by Brad Smith
Her right arm came free.
Carl, on foot, crested the ridge that ran the length of Fisher Park. And stopped.
In the parking lot below was The Mayor, standing by a new Lincoln sedan. Kate was a few feet away, holding something out to him. It appeared to be a cell phone. Suddenly The Mayor leaped forward, grabbing Kate and slamming her viciously against the car.
Carl began to run.
With each step, the pain in his ribs cut into him like the blade of a sickle. But still he ran, as the scene below him unfolded. The Mayor pushed Kate backwards over the hood of the car and began to choke her. She was fighting him but he kept his weight on her, his hands on her neck. He must have weighed twice as much as her; she couldn’t push him off. As Carl came off the slope to the gravel lot he saw her turn sideways beneath him. Her right arm came up.
The shot echoed along the ridge like a firecracker.
When Carl got there, The Mayor was seated on the ground by the open passenger door of the Lincoln, his back against the rocker panel. The underside of his chin, where the bullet had entered, was bleeding, and his silver hair was wet where the slug had made its exit. His eyes were wide open, as if his dying had surprised him. Kate was standing sideways to Carl, coughing and fighting for breath, the gun still in her hand. Her eyes were glazed and her mouth slack. She looked as if she had no notion of where she was. Of what had happened.
As she turned toward him, Carl hit her on the cheekbone with a short right hand, and then caught her before she could fall to the ground. She was out. He carried her to the grass alongside the parking lot and laid her there. He felt her pulse.
He picked up the gun from where she had dropped it, then stood up and looked around the park. There was nobody in sight. Pulling his shirttail out, he wiped the revolver clean of prints, keeping watch on the ridge as he worked.
When the gun was clean, he took it in his right hand and walked to The Mayor’s body. He glanced around once more, then cocked the Smith & Wesson and fired a bullet into the old man’s chest. He stuck the revolver in his belt.
He walked over and sat down on the grass. He gathered his daughter in his arms and held her there while he waited for the police to arrive.
TWENTY-FIVE
Prosecutor Thomas Grant had been away for most of the month, first attending his niece’s wedding in Victoria and then taking a week’s vacation in Mexico. He had been back in his office for just two days. He spent the morning alternately on the phone and the computer, attempting to arrange his caseload into something that resembled order. At quarter to twelve, his secretary came in and told him that Rufus Canfield was there for his appointment. Upon hearing the name, Grant drew a total blank.
‘The lawyer from Talbotville,’ his secretary said.
‘Right.’
Rufus Canfield was unkempt, with a bushy mustache and a pronounced limp that required the aid of a cane. Grant had never heard of him until a couple of days earlier. The two men sat on leather chairs in the inner office.
‘Carl Burns,’ Grant said to begin. ‘This is a sad case. You’re his lead counsel?’
‘His sole counsel,’ Rufus said.
‘Well, it’s good that we can touch base early on like this,’ Grant said. ‘But unless he plans on entering a straight guilty plea, we aren’t even looking at a preliminary until spring at the earliest.’
‘The charge is first-degree murder. There will be no guilty plea.’
‘There’s not much wiggle room on this,’ Grant said. ‘A prominent citizen was murdered here.’
‘I’m inclined to disagree on that,’ Rufus said. ‘You see, it is all about perception.’ He made quotation marks in the air. ‘Some might look at this as “pillar of the community gunned down”. Others might see it as “serial rapist shot by victim’s father”.’ Rufus smiled. ‘Perception, Mr Grant.’
‘I know all about Joseph Sanderson and his past,’ Grant said. ‘You should know I did my level best to convict the man, and I failed. But that’s not going to mean a hell of a lot where this is concerned. Right now, we have an honored civil servant shot in cold blood in a city park. Most people believe that the man was innocent of those other charges.’
‘But we know different, you and I,’ Rufus said.
‘What we know and what we can work with are two different things,’ Grant said. He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. ‘Nothing’s going to happen for a few months. Let the dust settle and I’ll see if we can quietly make a deal for second degree. I’ll recommend parole after twelve years.’
‘No chance,’ Rufus said.
‘No chance?’ Grant repeated. ‘I hope you’re not going to tell me you’re looking to plead him to manslaughter? I don’t have to remind you that manslaughter is, by definition, killing without intent. The evidence says that your client fired one thirty-eight caliber slug into Joseph Sanderson’s brain, and another into his heart. I have a distinct feeling that there was intent there. So you can forget about manslaughter, Mr Canfield.’
