The Guilty

by Gabriel Boutros

  “Yes. I’m in second year engineering.”

  Sims reached into his sweater and pulled out an envelope with the McGill crest on it. From inside he pulled out some sheets of paper that he handed over to Bratt. Looking at them Bratt saw they were authorizations to change two physics courses. The date stamped on each sheet was June 14, 1999, the date of the shooting.

  Bratt began getting a warm feeling about Sims. Everything Clayton and Parker had not been, he seemed to be.

  “Then what happened?” he asked, beginning to feel optimistic.

  “Ev picked me up at the LaSalle Metro and we drove to the park together.”

  Jordan looked over at Sims and raised a finger as if to remind him of something.

  “No, wait,” Sims said. “First we stopped for a hamburger, because it was almost six o’clock by the time he picked me up. We got to the park at nearly seven.”

  Jordan smiled and nodded his agreement.

  “OK, so far so good,” Bratt said. “Did anything special happen at the park itself? Something that makes that day stand out.”

  Jordan, who had not said a word until then, spoke up.

  “I vomited on the basketball court.”

  Bratt was so surprised at this reply, and the casual way in which Jordan stated it, that he burst out laughing. The two witnesses laughed along with him. Bratt saw that even Kouri was smiling, looking on almost proudly at the two men.

  So far so good, Bratt thought. Still, there’s always the chance that…

  “Do either one of you have criminal records?” he asked abruptly, turning the jovial meeting deadly serious again.

  Both young men looked at each other, then turned back to Bratt.

  “No sir,” they answered in unison.

  “Have you ever been arrested, even as juveniles? Even things they never convicted you for?”

  “No sir,” they said again.

  “And you, Everton,” Bratt was tempted to call him Mr. Jordan, “Neither I nor Marlon’s first lawyer had your name on a list of possible alibi witnesses Marlon had given us. Why is that?”

  “I’m studying at the U of T and I was only in Montreal for the summer. I left town on the sixteenth, before Marlon was arrested, so nobody ever asked me about who was in the park. I hardly knew Marlon, and he probably never thought about me when he had to find alibi witnesses. Recently, when I learned what was happening from Vernon, I called Mrs. Campbell and told her that I was definitely willing to testify on his behalf. So, here I am.”

  Bratt’s earlier smile returned to his face as quickly as it had disappeared. There would be no surprises from left field with these two fine, young men. He could go on listening to their story with his mind at ease.

  “OK, Everton. You were saying you threw up.”

  Looking a bit embarrassed, Jordan explained what happened.

  “I shouldn’t have had those hamburgers, I guess. They weren’t very well cooked. Then I was running all over the court for a couple of hours, and it was still pretty hot, even at that hour. Next thing I knew…well, they had to stop playing for a while, to hose the court off.”

  “I drove him home in his car,” Sims said, still chuckling at the recollection. “His mom lives a couple of blocks away. I stayed with him and figured that was it for that day, but around 11 p.m. he said he felt better and wanted to get some fresh air. So we went back to the park to see who was still there.”

  “Are you sure it was around 11:00?”

  “Sure. I wanted to watch the sports at eleven-”

  “But I convinced him to go to the park, instead,” Jordan cut in.

  “How long did it take you to get back to the park?” Bratt felt the nervous excitement beginning to build in his stomach, like he was watching the horse he had bet on take the final turn with a growing lead.

  “Not even five minutes.”

  “And who was at the park?”

  “Oh, pretty much everyone was still there,” Sims answered.

  “Including Marlon, of course,” Jordan added. “And his cousin, Ashley.”

  “You’re sure of that?”

  “Yes sir. We stayed there until midnight, and then Ev and I left.”

  “Why do you say you left at midnight?”

  “There’s a curfew at that park, because lots of kids used to go hang out there all night, and get in trouble. So, there was always a security car that comes by a bit after midnight to make sure the place is clear. We left just before that. Most of the others had already gone. Only Marlon, his cousin and Bernie Clayton stayed behind after we left.”

