The Guilty

by Gabriel Boutros

  St. Jean spent several minutes making sure that Small understood his rights before beginning the questioning. Bratt knew this detailed procedure was not so much for the suspect’s benefit as it was for any judge who might view the tape later. Small wasn’t paying much attention to St. Jean, his eyes flitting nervously around the room.

  “If you are eligible,” St. Jean read from a small plastic card, “you may also apply for legal assistance through the Provincial Legal Aid Program. Do you understand that, Marlon? You can get a lawyer for free.”

  Small said nothing in response, so St. Jean continued reading.

  “This part is really important, so pay attention. You may retain free of charge and immediately, a duty counsel-”

  “I need a smoke, man,” Small interrupted. “Can’t somebody get me a smoke?”

  St. Jean looked mildly exasperated with Small’s indifference to what was happening to him.

  “Like I was saying,” he continued, “you may retain, free of charge and immediately, a duty counsel, and obtain preliminary legal advice without charge.”

  “Great, can I have my smokes now?”

  “In a minute, Marlon,” St. Jean said. “Just let me finish this bit. You want to know your rights, don’t you? You haven’t even spoken to a lawyer yet.”

  “I don’t need a lawyer, I need a cigarette. What the fuck do I need a lawyer for, anyhow?”

  St. Jean exhaled slowly, as if he had some bad news to tell Small, but couldn’t figure out how to do it.

  “Just let me get this done, OK? It’ll be a couple of more minutes, then you can have your cigarette.”

  This didn’t seem to assuage Small much, and he continued to fidget in his chair, looking wide-eyed at the bare walls around him and rubbing the bandana in his hands. St. Jean went on to explain Small’s right to silence, and Bratt’s mind lowered the volume on his words to concentrate on the face of the agitated suspect. He continued to scribble notes, describing Small’s expressions and body language. Bratt suspected that, more than anything Small might say, it would probably be how he looked and behaved that a jury would find incriminating.

  Having taken great pains to make sure that Small understood his rights, St. Jean finally turned to face the camera and asked that somebody bring in some cigarettes and two cups of coffee.

  For the next few minutes the detective quietly wrote onto his notepad, hardly paying any attention to Small, and this seemed to make the suspect fidget even more nervously than before. There was eventually a knock from off-screen, and St. Jean got up and walked to the periphery of the camera’s field of vision to open a door.

  Bratt heard some whispering in French, then the door closed and St. Jean returned to his seat and handed Small a Styrofoam cup of coffee and a pack of cigarettes. Small quickly pulled out a cigarette from the half-empty pack and St. Jean leaned over to light it for him. He then placed his lighter on the table near Small to demonstrate how much he trusted his suspect.

  After Small began smoking the cigarette and had a sip or two of coffee, St. Jean began asking him a number of questions about his personal and home life that were intended to make him feel at ease. Small looked barely interested though, and his answers were rarely more than mumbles.

  “What’s St. Jean doing?” Kouri asked, sounding impatient. “Playing ‘This is Your Life?’”

  Bratt said nothing for a few seconds, then answered him like a man spelling out the obvious.

  “Watch and learn. This man is very good at what he does. He doesn’t have to get a confession before the next commercial break. If he spends three hours doing this it’ll be because this is his best chance to get what he wanted.”

  Kouri scrunched down into his seat and turned his eyes back to the TV screen, looking unconvinced.

  On the screen, St. Jean eventually got off the subject of home and family and began filling Small in on the case that the police had against him.

  “Your friend Marcus was only too happy to tell us it was you that went to that apartment with him. He’s going to be a very damaging witness against you, you know.”

  Small’s face briefly registered an expression of disgust at the mention of his ex-buddy’s name, then recovered its previous sullen look.

  “He knew the best thing he could do for himself was admit what he did. He knew we had him cold, just like we have you. And Dorrell Phillips picked your picture right out of your high school yearbook. Lucky we got our hands on it, since you’ve never had a mug shot taken, eh? So, over-all I’d say we’ve got a pretty good case against you, don’t you think?”