‘I have no interest in a manslaughter plea,’ Rufus said. ‘Nor in first degree, nor second either. Any charge related to murder and I will plead my client not guilty. Pardon my insolence, but I’m now about to remind you of something that you know quite well. When you prosecuted Joseph Sanderson the third, you did so on the testimony of four victims. You and I know, however, that there were, in fact, thirty-six women who came forward with tales of sexual assault at his hands. Assaults that covered a period of nearly thirty years. Most of these women are still alive and I will call each and every one of them to the stand. Not only that, but I will add Elaine Horvath to the list. And I will make her little boy part of it as well, once a DNA test proves what I think it will. How do you think the Sanderson family will react to a bastard child tacked on to the great man’s legacy?’
‘Probably not well,’ Grant admitted. He looked at Rufus for a moment. ‘You’re going to conduct a trial within a trial? You’ll try to prosecute a dead man?’
‘I’ll do more than try, I’ll bloody well do it. And this time he won’t have Miles Browning to attack the credibility of these women. It will be up to you, Mr Grant, to take on that task. It will be your job to call these women whores and drug addicts and liars. Do you have the stomach for that? Will you be the man who defends Joseph Sanderson this time around?’
Grant exhaled heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. ‘Seven days ago I was lounging off the coast of Mexico, casting for tarpon and drinking cold cerveza. Seven days ago I had never heard your name. Do you really think that Carl Burns is going to walk on this murder charge?’
‘I do,’ Rufus said. ‘I will do my level best to make certain that every member of the jury is the parent of a daughter. And then I’ll show them a man who raped a multitude of daughters, and who was in the process of viciously attacking a former victim. Until the father of that girl put an end to it. Yes, I’ll take my chances on that defense.’
Grant looked at the shelves across the room which held his law books, and then back to the rumpled lawyer from Talbotville.
‘Do you have a daughter, Mr Grant?’ the rumpled lawyer suddenly asked.
‘As a matter of fact, I do have a daughter,’ Grant said. He shook his head. ‘What are you looking for?’
‘Criminal negligence,’ Rufus said. ‘Throw in unlawful discharge of a firearm if you want to tack on an extra conviction. Six months less time served.’
‘You’re out of your mind,’ Grant told him. He got to his feet and walked across the room to look out the window to the street below. It was a gray day, the sidewalks nearly empty. When he turned, his eyes went to a framed photo on a shelf that held various pictures, awards and other bric-a-brac. The photo was of himself and his family. His daughter Katherine.
He crossed the room to his desk. ‘Criminal negligence causing death. Plus unlawful discharge. Two years for each, the sentences to run concurrently. He keeps his nose clean, he’ll probably be out in a year.’
&nb
sp; Rufus stood up. ‘I can live with that. I think my client can live with it.’
‘I have to sell it first,’ Grant said. ‘I’m going to take a lot of heat for this.’
‘But you’ll do it,’ Rufus said. ‘You’ll do it because you know in your heart that it’s right. The law can be an ass, Mr Grant, but sometimes the law can be a great leveler too.’
Grant walked Rufus to the door. ‘You haven’t seen the disclosure yet, I assume?’
‘No,’ Rufus said. ‘I’ve been waiting for it.’
‘There’s something odd in there,’ Grant said. ‘A few hours after the shooting, Kate Burns tried to claim that she was the one who killed the old man.’
‘Indeed?’
‘Trying to protect her father, I guess. His were the only prints on the gun. She was pretty incoherent, according to the police report, but she also said that there was a young girl there that day. Nobody’s ever come forward.’ He paused. ‘You know, I like Kate Burns. I hope she’s going to be OK.’
‘I think she has a chance,’ Rufus said.
‘We all have a chance, Mr Canfield.’
‘Isn’t it nice to think so?’
If the various media outlets across the country were salivating at the prospect of the trial of Carl Burns for murder, they were destined for disappointment. There was no trial. The plea bargain took place at ten o’clock on a Wednesday morning. Present, along with the judge and various courtroom personnel, were the defendant, the prosecutor Thomas Grant and the Talbotville lawyer Rufus Canfield. Frances was in the gallery, with Kate and David.
The whole procedure took less than ten minutes. The murder charge was dropped and Carl pled guilty to the lesser charges and was sentenced to two years. As he was led out of the courtroom, he glanced over to the gallery. Kate met his eyes and held them until he was gone.
