The Guilty

by Gabriel Boutros

  He did have an older brother who was a social worker, or something equally altruistic, in Toronto. And a sister who taught English to spoiled, rich children in the South of France. There were cards on birthdays and phone calls at Christmas, but they both had their own careers and families to worry about.

  In Montreal, it had been only him and Jeannie for the past eight years. How ironic that he should see her again at a funeral where not a single relative of the deceased was present. He imagined himself lying where Leblanc lay, and thought that he didn’t need a church full of colleagues and acquaintances to see him off, just his daughter.

  My God, Bratt, he told himself. You are becoming one maudlin old man. Good thing nobody can read your weepy thoughts.

  Despite this self-reproach, he couldn’t deny his feelings. He turned to look at Jeannie, who was paying more attention to the priest’s words than he was, and slid his hand along the back of the pew in front of them until it was touching hers. Her hand moved almost imperceptibly away, then, after a moment’s hesitation, moved back until it was touching his. As he tentatively took her hand in his, he realized he was acting more like a shy schoolboy on a first date than a father.

  How come I can’t just grab her and tell her she better get her butt home right now, before I take her out to the woodshed or something? What a generation of wimpy parents we are, afraid of hurting our children’s feelings and desperate to have them like us.

  He thought back to his own father, who had never in his life mistaken himself for his son’s best friend. Joseph Bratt had not been one to spend a lot of time worrying about whether he was liked or not, not at home, and certainly not at court. Just as well, his son thought. That way he was never disappointed.

  Bratt knew that if he wanted a closer relationship with his daughter than he had had with his father, especially in those final years, these worries and self-doubts were the price he had to pay. It was too late now to question how he had raised her. Besides, that she was stubborn and had a mind of her own was part of what he loved most about her.

  The funeral seemed to end soon after it had started. Bratt had hardly noticed the passage of time, almost forgetting the friend he was there to mourn, preoccupied as he was with thoughts of reconciling with Jeannie.

  As the coffin was wheeled slowly out by a group of attendants from the funeral home and the small choir began singing a rather plaintive “Ave Maria,” he waved Kalouderis on to join the others, signaling that he would join them later at the cemetery. Jeannie stayed behind with him, clearly willing to talk to him again.

  Once the mourners had drifted out into the street and the singers began putting away their hymnals, Bratt took her hand again and pulled her down next to him on the pew.

  “How’ve you been?” he asked almost casually, afraid to scare her off by a too obvious display of emotion.

  “Good,” she nodded. Her eyes flitted around the empty church, and now she looked unsure that she wanted to be there. Finally, hesitantly, she said, “I’ve missed you.”

  Bratt was relieved that she had said it first, freeing him of any lingering uncertainty about her feelings.

  “Christ, Jeannie. You’ve got no idea how empty our place is without you.”

  She smiled now, a warm, almost maternal smile that reminded him of how Deirdre used to look at him in the early days of their marriage, when he had been struggling to get his practice up and running and got by only with her loving support.

  Crap, he thought. My practice. I still don’t know how she feels about that.

  He asked her, “Jeannie, what are your plans?”

  He wanted to kick himself for asking such a feeble question, but he couldn’t think of a better way to approach her. This had been his basic concern for days, so he had no choice but to ask it as directly as possible.

  “Are you planning to stay away a lot longer?”

  “I don’t know,” she said somberly. Then, as his smile faltered at her words, she added with a mischievous smile, “Well, probably not. Although being independent’s not so bad.”

  She shifted in her seat to face him squarely.

  “You know I love you, Daddy,” she said not too warmly.

  Bratt said nothing in reply, waiting for a “but.” She had that look he had learned to recognize, the one that told him she was putting her arguments together in her head, trying to be logical. He waited patiently to see where they would take her.

  “I realize that I can’t hate you for the job you do,” she said. “That doesn’t mean I like your work any more than I did before. Since Claire’s trial.”

  Bratt realized that he had also begun to think of it as “Claire’s trial,” rather than Nate Morris’s.

  “I just can’t pretend to like it,” she continued. “I can’t even be indifferent to it. I guess that’s my biggest problem right now: reconciling how I feel about you with how I feel about your work. But I’m at least going to try to distinguish the man from the lawyer. That’s not such a bad deal, is it?”

  God, he thought, somewhat disheartened. The wording she uses to express her affection: I’m afraid there’s a bit of a lawyer in her, too.

  “What if I didn’t do this job anymore?” he blurted out, seeing a solution to both their problems. The news that Madsen had given him now seemed like a godsend.

  “What’re you talking about?”

  “Listen, honey,” he said, feeling a growing excitement about what this news would mean to both of them. “Not a lot of people know this, but I might be named a judge.”

  “A judge?”

  “Yes. Superior Court, just like granddad.”

  “Daddy, that’s wonderful,” she said, seeming sincerely happy for him. “It’s what you’ve always wanted.”

  “I know, but it’s more than that. It’s what you’ve wanted too, because it means I won’t be defending those…well, those scumbags anymore.”

