“Because you think you’re so goddamned important that you can just walk into a police station and all your connections will get you whatever you want. Well, I’m not a child anymore. I make my own decisions and I take the consequences for them. I believed in what we were trying to do out there, and I’m not looking to take an easy way out.”
She turned her back on him, opened the door and stormed out, turning to Geary as she passed him. “I’d like to go back to the cell now, please.”
Geary gave Bratt a pained look and shrugged his shoulders, then ran after Jeannie, key in hand.
Chapter 6
Bratt tossed and turned, trying to block out the constant ringing in his ears, until finally his eyes snapped open and he realized he was back in his bed and the ringing was his phone. A vague memory of Nancy’s warmth faded quickly from his sleep-deprived brain as he reached out and grabbed the receiver.
“Hello.”
He was surprised to hear the familiar voice of Senator Roger Madsen on the other end.
“Robert, did I wake you?”
Bratt glanced at his watch and saw that it was well after nine. He quickly sat up, like a slouching student who was surprised by the entrance of the school principal into his classroom. Roger Madsen was an old classmate of his father’s, as well as Bratt’s godfather. His family was one of the oldest and richest in Montreal, and he had been an elder statesman in the Liberal Party ever since Bratt could remember. He was one of the few people in the world, other than his late father, in whose presence Bratt felt anything akin to intimidation, and he had always addressed him as “sir” because anything else was inconceivable.
“No, no,” he lied. “Just, uh, just going through a file. How are you doing, sir?”
“Doing well, thanks. I tried you at the office.”
“Oh, I was just finishing up here before heading off.” He thought of the trip down to the police station that had cost him most of his night’s sleep, and, with an inward groan, he dropped his head back onto his pillow. Trying to keep his voice as casual as possible, he asked, “How’s the Senate these days?”
“Same as always. A bunch of spoiled, old men playing at government, pretending to themselves that they’re relevant.”
“Don’t say that, sir,” Bratt protested. “You’ve always been very important in the party.”
“I suspect my money was more important than my opinions, but that’s neither here nor there. I’m coming in to Montreal today, Robert. I’d like to see you when I get in. Perhaps tonight.”
This was a distraction Bratt didn’t need, and he tried to find a way out of it.
“I’ve got a lot of work to do on this trial that’s coming up. I don’t have much time, I’m afraid.”
“I won’t take too much of your time, Robert. And I think you’ll find this visit particularly pleasurable.”
“Well, I-”
“See you at my home tonight, Robert. Make it about nine. Goodbye.”
Madsen hung up and Bratt moaned out loud. He was going to have to make at least a courtesy call. He wondered what Madsen had meant by ‘particularly pleasurable.’ He was a fairly staid and conservative gentleman by nature, not given to surprises, so the enigmatic comment piqued Bratt’s curiosity, although not enough to make him look forward to the visit.
He jumped out of bed and quickly got dressed. Jeannie would be appearing at the Municipal Court later that morning, and this made any surprises that Madsen had in store for him irrelevant.
Once at the office he told Kouri he wouldn’t be able to go see Small that afternoon, they’d have to go the next day. Although they could have gone to the detention center right after Jeannie’s arraignment, with all that was on his mind he just couldn’t stomach facing this particular client.
As for Jeannie’s arrest itself, as much as he could have used the advice and consolation of his friends just then, he didn’t mention it to anyone. He was embarrassed and angry about her rejection of his help, and he didn’t relish having to try and explain her decision.
He was heading out the office door at 11 a.m., on his way to the Municipal Court for the arraignment, when Sylvie told him there was an S/D Morin on the line for him. He felt a small, empty ache in his heart. He regretted how he had run out on Nancy in the middle of the night, but there was really no time to talk to her now. After Jeannie’s court appearance, when he was sure his daughter was out of jail and doing fine, he’d be in a better frame of mind to talk to Nancy and make plans to spend some more time with her.
Maybe if I don’t get stuck at Madsen’s too long tonight, he told himself.
He mouthed to Sylvie that he’d call Nancy back later and quickly strode to the elevators without telling the receptionist where he was going. If he had told her that he was headed a few blocks east to the Municipal Court it would have raised more than a few eyebrows in the office and questions would definitely have been asked.
Robert Bratt going to Municipal Court was something that few of his colleagues had witnessed in recent years. Despite the court’s physical proximity it might as well have been in a different time zone as far as he was concerned. Every other attorney in the office, even Leblanc, went there from time to time. For him, though, it was a point of pride and ego to refuse to take on what he considered to be the less-important cases that came before that court.
On this day, however, he wasn’t going there as a lawyer, but as a concerned citizen. His services were not wanted, but if Jeannie knew him as well as she claimed to, she wouldn’t be surprised to find him sitting in the courtroom at her arraignment.
Struggling along the icy sidewalks it took him a quarter of an hour to get to the Municipal Court of Montreal, an aging yellowish-beige building, five stories high, that used to house police headquarters.
When he entered the building he was struck by how much things had changed since he had last tried a case there. Back then, the building was rundown, dimly lit, bleakly furnished, and had all the technological advantages of the Stone Age.
