By Sunday night he had to admit to himself that the only person he could talk to about what had happened was Nancy. He only hoped that, once she heard about his partner, she’d at least be receptive to talking to him.
Before he had the chance to reconsider he picked up the phone and dialed her number. It rang several times and, as he waited, he tried not to picture her on the other end, seeing his number on her call-display, and walking away from the phone.
After several rings, his heart sank as her voice mail came on. Even the sound of her recorded voice did nothing to cheer him. He wasn’t sure if he should hang up or leave some sort of message. Before he could decide, the greeting ended and he heard the beep. He looked at the phone in his hands, unsure of how much or how little to say.
Then he realized that he was leaving nothing more than dead air and this would be the worst kind of message.
“Hi Nancy,” he blurted out, unsure what was going to come out of his mouth. “It’s me, Robert. Obviously. I, uh, just wanted to say hello. And good luck; in the trial of course. I hope Parent appreciates what he has in you.”
God, this sounds pathetic, he told himself. But just now I really don’t care if that’s how I sound to her.
“So this is me,” he continued, “asking for forgiveness again. For the last time we met, I mean. I feel pretty bad about how that went. Um, I know I can be a bit stubborn, and I don’t usually worry too much about the other person’s feelings. Well, I guess until now. So, admitting guilt is the first step toward rehabilitation, right?
“Anyway, I guess I’ll be back to gazing longingly at you across the courtroom again. Kind of looking forward to it, actually. Keep well.”
He paused again, then decided that anything else he said would be superfluous, and he hung up.
It wasn’t until much later that he realized he’d never mentioned Leblanc.
When Monday morning dawned, it was as if the weekend’s feeling of despair had slipped away with Bratt’s bad dreams. He felt a small surge of excitement because he finally had something to do other than mope around his home. He was going to appear before Judge Benjamin Green, perhaps the sharpest and most experienced judge on the Superior Court. That meant being on his toes and ready to defend every argument and allegation he had made in his motion to exclude the damaging videotape.
Green was known for holding everybody, defense lawyers and Crown prosecutors alike, in the most obvious contempt, and delighted in peppering them with sarcastic comments. Bratt figured that as long as he had blood pulsing in his veins he’d be able to get up for such a courtroom confrontation. Nothing would get him out of his doldrums faster than butting heads with the old warhorse.
He and Kouri walked the block and a half from his office to the court, arriving a few minutes early for the hearing on their motion. Bratt carried both their robes in plastic suit bags, while Kouri was laden with their two bulging briefcases.
Bratt could feel his blood beginning to pulse stronger than it had for days. When he stood in the hallway, looking at Parent sitting inside the courtroom, he smiled in anticipation of the upcoming battle.
Kouri did a double take at this shark-like grin. He hadn’t seen Bratt in battle before and so didn’t recognize the expression that showed his mentor at his happiest.
As Bratt strutted through the doors Kouri followed silently, like a slave carrying his general’s standard onto the battlefield.
Bratt spotted Nancy as soon as he entered, but managed to not miss a step as he advanced to the defense lawyers’ bench. He was going to have to concentrate on the work before him today.
Parent looked coldly in Bratt’s direction, and gave him a small nod, barely acknowledging his presence. Bratt nodded back and flashed a smile that exuded fake warmth. He allowed himself a quick peek in Nancy’s direction, but she seemed to be deeply immersed in a stack of documents in front of her, never even looking up at him.
He turned to the prisoner’s box as two guards led Marlon Small into the court. Small was dressed in an old jacket and tie that his mother must have dug up for him in a church rummage sale. Bratt leaned over the rail and smiled at his client.
“Now it begins,” he said.
Small said nothing. His usual arrogant look contained just a touch of apprehension.
Good, Bratt told himself. Maybe he’ll lose that cockiness totally by the time we’re in front of the jury.
At precisely 9:30 a.m. Judge Benjamin Green entered and took the bench. He was a small, thin man who walked with a slow, careful step, leaning tentatively on a cane. His body had reached retirement age, but his mind had retained the vigor of youth and it allowed him to wield his tongue as if it were a sword.
Both lawyers bowed slightly in his direction and murmured their good mornings. He flipped open the file in front of him, not responding to their greetings. He wore his half-moon glasses near the end of his nose, and licked his index finger in a deliberate manner before using it to turn each page.
After what seemed an eternity he finally peered over his glasses in Bratt’s direction, seeming to have noticed the lawyer’s presence for the first time.
“Well, Mr. Bratt. What can we do for you this morning?”
Bratt grinned back, showing that he wasn’t in the least put off by the judge’s indifferent manner.
“And how are you today, My Lord?”
Green winced, as if Bratt’s false cheeriness pained him.
“You do have a motion to present, don’t you?”
“Right there in your hands,” Bratt answered. He then pointed to a television set, which was placed up on a high stand at the side of the room. “And to get your week off on the right foot, we’re going to watch a little video first. About three hours’ worth.”
Hardly moving his head, Green’s eyes slid from Bratt to the television, and he raised his eyebrows.