  He felt a pang of self-reproach at using the same word that she had once used to describe his clientele. But he wanted to show her that he was truly going to separate himself from his past life and from his clients, that he might even be ready to see things her way. Besides, he told himself, isn’t that exactly how I feel about my most recent client?

  “Daddy, you said you might be named a judge. You don’t know for sure?”

  Aye, there’s the rub, he told himself. Do I tell her about the Small case or not? And do I tell her I almost have to win it at all costs?

  “It’s all but in the bag,” he answered, looking away briefly as he fibbed. “I just have to finish some litigation I’m working on. They’ll probably announce it within the month.”

  Jeannie reached out and squeezed his hand, then let him pull her closer and hug her. Again, there was that brief hesitation, then she hugged him back.

  Bratt held her close, rocking her gently back and forth. He wanted this to be a new beginning for both their lives, yet he was worried that things seemed to have worked out too easily. Recently, nothing had come that easily and he only hoped she’d be this happy for him when the murder trial was over and Marlon Small was back out on the street.

  That afternoon the office of Leblanc et Bratt, Avocats opened its doors to receive condolences from judges, lawyers, courthouse staff and the occasional client. Bratt had wanted to rent a large restaurant for a mercy-meal, but Ralston insisted in keeping things as simple and low-key as possible, in accordance with Leblanc’s final wishes. When Bratt complained that he seemed to have been totally left out of the loop when it came to executing Leblanc’s posthumous desires, Ralston calmly explained that this had been intentional.

  Leblanc had made Ralston his executor and had left specific instructions about how much pomp and ceremony was to be bestowed upon him after his passing. He had fully expected Bratt to pay no attention to what he wanted and to just do whatever he felt was appropriate, probably going overboard in the process.

  As the afternoon wore on, lawyers from both sides of the legal divide, a few judges, and
even some court staff made the short trek from the Palais de Justice to their building. As they entered, Sylvie greeted them, acting almost widow-like as she received their condolences and allowed them to kiss her tear-stained cheeks.

  Trays of party sandwiches and cheese-slices were strategically placed in the various rooms and along the wall in the main corridor, and the end of a long conference table had been converted into a modest bar. The mood occasionally teetered on the verge of breaking into a cocktail party, but Ralston, wandering amongst the guests with his dour face, made sure that no undue levity was allowed to uplift the gathering.

  Bratt snuck off to his own office, and only came out when Kouri announced the arrival of a judge or some other eminent jurist. Jeannie had left him after their talk in the church with a promise to call him soon. So he sat alone now behind his desk, drinking only mineral water and vacillating between contentment over the recent turnaround in his personal fortunes and sadness over his partner’s demise.

  Kouri’s head popped in through the door again, but his announcement this time took Bratt by surprise.

  “It’s Mrs. Campbell. She didn’t know about J.P. She wanted to talk to you.”

  Bratt swore under his breath. “OK, ask her in here, would you?”

  He forced the displeasure from his face as Jennifer Campbell stepped through the door, holding a handkerchief to her face. She wore a plastic rain bonnet to keep the snow from ruining her hair. She looked at him with a pained expression and came toward him as if she was going to hug him, but then caught herself and stopped.

  “Mr. Bratt, I am so sorry to barge in on you at this sad, sad time. I had no idea that Mr. Leblanc had been called to the Lord. May He rest his soul.”

  Bratt stood and took her hand in his. His face effected sadness combined with appreciation for her kind words, but in his heart her presence left him void of any true emotion.

  “Mrs. Campbell, I’m sure if you came down here unannounced it was for a very important reason. Please sit down and tell me how I can help you.”

  “I just wanted to be sure you met the Sims boy and Everton Jordan. Marlon and I feel their testimony is what you’ll need to get him out of this terrible mess.”

  “Don’t worry. I met them and I think they’re going to be of great help.”

  “Thank God for that. I was so worried that you might find that they weren’t any better than the first two boys.”

  “No, I was very impressed with them. I’m sure the jury will find them to be very believable witnesses.”

  “Thank God for that,” she repeated. “That’s what matters most, I suppose. I must say I was quite disappointed when the other two didn’t work out. But that’s why we’re putting our trust in you, to guide us through this court system, which sometimes makes no sense to us at all.”

  Bratt nodded politely, saying nothing and wondering where she was going with all this. He was sure they had already had this conversation not so long ago. Then she suddenly switched topics, taking him a bit by surprise.

  “Mr. Bratt, are you a religious man?”

  “I have been in my life.”

  “Don’t answer like a lawyer when you’re talking about God,” she snapped.

  “I’m sorry. I just wasn’t sure what to make of your question.”

  “Only the devil asks trick questions, Mr. Bratt. And lawyers, of course. When I ask a question it only means what the words say.”

  Now there’s a novel idea, Bratt thought, remaining quiet.

  “I’m sorry if I sound a bit harsh,” she relented, “especially during this time of mourning. But, then, we are all suffering a loss right now, aren’t we?”

  Bratt nodded, still saying nothing but admiring how quickly her temper could flare and then be calmed again.

  “My loss is only part-way complete, as you know. There’s still time to prevent it from being finalized. There’s only a few days left until the trial, and I’ve been very unsettled in my soul. I’m sorry to come to you now, but you have so much experience in these matters. I thought if we could talk a bit, it would reassure me that justice will be done to my son.”