  “Why did those three stay longer?”

  Sims smiled apologetically.

  “Well, sir, Marlon was always a little brash when it came to dealing with the security people. He was never one to back down from an authority figure.”

  I’ll bet, Bratt thought. Brash, indeed.

  He looked at the two surprisingly credible witnesses and told himself that Small had managed to find what he really needed. He couldn’t wait until St. Jean and Parent got a look at these two in court. He would have the pleasure of watching their visions of a conviction shatter like glass.

  He asked them a few more questions, more as a formality than anything else. He was already sure he had the witnesses he’d been hoping for. They had probably been told ahead of time about all the different questions that they may face, but that was not a problem. They looked good, they spoke well, and their story was believable in its simplicity. He was sure they were telling the truth about never having been arrested before, so he was unconcerned that St. Jean might be able to dig up anything prejudicial about them. Bratt’s instincts told him they would be clean as a whistle. It was almost too good to be true.

  Sims and Jordan spent less than an hour in his office. When they left, Bratt remained seated at his desk, watching Kouri putter around, straightening out files, with a big goofy grin on his face. As he watched, and thought about the two witnesses, a line from an old cartoon came to mind: “my spider-sense is tingling.”

  “What aren’t you telling me, Peter?”

  Kouri stopped his paper shuffling, but didn’t turn to look at him.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I can feel it in my gut. There’s something you’re not telling me.”

  “What wouldn’t I tell you?”

  “Those witnesses were perfect. Too perfect. There’s no such thing in my book.”

  “Well, OK, I did tell Small, tell them actually, to dress nicer than the last pair.”

  “So you met with them before today.”

  Kouri nodded. “And I also went over some of the questions with them.”

  “Did you go over the answers, too?”

  “What do you mean?”

  Bratt stood up and walked over to Kouri, then walked back again. The answers to his questions seemed to be staring him in the face, despite Kouri’s pretense at innocence, and he could only repeat to himself, “too good to be true, too good to be true.”

  “They’re just too perfect, dammit. Too clean cut. Too polite. Too well-dressed. Their stories match too well. They were finishing each other’s sentences, for God’s sake.”

  “Well, they were told what to expect. What’s wrong with that?”

  “You told them?”

  “Yes.”

  “‘My man, Pete’,” Bratt quoted Small. Kouri said nothing, but his earlier blank expression was quickly turning to fear and guilt. “What have you been up to?”

  “I was just trying to help.”

  “Just trying to help,” Bratt thought. If that isn’t an admission of a fuck-up, I don’t know what is.

  “Listen, Pete. You were the one who looked so shocked when I spoke to Small the last time we were up there. Like you couldn’t believe what I told him.”

  “Why should I have been shocked? All you told him was that if you didn’t think the witnesses were any good then the jury wouldn’t either.”

  “Is that what I said?”

  “That�
��s what I heard.”

  “Is that what I meant?”

  “How should I know what you meant? Am I supposed to read your mind now, too?”

  Everything Kouri said made sense, but it still sounded like he was making excuses. He wondered if he was just being paranoid. Before he had a chance to question Kouri further, Sylvie burst into his office, her face constricted with fear and grief.

  “It’s J.P! Something happened at the court.”

  Bratt jumped to his feet.

  “What? What happened?”

  “I think it’s his heart,” she blurted out the words, the tears following instantly after. “There’s a constable on the phone. Oh God, he says it’s really bad.”

  Bratt rushed to his desk and picked up the phone, having to try twice before he found the blinking button to get the line.

  “Bratt here. What’s going on?”

  “It’s Constable Lefebvre. Your partner is in bad shape. It looks like a heart attack. The ambulance is on its way.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “He’s still at 3.07.”

  “I’m on my way.”

  Bratt hung up and rushed out of his office, grabbing his coat as he passed Kouri. All thoughts about the Small trial and the too good to be true witnesses had disappeared.