Frances came to see him the next day. They were holding him at the old Rose City jail while they decided where to send him to serve his sentence. The courtyard at the jail was accessible to inmates and visitors who wanted to smoke. Neither Carl nor Frances smoked but they sat out there anyway, on a bench by a stone wall. Above them, two guards behind a glass partition watched the yard.
‘You were all over the news last night,’ Frances said.
‘So I hear.’
‘And the Rose City Times this morning is outraged.’
‘I’ll bet.’
‘Oh, they’re probably just pissed that they got cheated out of covering the trial,’ Frances said. ‘You should know that a lot of the other coverage was on the sympathetic side. The Gazette even suggested that The Mayor had skated on the rape charges. They didn’t make you out a villain. Don’t get me wrong, they stopped short of calling you a hero.’
‘I would hope so.’
Frances paused before continuing. ‘They got a quote from Sanderson’s wife.’
Carl took a moment, not certain he wanted to hear it. ‘Oh?’
‘She said she was satisfied with the plea bargain.’
Carl was surprised. ‘That seems strange.’
‘Maybe not,’ Frances said. ‘Maybe she finally took the blinders off. If so, it was a long time coming.’
It was a frigid November day. There had been rain earlier in the week and the puddles of water that had accumulated in the courtyard were frozen over. It had snowed at River Valley Farm overnight and Frances had wakened to a light dusting over the fields behind the house. The sky had cleared and the sun was out now, the light glancing off the ice puddles in the yard.
‘I talked to Rufus,’ Frances said. ‘He told me you’ll probably be out by next fall.’
‘He told me that too.’
‘If you behave,’ she said pointedly.
‘There’s always a catch.’
‘Did you hear about Bud Stephens?’ she asked.
‘I heard he resigned.’
‘He did. There’s a council seat open in Rose City if you’re interested when you get out.’
‘I believe I’ll pass.’
‘Then what will you do?’ she asked.
‘Look for a job.’
‘I had to fire my last hired hand for duplicitous behavior. So I happen to have a position open. If you’re interested.’
Carl shrugged, looking at the guard behind the glass. The guard was looking back.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m going to beg you,’ she said.
‘I’m not so sure I want to be a hired hand. At my age.’
‘There’s room for advancement,’ she said. She watched him a moment. ‘For the right applicant.’
He smiled. ‘Then I might be interested.’
‘Let’s not be hasty,’ she said. ‘What are your qualifications?’
‘I can swing a hammer and I’m a fair-to-middling chicken plucker.’
Frances laughed. ‘I’ll keep your application on file.’
He turned to her now. ‘How is she?’
‘She’s pretty damn good. Better than I imagined and better than she should be. She wanted to come here today but we decided she should stay away for the time being. There’s media out front of this place right now, probably waiting for her to show.’
Carl nodded. He pulled his hands from his pockets and blew into them.
‘She and David are talking,’ Frances said. ‘I don’t know how that’s going to go. But I think he’s a good man.’
‘I think so too.’
‘And she’s … different. This might seem wrong, but I think she started getting better the moment The Mayor drew his last breath.’
Carl considered this but said nothing.
Frances hesitated. ‘There’s something else. She’s pretty foggy on exactly what happened that day, Carl.’
‘That’s probably a good thing.’
‘She told me she thinks she shot him.’
‘I shot him,’ Carl said. He stood up and blew into his hands again. ‘I shot him.’
After a while he walked her to the front entrance and they stood there, waiting for the guard to work the bolt to the door.
‘How are the ribs?’ she asked.
‘Better and better.’
‘You know, I had half a notion of crawling into your bed that day in your hotel room. When you were banged up and refusing to go to the hospital. You remember that day?’
‘You were wearing a skirt.’
‘You do remember. I was afraid your ribs wouldn’t be up to it. If I had known you were going to get yourself locked up, I think I would’ve risked it.’
‘You willing to wait?’
‘Maybe.’
‘You going to make me beg?’ he asked.
She put her hand on the back of his neck and kissed him on the mouth for a long time. ‘I’ll wait.’
The bolt slid open and clanked into place. Carl watched as Frances walked down the corridor and through the doorway into the brilliant autumn sunshine outside.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
I owe a debt of gratitude to the Ontario Arts Council for their support of an early version of this novel.
Thanks to Helen Reeves, Lorraine Kelly and Alison Clarke for being in my corner.
Thank you Kate Lyall Grant and the team at Severn House.
And a very large efharisto to the lovely and tenacious Jen Barclay. You are my editor first, my agent second, and my friend always.