  Small didn’t respond. He tugged harder at the bandana and looked away from St. Jean, his eyes continuing to dart around the room as if trying to find a way out.

  “The truth is, Marlon, I don’t even need to talk to you. If we arrested you it was because we have all the evidence we needed. You know we’re not allowed to arrest people just because we suspect them. We’ve got to have solid evidence to charge them. So, if I’m asking you to tell me what happened, it’s only because I want to understand you. Why would a decent kid like you do something terrible like that?”

  Small’s eyes looked briefly up at St. Jean before dropping to the floor.

  “Your mom seems like such a nice lady. Think of what this is doing to her. She must be wondering why too. She believes in God very deeply, more than most people these days. Imagine how this must feel to someone who’s that religious. She must have taught you a little of her religious beliefs. She told me you used to sing in the children’s choir at Christmas. Is that true?”

  St. Jean’s head tilted, as if he wanted to look up into Small’s downcast eyes.

  “See, I just want to understand why? You must believe in God too. A good kid who believes in God doesn’t go killing people for no reason. Maybe these guys did something to you. Is that it? Did they provoke you? Maybe they threatened you?”

  Small continued refusing to respond to St. Jean’s repeated invitations to talk. At times he kept his eyes glued to the floor. Occasionally, when St. Jean seemed to strike a nerve, his head would jerk up, then his eyes would dart around the room again. His expression showed anger and fear, but the only thing that came out of his mouth was the smoke from the cigarette that fluttered nervously between his lips. St. Jean was undeterred.

  “I know you don’t want to look like a squealer, you want everybody to know how tough you are. But you don’t have to be tough with me. I’m not being tough with you, am I? Am I, Marlon?”

  Small’s eyes met St. Jean’s again, and his head shook almost imperceptibly.

  “No, that’s right. So, why do you feel you have to be tough, hold out, don’t say a thing? Marcus wasn’t tough. He told us everything we need to know about what you did, about how you killed those guys. Were you being tough when you did that? Was that it? Did you have to prove to somebody how tough you are? Hm? Tell me, Marlon, was this how you were going to make your name on the street?

  “You know, nobody in your neighborhood, not even the cops who patrol there, had ever heard of you, you were such a good kid. Maybe you didn’t like that, eh? Maybe you wanted people to know your name. Maybe even be a little scared of you? Was that it? You didn’t like being a choirboy? You were going to be the toughest kid on your block?”

  St. Jean sat back in his chair and just looked at Small for a few moments. Bratt knew that the detective had enough patience to calmly repeat the same questions over and over, all in the hope that cracks would eventually start showing in Small’s silent façade. Three hours of this would not make for exciting viewing, yet Bratt found their interaction fascinating.

  “Let me tell you, Marlon,” St. Jean took up again, “I’m not here to figure out if you did it. I know you did it. Everybody knows you did it. We’re going to have no trouble proving it in court. All I want to know is why it happened. You’ll be surprised how good you’ll feel when you tell me. I know you want to tell me, to make me understand what’s going on inside your head, inside your hea
rt. Show me what you know. You can even show me if I’m wrong. I won’t mind.”

  Bratt saw Kouri check his watch after about an hour of repetitive questioning and barely stifled a yawn of his own. By this point, even the study of human interaction had lost its appeal. The afternoon dragged toward the evening, with St. Jean constantly repeating his entreaties while Small wordlessly squirmed.

  Then, near the end of the three hours, Bratt saw a slow but noticeable change in Small’s demeanor. He couldn’t point to anything in particular that St. Jean had said to bring it on, but Small’s face showed that his resistance was getting low. His eyes started glistening from tears he was holding back, and his lips moved in silent anguish, as if he was struggling to get some painful words out into the open. St. Jean must have noticed these signs of weakness because he leaned closer, turning up the pressure.