He was surprised to find computer terminals lined up along the side of the brightly-lit corridors, freely available for lawyers and members of the public to check on the state of their files. New offices had been built for the various organizations that had set up shop there, such as AA, Legal Aid, and Social Services. Gone were the thin-walled cubicles that had provided all the privacy of an open-window to the people who had gone in seeking help of one sort or another. In the courtrooms themselves, the city had clearly spent the most money, putting in new benches, desks and chairs, and buffing and sanding the marble walls.
All the external changes held Bratt’s attention for just a few seconds as he walked toward Room R30, where the group of protesters was scheduled to appear just before lunch. Once inside the large courtroom he sat at the back, and spoke to no one.
Most of the defense lawyers here were much younger than he was, just beginning their careers, looking to make names for themselves in the hope of moving on to bigger things. As for the prosecutors, he didn’t recognize any of them either. The ones he had battled with in his day had either been named judges, moved up to higher courts, or been burned out by the heavy workload and lousy pay.
He wondered which of the lawyers gathered near the front was going to represent his daughter. The logical side of his brain told him that there was little chance for anything to go wrong; after all she was an eighteen year-old first-offender. He doubted the prosecution would be objecting to her release, probably even on her own recognizance. The more emotional side of his brain, however, fretted about the million things that could result in her further detention, although he was hard-pressed to come up with one.
The sight of Jeannie appearing in the prisoner’s box a few minutes later with a guard at her side brought sudden tears to his eyes. He wiped them away with the palm of his hand, unconcerned about who might see him in this emotional state. His daughter looked haggard, as if she had hardly slept, which he presumed to be the case. For a brief mom
ent, she made eye-contact with him from across the courtroom, then she turned away, stubbornly keeping the wall up between them.
As was the case with all the other protestors, she was released upon a promise to abstain from taking part in or attending any further public demonstrations. It had taken less than two minutes for Jeannie to appear in front of a courtroom full of people, be arraigned and disappear again. She would be released from another door later that morning, and then she’d go join her protestor friends, or go find Claire, or go see that André guy, whoever he was.
Bratt sat there a while longer, feeling lost and trying to find somebody to blame for the way things had turned out. Dejected and knowing this was pointless, he got up and walked slowly back to his office.
Once back in his office, Bratt dumped his coat onto the sofa and turned to find Leblanc walking in, a half-eaten chocolate donut in his hand and some jelly from another donut still staining his lips.
“Hey, Bobby, we all just heard,” Leblanc said, a look of concern on his face. “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
“Tell you what?”
“About Jeannie. It was on the radio. You know, ‘daughter of noted criminal lawyer, Robert Bratt,’ blah, blah, blah.”
Shit, Bratt thought. So much for keeping this quiet.
“I just didn’t want to talk about it, J.P.,” he said. “I didn’t know how I was going to explain it.”
“I know, I know. Stupid kids, always getting themselves in trouble. Hey, it’s better than getting busted for drugs.”
Bratt nodded, aware that Leblanc was referring to his own teen-age son’s arrest, two years earlier.
“You didn’t represent her, did you?” Leblanc asked.
“No. Legal Aid.”
“Why didn’t you get someone from the office down there for her?”
“Oh, you know,” Bratt searched for an answer other than the truth. “I figured since I was in a conflict of interest being personally involved, it would be the same for the whole office. Besides, it’s good for her to learn a little independence.”
Leblanc nodded thoughtfully, unaware of how Bratt had almost choked getting those words out. They both stood there awkwardly, unsure what to do or say next. Bratt moved to pick up some papers from his desk.
“I’m going to head home,” he said. “I hardly slept last night. Peter can draft the motion to exclude the videotape on his own. I’ll review it in the morning.”
“Yeah, sure,” Leblanc said sympathetically. “Let me know how things go with her, OK?”
Bratt nodded wordlessly, stuffing whatever papers he could get his hands on into his briefcase. He picked up his coat and walked quickly out, fighting the urge to break into an outright run to the elevator. All of a sudden, his office had begun to feel quite claustrophobic.
Once at home, Bratt trudged into his bedroom to change out of his suit and tie. The red message light was flashing on his answering machine. Not much chance that would be Jeannie, he thought. Then again, she did see me in court, so maybe...
It wasn’t Jeannie, but Nancy, whom he hadn’t had the chance to call back after going to the arraignment. He managed to feel both glad and disappointed at hearing her voice.
“Robert? Are you playing hard to get? Don’t forget, I know where you live,” she said, followed by her soft laugh. “Listen, I hope everything’s OK with your daughter. Please call me as soon as you can and let me know. Also, it looks like we’re going to be seeing a lot of each other the next little while, so I really have to talk to you.”
Yes, we will see each other a lot, he thought. But first, I’m going to have to get my head together and figure out how the hell to get off this emotional roller-coaster I’ve been on.
Upper Westmount’s steeply-angled streets wound along the side of Mount Royal and the midwinter snow narrowed them to a barely passible width. More than once in his life Bratt had wondered how the horse-drawn carriages, the main mode of transportation at the time the stately mansions were built, had been able to make their way up these icy slopes.