“I hope you brought the popcorn,” he commented dryly, then leaned back in his chair and crossed his legs to get comfortable. He raised his hands and wiggled his fingers in the air. “Roll’em.”
Bratt, still grinning, pulled the TV stand closer to the middle of the room and facing the judge, then slid his copy of the tape into the VCR.
The interrogation room sprang into view on the screen and soon they saw Marlon Small and Philippe St. Jean enter it. The parties to the hearing all settled back into their seats for the viewing, while those in the gallery had to get by with disembodied voices.
Bratt’s eyes constantly traveled between the screen and the judge’s bench, observing Green’s reactions to what was happening, at which times he took notes and when he sat with his eyes half-closed, almost dozing. He knew better than to think the judge was falling asleep at such times, though. Green’s eyes may have gotten tired, but his mind soaked in everything.
As for Parent and Nancy, their eyes stayed constantly glued to the screen. Bratt tried to catch her from the corner of his eye, to see if she would ever look his way, but she never turned her head an inch.
Occasionally, he heard somebody from the gallery whisper a derogatory comment about Small a little too loudly, usually when they heard him refuse one of St. Jean’s invitations to confess his crime. This would cause Green to flash a fiery look in the general direction of the public, and the whispering would end quickly.
At eleven o’clock, almost halfway through Small’s interrogation, Green sat up abruptly.
“Cut,” he said sharply. “We’ll take ten minutes to stretch our legs, and I mean exactly ten minutes. Then we’ll watch the rest straight through until the lunch break.”
He used his cane to slowly push himself up to his feet.
“I hope the second reel’s got a little more action than the first,” he said to nobody in particular as he limped out of the courtroom.
Once he was gone, Nancy picked up her purse and headed out into the hall, her eyes fixed straight ahead of her. Bratt followed her with his gaze from where he sat, but his view became obstructed by the presence of Parent sta
nding in front of him. In his hand he held the papers that Nancy had been poring over earlier.
“Here,” he handed them to Bratt. “I’m sure there’s nothing in there you don’t already know.”
Bratt took the stack of case law and turned to hand it to Kouri who sat at his side. When he turned back to speak to Parent, the prosecutor was already heading out the door that Nancy had just taken.
That’s fine, Bratt thought. No reason to start playing nice now, anyway.
He sat there, looking at the door long after Parent had disappeared through it, and brooding over the cold shoulder treatment that he was receiving. After a minute or two, Kouri tugged his robe and handed him back one of the photocopied judgments.
“I think you should read this one. And not just the headnote.”
Bratt felt a touch of surprise as he took the document, wondering what Kouri may have found that they didn’t know already. He turned over the first page to get to the body of the decision. On the second page someone had stuck a small, yellow Post-it note. He read the familiar handwriting that was on it.
“You grovel very well. And I miss you too. N.”
He kept looking at the note, rereading the words as if they were written in code, while their meaning sunk in.
I guess my message got through to her. Maybe things will work out well this week, after-all. As long as I keep my big mouth in check.
He slowly pulled the sticky square off the page, folded it and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Kouri only glanced at him briefly, a slight smile on his lips, then walked out of the courtroom, leaving Bratt alone with his thoughts.
He realized that Nancy had taken a big risk that Parent might discover her note. He also realized that once more he had underestimated her, and he wondered if she was having as hard a time dealing with her feelings as he was.
Most of the ten-minute break was over, but he never left his chair in the courtroom. It was going to take him longer than that just to get his mind back on the case at hand. His heart began beating faster when he saw Nancy follow Parent back into the courtroom. He thought of giving her a smile or a wink, any sign to let her know that he had gotten her message, but decided against doing anything that might compromise her.
Green was back on the bench exactly ten minutes after he had left it.
Bratt stood to address him. “Act two, my Lord?”
“You wouldn’t have a musical ready to go, by chance?”
“I’m afraid there’s no singing in this one, My Lord,” Bratt said, throwing a dirty look at Parent as he answered.
The last hour and a half of the video was only slightly more interesting to watch than the first. Green’s eyes and ears only seemed to perk up at the point that Small, seemingly wracked with guilt and near the breaking point, called out for a lawyer. Otherwise, the judge showed little reaction or interest in what he was watching.
As the tape concluded with St. Jean leading Small out of the interrogation room, Green slipped off his glasses and rubbed his eyes.
“I’ll hear your arguments at two-fifteen,” he yawned. “I’ve already read the jurisprudence you’ve both submitted, so if you would both do me the favor of being a touch more succinct than you usually are I would be very beholden to you.”
He stood up and the lawyers jumped to their feet, then he slipped his glasses into a small leather case. He hesitated before leaving the bench, as if he might have something further to say. Finally, he sighed and looked at Parent.
“I can’t for the life of me imagine what purpose it would serve to inflict that boring drivel on a helpless jury. I look forward to the Crown enlightening me this afternoon. Bon appetit, gentlemen.”
Once Green’s back was turned, Bratt couldn’t help but smile hugely at Parent, who was clearly miffed by the judge’s comment.