  “You don’t want to go through a trial, Marlon. You don’t want to make your mother sit there and listen to those boys describe what you did. I’m sure you don’t want to relive it either. It would be awful for you. So, just let it out. You’ll feel so much better. You know you’ll feel better. Confession is good for the soul, right?”

  Small turned his face away, but his lips kept moving, and his hands were working overtime on the bandana. His breathing became labored and he wiped his face with his sleeve. In Bratt’s eyes he looked the epitome of a man grappling with a guilty conscience, needing to relieve himself of a great burden, but afraid to take the next step.

  “Why do you want to keep this pain inside you? Let it out, Marlon. Share it with me, that’s why I’m here. You’ll feel so much better. Everything will go so much smoother for you and for your mom. I can almost hear it coming from your mouth. Just say it and all this will be over. Nobody will bother you about it anymore, if you’ll just get it off your chest. You want to say it, so-”

  St. Jean was interrupted by an anguished yell from Small.

  “I want my lawyer!”

  On the tape the detective leaned back in his chair and let his shoulders slump, and Bratt did the same thing in his office. Bratt knew there was no way he could let a jury see this. After almost three hours of silence in the face of a constant stream of accusations, Small had clearly come close to cracking. He’d saved himself by asking for his lawyer, effectively putting an end to the questioning. Bratt knew his client had finally realized why he needed a lawyer: it had become impossible to keep his guilt hidden any longer.

  In the interrogation room, St. Jean began stalling, still trying to get Small to crack before he was obliged to call a lawyer for him.

  “Of course you’ll get your lawyer. I’m the one who told you to speak to one before. But don’t forget, your lawyer doesn’t feel what you feel. He doesn’t know what you and I know. And he’s not the one who’s going to do the time for what you did. I respect your choice entirely. If you want me to call a lawyer we’ll stop the tape right now and get you a phone. But a lawyer isn’t going to help you feel better, Marlon.”

  “Fuck you! I feel fine. Just get me my lawyer!”

  Bratt leaned his head back and stared up at the ceiling.

  “He really screwed himself,” he thought out loud. “He was looking bad enough for three hours, but at the end he really screwed himself.”

  “Is it really so bad?” Kouri asked. “After all, he’s just exercising his right to a lawyer.”

  “You think that’s what a jury will see? They’ll see a guy who looks, acts, and feels very guilty. He said it himself at the beginning: why does he need a lawyer? Unfortunately, he spent three hours giving us the answer.”

  Kouri nodded his head, letting the implications sink in. Finally, as if to avoid admitting defeat for their client, he said, “At least St. Jean’s tactics didn’t get him the confession he wanted.”

  “You don’t think so, kid? I think St. Jean got all he could have asked for.”

  Bratt looked at his watch. It was almost 7 PM. He still had to get home and shower and change before picking Nancy up at 8:30. He had been looking forward to seeing her tonight, but the combined monotony and tension of the interrogation had drained him, and romance was now the furthest thing from his mind.

  What the hell, he thought. I’m not going to let Small ruin what little social life I have. He’s probably screwed, no matter what he says. There’s not much I can do about that tonight. Tomorrow, I’ll go see him at R.D.P, but for now I’m going to forget he exists

  In the small Greek restaurant he had chosen near the corner of Park and Mount Royal there was only one other couple on this cold Monday night. Robert Bratt and Nancy Morin sat quietly, at times looking away from each other, at other times gazing into each other’s eyes.

  Between them there was an open-mouthed glass bulb, wrapped in red plastic netting, holding a small wick with a flickering flame. They held hands between their glasses of wine like teenagers and hardly spoke.

  When they had sat down at the table it felt like they were strangers meeting for the first time. The past two months of flirting and game-playing no longer existed. Neither one mentioned their previous date. They had to discover each other all over again, but words hardly seemed necessary.