That night he took a cab to Senator Madsen’s home rather than risking the pristine condition of his beloved sports car by driving it on the narrow and slippery roads.
Madsen didn’t think there was anything fashionable about being late, so Bratt made sure the cab arrived at the large, wrought iron gate at a few minutes before nine.
At the front door he was greeted by Maria, a tiny, gray-haired woman who seemed to have been with the Madsen family since the War of 1812. She greeted him so quietly he hardly heard her voice and, just as quietly, she ushered him into the study. She asked him to wait there a moment before she headed back out of the room with small, mincing steps.
Bratt looked around at the large room and thought that the word “study” had never done it justice. The walls were lined with ceiling-high mahogany bookshelves that held countless ancient, leather-bound volumes he doubted anybody had ever read. There were two long, brown leather sofas facing a huge fireplace where several logs were burning fiercely. Prominently displayed over the mantelpiece was a large portrait of the first Madsen to land on the shores of North America, a man who had made his fortune by buying beaver and fox pelts from native tribesmen in exchange for worthless trinkets.
There were also a large oak desk, armchairs, end tables, and floor lamps placed neatly about the room. All the furniture gave off the odour of the wax and polish with which it was regularly treated. It was a smell that distinctly said, “old money.”
It wasn’t long before Senator Madsen strode into the room. He was a small, trimly-built man, whose robust health belied his seventy years of age. He stepped quickly forward, his hand outstretched toward Bratt, a large smile on his face.
“Bobby. It’s so good to see you again,” he said in a slightly British accent. He gave Bratt a firm handshake and a squeeze on the arm, which were the extent of the displays of affection that he allowed himself toward other men.
“Good to see you again, sir.”
The senator directed Bratt to one of the deep sofas next to the fire, then headed straight to the well-stocked bar.
“Something to warm you up?”
“Yes, please. Whatever you’re having.”
“Some brandy, perhaps? Your father, God rest his soul, was always fond of a snifter on these cold winter evenings.”
“Yes. My mother often mentioned that,” Bratt answered none too warmly.
Madsen paused as he poured the drinks, his eyes briefly getting misty, before coming back to himself with a shake of his head.
“He was a fine man, your father,” he said, clearing his throat. “Despite it all.”
“Yes sir,” Bratt replied, not nearly meaning it, and feeling a little embarrassed at witnessing Madsen’s momentary emotional lapse.
“Well, enough of that. I didn’t ask you to come here so that we can act like a couple of weepy old women. There’s some news you need to hear.”
This must be the “particularly pleasurable” part he had mentioned, Bratt thought, taking his drink from Madsen while hiding all outward signs of curiosity.
“I understand you applied for the opening on the Superior Court last year,” Madsen said, straight to the point, as always.
Bratt sat up in surprise. “That’s supposed to be confidential.”
“Of course it is, Robert. I’d never mention it to anybody else.”
That didn’t tell Bratt how the senator had heard about it, but he supposed the man had his connections.
“The selections take so long before they’re announced,” Bratt said, “I pushed it to the back of my mind. I applied when I heard Mike Dickson was stepping down. His kidneys are shot, I think, and the timing seemed just right for me.”
“And timing is everything, because since Dickson retired they’ll want another Anglo to replace him in Quebec City.”
Bratt felt his pulse quicken at the news. He didn’t want to jump the gun, but what Madsen was saying was obvious: they were going to
make him a judge! For just a moment all memories of seeing Jeannie in the prisoner’s dock were pushed aside.
“The Judicial Selection Committee has a list of likely candidates, of course,” Madsen continued. “And it has come to my attention that your name is number one-A on it.”
“One-A? Is there a one-B, then?”
“Allen Schneider; with Roux, Perreault.”
“Oh,” Bratt said, trying to hide his disappointment at learning there was a strong rival for the appointment. “I know who he is. Does mostly family law.”
“That’s him. They haven’t really decided if they need another criminal man on the bench or not. Not many English jury trials in Quebec City these days. Still, it wouldn’t look good if they didn’t have any English-speaking judges for the criminal side out there, would it?”
Bratt took a deep breath in order to keep his thoughts rational and his voice calm.
“So, what’s their next step?”
“They’re going to give their recommendation to the minister next month. So don’t do anything stupid the next few weeks.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll keep my nose clean.”
“Of course you will, Bobby. I wasn’t really worried. Tell me, are you working on anything interesting right now?”
“A murder case. Double murder, actually.”
“Double murder, eh? Sounds gruesome. Your client, not some sort of society big-wig, by any chance?”
“No, nothing like that. A working class kid; maybe in a street gang.”
“Street gang? Dear Lord, Robert, the people you represent!”
Bratt couldn’t help but laugh.
“I’m sorry, Senator. Westmount doesn’t have a monopoly on criminals.”
Madsen grunted, obviously not appreciating the joke. “Well, I guess your clientele hasn’t been held against you, or they wouldn’t even be considering you for the position. You think you’re going to win this one?”
“The kid’s in tough, but I’ll certainly give it my best.”
The Guilty Page 13