. Anyway, I was probably too hard on you. After-all, you’ve been a defense attorney all your life, so you just didn’t know any better.”

  “Ouch,” Bratt said jokingly, feeling the weight of the past two days slide off his shoulders.

  “So,” she continued, “if we just pretend that whole evening never happened, I suppose I wouldn’t mind trying again.”

  “How about tonight,” he suggested.

  “I’m glad you’re not wasting any more time. I don’t know if I should trust you to decide where we’ll go.”

  Bratt tried to think of the best spot to take her. He quickly ruled out the many chic, self-important eateries lining St. Laurent Boulevard that he usually frequented. Unlike other dates, he didn’t think it was necessary to try to impress Nancy with all the members of the trendy set that he knew. What he wanted now was to finally be alone with her.

  “I know a quiet little place on Park. We’ll probably have the place to ourselves on a Monday night.”

  “Some place quiet for just the two of us sounds perfect. There’s hope for you yet, Robert Bratt.”

  A few minutes after Bratt got off the phone, Kouri arrived carrying plastic-wrapped sandwiches and cups of coffee. He went straight toward Bratt’s window and motioned fo
r him to join him there, but Bratt didn’t move. With his mind full of thoughts of that night’s dinner with Nancy, he wasn’t curious about whatever it was that Kouri wanted him to see.

  “Some sort of demonstration,” Kouri said, motioning out the window. “They’re heading for the courthouse.”

  Their office was a long block away from the Palais de Justice, down Notre Dame Street, and Bratt had seen many a group of demonstrators march in that direction. He found the whole thing much less fascinating than Kouri seemed to. The junior lawyer continued to gawk out the window.

  “Unless there’s a whole bunch of naked women taking part, Peter, it’s just another demonstration. They get them all the time at the courthouse.”

  Kouri turned away from the window and brought the two lunches that he was still carrying to Bratt’s desk.

  “Well, there are a lot of women out there, but none of them are naked.”

  “The day the nudists’ rights group storms the court gimme a call. Until then, forget about it and let’s get back to work on the plight of our friend, Mr. Small.”

  Around four that afternoon, the two lawyers sat down in front of a small TV in Bratt’s office to watch the videotape St. Jean had couriered over to them. On the tape, the homicide detective and Marlon Small entered a pale-yellow room which contained two chairs and a small table bolted to the floor.

  Kouri, to whom everything seemed to be new and exciting, noted that the chair St. Jean sat on was soft, padded vinyl, while Small’s chair looked like hard, molded plastic. Bratt retorted that this was a clear example of the psychological gamesmanship the cops resorted to in order to break down their suspects. Kouri didn’t seem to catch the sarcastic tone.

  On the screen, the lawyers saw a wide-angle view of the room at first, but as St. Jean spoke the wall-mounted camera’s focus closed in on Small. Bratt noticed that his clothes were nearly identical to those he had worn when they met at R.D.P., except that the police had removed the bandana before taping. Small held on to it now like it was a security blanket and throughout the interview he nervously twisted and pulled at it. He didn’t look nearly as cocky as he had when they met him the previous Saturday