  Occasionally, the waiter brought them food: hot, fresh bread and a small slab of butter; salad, covered with feta cheese and black olives; a large plate of calamari, piled high. He was the only intruder into their private little world, but he disappeared from view as soon as he set down their plates.

  Bratt hadn’t thought it possible, but he almost forgot that Marlon Small existed. The earlier stress and aggravation he had felt was a vague memory now. In contrast to the weight that had seemed to constantly hang around his neck in recent days, his spirits felt light.

  From the moment he had picked Nancy up things had felt different between them, but somehow better than they had before. Unlike all the other occasions they had been together, he no longer felt he had to be “on” for her. Tonight, he didn’t need to be witty or overly charming to impress her. He could let his mind rest from its constant race to find the next clever line.

  In her calm, happy gaze he could see that it was more than enough for him to just be there with her. They were two rivals who had gone head to head for two months and now were able to relax together over some good wine, and share the bond they had forged in battle. He no longer had to compete, whether it was with her, with other men or with his own reputation.

  At some point during their evening he began telling her about himself. Not the usual bragging about his courtroom wizardry, but about who he was when he got home, when he was alone or with Jeannie. Part of his mind told him not to disturb the silence that protected him, especially if it was only to bore her with his life story, but he felt compelled to let her see a side of himself that he rarely showed.

  “About a year ago she told me she’d like to study law when she got to university,” he said, talking about his daughter.

  “That must have made you very proud.”

  “Well, only a bit. I actually discouraged her from following in my footsteps.”

  “That’s surprising. Were you feeling a bit down on your profession at the time?”

  Must have been a prelude to this week, Bratt thought. “No, just thought she could do a lot of different things. She doesn’t really have the temperament to be a lawyer. She’s a lot more like her mother: more artistic. Artsy-fartsy I used to call her.”

  “That can’t have been easy for you, raising a daughter by yourself.”

  “No, I guess not. I could have made it easier if I accepted a little help or advice along the way. But you know how I am; nobody can tell me anything. I’d rather screw things up my way than admit I can’t do something. Unfortunately, that’s one of the few traits Jeannie inherited from me.”

  “It’s not such a bad trait,” Nancy said, squeezing his hand tighter. “A little stubborn self-assurance can get you through a lot in life.”

  “Oh, it’s all just a sham,” Bratt laughed, without admitt
ing to himself how close to the truth those words were. “I’m just trying to cover up my insecurities, you know.”

  “Of course I know,” she smiled. “But everyone has insecurities. The ones who get anywhere in life are the ones who cover them up the best.”

  “Why, are you covering up any?”

  “Why do you think I carry a gun all the time?”

  Bratt laughed, but Nancy just smiled a bit nervously, then cleared her throat.

  “Do you have any idea what it takes to be a female detective in Montreal?” She paused, gathering her thoughts. “It’s hard enough getting there, but once you’re there everybody’s got seniority on you. They can shunt you around from place to place, filling whatever gaps they have and they never take into account what you might actually be good for.”

  “I didn’t realize things were still like that here.”

  “It’s the same with all police forces. They’re just boys clubs that they defend from female intruders.”

  Bratt squeezed her hand sympathetically. He had never spent much time worrying about how cops treated each other before. Face it, he thought. I never spent much time thinking of cops as people, either. Not until Nancy showed up in my life.

  “I’m sorry,” she said. “I hadn’t planned to start venting my frustrations.”

  “No, that’s all right. Sometimes it’s good to do that.”

  “Anyway, I’m probably exaggerating. It’s really not so bad,” she said, but Bratt thought that it probably was. “I’d rather hear about how you manage to carry on your practice and be a single parent at the same time.”

  “Well, it’s not always so easy. Sometimes, one role takes up all my time to the detriment of the other. And that can be hard to make your child understand, even when they’re no longer little children.” Bratt reconsidered what he said and decided it needed to be corrected a bit. “Especially when they’re not little children, because then they ask all the questions that you have no answers to.”