  He didn’t bother to stop to put on his shoe-rubbers and as he got out of the building and ran down the snow-covered sidewalk his feet constantly threatened to slip out from under him. He jumped over snow banks and jostled slower pedestrians, but eventually made it to the courthouse, panting heavily.

  An Urgences Santé ambulance was already parked on the sidewalk in front of the main entrance. Ahead of Bratt, two technicians were wheeling a stretcher in as fast as they could, a large black medical bag teetering precariously on top of it.

  Out of breath, Bratt struggled to catch up with them, but they crossed the main mezzanine quickly and disappeared around the corner. As he ran, he saw other people heading in the same direction, some looking concerned, others just curious.

  He turned the corner in front of Room 3.07 and had to stop abruptly to not run right into the large crowd that had gathered. A constable, he presumed it was Lefebvre, spotted him and pulled him aside.

  “You’ll have to wait here,” he said, speaking slowly to make sure that Bratt understood what he said. “The technicians cleared the room. I’m sure they’re doing all that can be done for him.”

  Bratt nodded wordlessly, still breathing heavily from the run. His mouth was dry and he briefly wondered about his own physical condition. The constable may have had the same concern, because he led him to a nearby bench and sat him down.

  “I’ll get you some water,” he said, before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

  Struggling to catch his breath, Bratt tried to stop his mind from racing out of control so that he could think clearly about what was happening and what this all meant. He had long been concerned about Leblanc’s health, but there was no way he could have prepared himself for this. Now, it was a question of how serious the attack had been. To his knowledge this was the first time that Leblanc had had one. He only hoped that this lessened the chance that it would be fatal.

  Shit, what the hell do you know about this? He could already be dead for all you know. And if he does die, after nearly two decades together, what then?

  Bratt bowed his head, his face buried in the palms of his hands. He hated himself for being selfish, but he couldn’t chase away the thought that Leblanc’s heart attack had come at the worst possible time.

  Chapter 8

  The intensive care unit at the Montreal General was probably not much different than that of most other major hospitals. Bratt felt a small sense of gratitude for not having been in enough of them to know the difference.

  The last place he had expected to find himself on that Saturday morning was there, at Leblanc’s bedside. His partner was heavily sedated and breathing with the help of a respirator. The doctors had told Bratt that the first forty-eight hours after the attack were the most crucial. If he got through those all right his chances for recovery improved dramatically.

  When Bratt had shown up at the ICU the attending nurse had asked him if he was part of Leblanc’s family. It seemed they were still waiting for someone, anyone, who was a relative to arrive. Leblanc had divorced over ten years earlier. His ex, Sandy, a mean-spirited bitch who Bratt had despised from the get-go, had remarried and moved out west somewhere. There was also his junkie son, Luc, but Leblanc had had no news from him for nearly a year. Bratt had never heard his partner mention any brothers or sisters in the time he had known him. He thought he might be the closest thing Leblanc had to family.

  Over-all, he thought it was a pretty sad state of affairs. No matter how closely he worked with someone, Bratt knew it wasn’t the same thing as real family. He looked down at Leblanc’s peaceful face, and wondered if it mattered to him that he had no relatives to come see him, perhaps mourn for him, at this time.

  He turned to look at the other beds in the unit. Three were occupied, but only around one of them had the curtain been pulled shut, and no nurse went in there to check on a pulse or to adjust the I.V. He tried not to think about what the reason for that might be.

  As it was, he still couldn’t believe that Leblanc, who seemed to be sleeping comfortably in front of him, was halfway between life and death. He touched his old friend’s hand, tentatively at first, then more firmly, squeezing the chubby fingers together.

  It occurred to him then that he had not done as much for his own father. Few of his friends were aware that he hadn’t spoken to his father during the last seven years of his life, not since Bratt’s heartbroken mother had drunk herself to death. When his father entered the hospital for the last time in 1994, paralyzed by the second stroke he’d had in a year, Bratt only went because Jeannie had begged him to, certain as she was that her grandfather’s final hour was near.