It looks like things just might go my way today after-all, he thought. Nancy still cares and Green’s obviously leaning toward not admitting the tape. If nothing changes by the end of the day it’ll be one of the few times of late that everything didn’t turn into crap.
Lunch hour at the office was fairly quiet. Without Leblanc’s loud, huge presence, the place held a mournful emptiness for Bratt. He munched on a veggie submarine sandwich that Kouri had gone out to buy, one of those low-fat, low-flavour things that he’d suddenly had the urge to eat, what with the picture of Leblanc’s last breakfast still fresh in his mind.
He looked out the window, saw the usual groups of tourists gathered in front of Notre Dame Basilica and the occasional lawyer or court clerk that he recognized heading to one of the many nearby lunch spots, and he felt a silent contentment. He had seen enough, and not just in the last two weeks, to know that he could never predict how things were going to turn out, either in court or in his personal life, yet he felt a small dose of optimism.
At two o’clock he called Kouri from his office and they headed together to the courthouse, walking with brisk, confident steps.
“You think it’s going to go well, don’t you?” Kouri asked.
“I guess I don’t have much of a poker face. Yeah, Green can already see my point, but that doesn’t mean Parent can’t get him to change his mind.”
“If we get the video thrown out, we’ve got those two good alibi witnesses ready to go. This case is beginning to look like a winner, don’t you think?”
Bratt nodded wordlessly. He had been trying to think as little as possible about those “two good alibi witnesses.” He had decided to trust his client, which was what he was supposed to do anyway, and call them for the trial. Just as long as he didn’t have to spend too much time thinking about them.
Green took the bench at precisely 2:15, and Bratt was already standing before him, ready to present his arguments. He opened his mouth to begin, but the judge cut him off.
“Mr. Bratt, you write in your motion that the videotape is highly prejudicial, yet of little probative value.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“You think the conclusion your colleague will ask the jurors to draw, that your client looks and acts guilty during the interrogation, is too subjective and not necessarily warranted on the facts.”
“I’m glad to see you’ve read my motion, My Lord.”
“Yes. It was a model of concision and clarity. You must have had help on it.”
Managing a smile, Bratt waved a hand in Kouri’s general direction.
“My assistant drafted it. I don’t think you’ve met Peter Kouri.”
“Spare me the introductions. This isn’t a social occasion. I was merely pointing out that all your arguments seem to have been included in your written motion and unless there’s something vital you think you’ve left out of it, I fail to see why you’re standing there.”
Bratt struggled to maintain his polite smile.
The bastard’s obviously going to grant me my motion, he told himself. But he won’t even let me have the satisfaction of arguing it first. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if he tells Small that Kouri won it all with the written arguments he drafted and that my own role was superfluous.
Bratt opened his mouth to make a final comment, found he had nothing left to say, and sat down, feeling totally frustrated.
Green turned to Parent and glared at him over his glasses. Parent merely stood up and bowed slightly toward the judge. Whether the judge had made his mind up already or not, he was still going to have to listen to Parent make his point.
“Mr. Parent. I am obviously tottering on the precipice, at risk of agreeing with your adversary before you’ve had a chance to say something, which you may be sure I am loath to do. Please throw me a rope if you can, and pull me back to your side before it’s too late.”
“Well, My Lord, since you obviously recognize the danger of granting my colleague’s motion, I feel it is but my duty to save you from this grievous mistake.”
Green smiled like he felt nauseous, lay his pen down on his desk, and sat back in his chair, his arms folded.
“Clearly, the
Crown feels the statement of the accused is admissible,” Parent began. “It was not coerced from him in any way. It was given with full knowledge of his legal and Charter rights-”
“What is given?”
“Why, his statement, My Lord,” Parent answered, taken aback by Green’s unexpected question.
“From what I read, his entire statement concerning the shootings is, and I quote…Oh, wait. My mistake. Mr. Small actually never says a single blessed thing about the shootings, does he?”
“Well, perhaps not in so many words…”
“In how many words then?”
“There is a great deal of non-verbal communication on his part.”
“Are you planning to call in experts on body language, Mr. Parent?”
“No, My Lord.”
“You’re certainly not planning to comment on his silence in the face of your detective’s verbal assault are you?”
“Well…”
“You know, people do have the right to silence in this country. At least since the Inquisition, if my memory doesn’t fail me.”
Bratt smiled to himself at that comment. That’s hitting a former Jesuit where he lives.
“He does react verbally at the end, and what he says may be very informative to the jury.”
“Such as?”
“Such as when he’s feeling cornered by the detective at the end of the interrogation. He calls out for a lawyer because he knows he’s going to be caught otherwise.”
“Ah yes, that inconvenient right to counsel. In this example we see how cleverly a criminal can use it in conjunction with the previously mentioned right to silence. Really mucks up a policeman’s job, doesn’t it? But if I let you stand up in front of the jury and make the slightest comment about a suspect asking for a lawyer, how long do you think it would be before Mr. Bratt gets the Court of Appeal to order a new trial?”
“Not long,” Bratt said in a stage whisper.
The Guilty Page 19