  Bratt thought that she had probably meant “justice for her son,” but he found the grammatical slip ironically appropriate.

  “That’s fine, Mrs. Campbell. Maybe we can comfort each other.”

  She smiled gratefully and went to sit down on the sofa. Bratt swung a chair over and sat facing her.

  “Can I offer you something to drink?”

  “No, that’s kind. I’d rather keep a sober mind and a sober tongue right now.”

  “Don’t worry,” he tried to smile reassuringly, “I’m not going to ask you any trick questions.”

  She smiled back and took a moment to compose herself.

  “What did he die of?”

  It took Bratt a second or two to realize that she was talking about Leblanc.

  “Uh, his heart. I’m afraid he wasn’t in the best of health.”

  “Nonsense, he was a fine specimen of a man. But, when God says it’s your time, then it doesn’t matter what the doctors say.”

  Bratt shrugged noncommittally. He didn’t like the idea that his friend could have been taken so arbitrarily, but he wasn’t about to debate the issue.

  “In a way, that’s what I want to talk to you about, Mr. Bratt. As much as I pray for enlightenment, I just don’t know God’s will in this case. I don’t know why He’s testing Marlon, or if maybe He’s testing me with this terrible trial. I worry that maybe in His greater plan, we may not be meant to win.”

  Bratt was unsure how to answer her. The first time they had spoken she had called him God’s answer to her prayers. Now, she was wondering if God was going to pull this trial right out from under him. He didn’t want to offend her, but he wasn’t ready to accept that the outcome of this case depended solely on divine intervention.

  “Mrs. Campbell, please don’t take this the wrong way. Since you don’t know what God wants, all you can do is what you think is the best thing for Marlon. That’s why you came to me in the first place, remember?”

  She nodded fervently, and Bratt suddenly had an image of her at Sunday prayers, nodding and clapping her hands to her preacher’s exhortations.

  “I guess, if I were a truly religious person,” he continued, “I’d say that you can’t worry, you can’t even wonder, about what God wants. You just have to have…faith, I guess, that what He wants is what’s best for your son. So, you do your best and I do my best, and we hope that in the end it all works out.”

  “You are a wise man, Mr. Bratt.”

  If only, he told himself, but to her he replied, “Like you said, I do have experience in these matters.”

  “Do you ever think that you might be doing God’s work?”

  “Oh, I really wouldn’t go that far,” he said, almost offended by the idea. “I doubt that my clients would even think so, and they’re-”

  “But you are,” she cut him off. “You see, you don’t seek the truth of man. You fight against the very judgment and condemnation of man, because in your heart you know that here on Earth, we’re all just biding our time. In God’s great plan, what does it matter what a court’s verdict is? In the end, it’s only God’s own judgment that every man has to face and to fear. Man is so vain, thinking he can replace His judgment with courts and jails.

  “A guilty man may walk away, or an innocent may be convicted, and we’ll say that justice was done. But only God knows the truth, and no amount of lawyering can stand in the way of His final judgment. So, whatever reprieve we might get here on Earth, we had better enjoy it while it lasts, because in eternity it might just be another story altogether.”

  Amen, thought Bratt, wondering what exactly she was trying to get at. I can’t figure out if she’s depending on me to save Marlon or telling me that whatever I do for him is pointless in the end. And how exactly am I doing God’s work, anyway? I still don’t get that part.

  “Would you pray with me, Mr. Bratt?�
��

  “Well…um, yes, of course, Mrs. Campbell.”

  She knelt down in front of the sofa and took Bratt’s hand, pulling him down next to her. He looked at the door, wishing he had thought to lock it when she had come in. From the deep recesses of his memory he remembered reading somewhere that Nixon had asked Kissinger to kneel and pray with him during the Watergate crisis. And look what that got him!

  “We can recite the Lord’s Prayer together, if you like,” she suggested.

  Bratt nodded, fairly sure that he remembered all the words.

  “Our Father, who art in Heaven,” she began.

  “Hallowed be Thy name,” he joined in, keeping his voice low for fear that anybody might be listening at the door.

  They prayed solemnly and when they had reached the end, Bratt gave a quick “amen” and began to get to his feet, only to have her squeeze his hand and keep him down on his knees.

  “Dear Lord,” she continued, “this is your dutiful handmaiden, Jennifer Campbell. I beseech you, take good care of my boy Marlon. Give strength to his lawyer, Mr. Bratt here. He likes to talk like a non-believer, but I know his heart is true. Speak to the jury through him, oh Lord, and guide his every action in this terrible trial that You have inflicted on us in Your wisdom.

  “Bless us and forgive us all, Lord. We are all sinners, and I am chief among them. Help me to do Your will, and let Your will be to see my boy home and free at last. Amen.”

  With that she let go of Bratt’s hand and raised herself up, straightening her skirt as she did so. Bratt whispered a small thank you to God for not having allowed anybody to walk in on them while they were praying. He brushed off the knees of his pants, trying to look casual, but he found that her words had rendered him more nervous, rather than reassuring him.