  Earlier that year, when the first stroke had occurred, Bratt had refused to even call the hospital to see how his father was doing. He had only found peace with his father once they had become strangers and he wasn’t ready to face him again, even in a hospital bed, for fear of reopening old wounds.

  After the second stroke, he gave in to his daughter’s tear-filled pleading, if only partially. At the hospital, he stood outside the private room that would be the final home of Joseph Bratt, and occasionally looked in through the small window in the door while Jeannie sat for hours on end at her grandfather’s side.

  She never understood how Bratt could have refused to be with him in his final hours. It was many years before he himself had been able to understand that he had no longer been angry with his father, but with himself. The stubbornness he had inherited from Joseph Bratt had led him into defying both common sense and his own heart, and by the time his father was close to death he felt it was too late to repair their relationship.

  On this day Bratt came to see Leblanc wondering if it would be for the final time, but found himself stuck in the past and feeling sorry for himself. He looked down on the large, inert form and wished that it was his father’s hand that he was holding.

  A movement behind him brought Bratt back to the present and he turned to find Kouri standing diffidently near the door.

  “It’s OK, Pete. You can come closer.”

  “Sorry. I thought you were praying,” Kouri whispered as he approached.

  Praying for Leblanc, Bratt said to himself. Now that’s something I never would have thought of.

  “Any news?” Kouri asked.

  “Nothing overly bad, I guess. He’s stable.”

  Kouri looked down at Leblanc’s still form, then quickly around the room.

  “There’s nobody? Family, I mean.”

  “No. None.”

  “I faxed Parent the names and addresses of Jordan and Sims this morning. I know I was supposed to do it yesterday, but I forgot. You know…”

  Bratt nodded. He didn’t want
to think about Jordan and Sims just then. He felt that his friend’s precarious condition should take priority over any work-related issues.

  Kouri nodded back solemnly and looked around again, his expression showing a touch of embarrassment. Then he stepped closer to the bed, nudging Bratt off to the side in the process.

  “Do you mind?” he asked quietly.

  “No, not at all,” Bratt answered, and he stepped back a couple of feet, having no idea what it was he was supposed to mind.

  He watched wide-eyed as Kouri bowed his head and crossed himself, the thumb and first two fingers of his right hand pressed together.

  Son of a gun, Bratt thought. He wasn’t kidding.

  He stood still, unsure if he should stay or go. He watched as Kouri prayed silently, crossing himself again as he finished, then wiping a tear from his cheek as he stepped back from the bed.

  “I feel bad because I hardly got to know him,” Kouri explained, turning to look back at Bratt. “Now I wonder if I’ll ever get the chance.”

  I’ve known him for over twenty years, Bratt thought. How bad am I supposed to feel?

  He was surprised to see Kouri take a hesitant step toward him, looking at him with a strange expression, then advance quickly, his arms opening to hug him. Bratt stiffened for only a second at Kouri’s touch, but he let himself be hugged as he felt his own hot tears rolling down his cheeks.

  Bad enough, he answered himself. Bad enough.

  The rest of the weekend wasn’t much more upbeat. The somber weather matched Bratt’s mood as he waited for news of any improvement in his friend’s condition. He only made a desultory effort to reread his notes for Monday’s motion, having lost all ability to concentrate.

  Unable to work, he spent several hours at the hospital on Sunday, the lonely keeping company with the lonely. Occasionally, some of the other lawyers dropped in for a few minutes. Ralston and Kalouderis stayed a little longer. But, eventually they all moved on. Unlike their senior partners, most of them had families to be with, lives to lead.

  In a moment of desperation, sensing how alone he and Leblanc both were, Bratt tried calling Claire to see if she knew where his daughter could be. The taped message from the operator telling him that her number was no longer in service left him feeling despondent.