Hangman

by Michael Slade

  “A court is waiting downstairs for us to appear. I sense trouble,” said the prosecutor.

  “Why?” asked Zinc.

  “The caginess of the Feds. If this crime did occur in Canada, it might have taken place on the Canadian side of the border that runs along the middle of the Strait of Juan de Fuca. The Supreme Court of Canada has ruled those are internal waters, so”—she tapped the consent section of the Criminal Code—“no federal okay is required to prosecute a foreign citizen on a foreign ship.”

  “I know,” said Zinc. “But I don’t trust lawyers.”

  “How wise of you,” Nellie said.

  “Unlike you, I do think this is a poker game, and I think the smartest player usually wins. If it does turn out that Alex was hanged on our territorial sea, I want to make damn sure the necessary federal consent is in place. That’s why the charge alleges the crime occurred there and not on internal waters.”

  “The Criminal Code says the consent of the attorney general must be filed within eight days.”

  “We have lots of time.”

  “That’s what worries me.”

  “I don’t follow, Nellie.”

  “Did you take it upon yourself to ask the Feds for consent?”

  “No,” said Zinc.

  “Nor have we. So why did counsel for the attorney general of Canada phone this morning to ask us not to call the Shaw case until he arrived?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “Something’s up,” said Nellie.

  * * *

  To understand what was up, you have to understand this: Canada, like America, has a federal system. That means power is divided between the federal government—known as the Feds—and the provinces or states. Canada has the benefit of being the younger sibling of America, so Canada gets to correct what it rightly or wrongly perceives as mistakes south of the border.

  Mistakes like jurisdiction over criminal law.

  If law and order is the goal of criminal statutes, you want your citizens to know what the law is. That means you want the law to be consistent from coast to coast. To that end, America made a mistake in giving power to enact crime statutes to the individual states, instead of to the Feds in Washington. Nowhere is the result more evident today than in capital punishment, where, depending upon the state beneath your feet when you commit murder, they hang you, gas you, shock you, shoot you, or stick you with a needle.

  Or if you’re lucky, the state spares life.

  When Canada came together in 1867, the fathers of Confederation “corrected that mistake” by giving the power to enact criminal law and procedure to the Feds in Ottawa, and the power to administer justice in accordance with that law to the provinces. Go anywhere in Canada and the criminal law is the same, which may explain why Canadians, at three o’clock in the morning, stand on deserted street corners and wait for the Do Not Walk sign to change.

  At least that’s the theory.

  The Feds being Feds, however, they kept certain administrative powers from the provinces. If provincial prosecutors wish to try a foreign citizen for a crime committed on a foreign-registered ship in Canada’s coastal waters—the territorial sea—they must seek the blessing of Ottawa. No federal consent, for whatever reason, and there can be no trial.

  An even bigger power grab was extradition. Ottawa kept that power entirely for itself. Commit a murder in the States and it will be the Feds who decide whether or not to send you south to stand trial.

  This the Americans knew.

  The rules of the game.

  And who plays poker better than Americans?

  No sooner had the North Star docked in Vancouver than Zinc arrested Ethan Shaw for Alex’s murder, effectively snatching him from the long arm of American law. That arm, however, was longer than the inspector suspected, for when the Seattle cops were back on their own turf, Ethan was charged with aggravated first-degree murder in Washington State and a warrant was issued for his arrest. Under state law, no decision had to be made on whether to seek the death penalty until thirty days after arraignment, but this was the Hangman they were going after, and it was an election year, so the hope of the state attorney was that a rope would please the people. That’s why he opted immediately for death instead of life without parole.

  Upping the ante.

  Fed to Fed, the state’s request to extradite Ethan was made to Ottawa by Washington, D.C. A little federal wheeling and dealing went on, most of it centered on a cop killer Canada wished extradited from North Dakota, and this culminated in a meeting of under-the-table minds. A copy of the arrest warrant from Washington State and a request by America under the Extradition Act for a provisional arrest warrant in Canada were faxed to the federal Department of Justice in Vancouver, where they were passed to Lyndon Wilde, QC, for action.

  Because Monday was a holiday in both countries, for Remembrance Day in Canada and Veterans’ Day in the States, today was the first opportunity for the Feds to go to court. Bright and early this morning, Wilde had placed a call to the office of Nervous Nellie Barker down in skid row, but the overstressed and underpaid provincial prosecutor had yet to come in to work. Having left a message for her to stand down the Shaw case until he arrived, Wilde walked to the law courts in the better part of town, and there he asked for an ex parte hearing before a Supreme Court judge.

  A secret hearing in chambers.

  A card up his sleeve.

  A cab was waiting at the curb when Wilde came out. He didn’t like parking his Saab in the grungy environs of provincial court, so he rode the hack east to skid row, climbing out in front of the squat concrete building at 222 Main, where he passed through security and took the stairs up one floor.

  All eyes turned toward the federal prosecutor as Wilde knocked once and opened the door to Nellie’s cluttered corner office.

  “Am I barging in?”

  “Of course not, Lyndon.”

  Nellie was as tense as a stretched elastic band.

  “Officers,” said the Fed, throwing a visual dagger at DeClercq.

  “What brings you here?” asked the chief superintendent.

  They had a history, the lawyer and the Mountie. It was a toss-up as to who loathed whom the most.

  The roly-poly Fed approached Nellie’s desk to lord his bulk over the provincial Crown. With a bow, he tipped an imaginary hat on his head.

  “In my capacity as counsel for the attorney general of Canada, and acting on behalf of the United States of America, I have a provisional warrant for the arrest of Ethan Shaw, at the request of the state of Washington. That state wants him extradited to stand trial on a charge of aggravated first-degree murder, punishable by death, for hanging Alexis Hunt.”

  “What?” snapped Zinc.

  “Are you deaf, Inspector?”

  “I don’t believe what I’m hearing.”

  “Shall I repeat it?”

  “What about the murder charge I laid here?”

  Wilde tossed his imaginary hat across the office, then replaced it with another one.

  “In my capacity as counsel for the attorney general of Canada, and acting under Section 477.2 of the Criminal Code, I regret to inform you that the AG will not grant the consent necessary to try Shaw for murder on our territorial sea.”

  Zinc balled his hands into fists as he rose from his chair.

  “Traitor!” he said.

  It came out as a snarl.

  Wilde spoke to him, but he locked eyes with DeClercq. “Do your duty, Inspector. Execute the warrant. I want Ethan Shaw in Supreme Court chambers at two this afternoon.”

  * * *

  DeClercq, the commanding officer of Special X, had himself lost loved ones to this cruel job, so he knew only too well the emotional maelstrom that had sucked Zinc in. Even more concerning, Alexis Hunt wasn’t the first lover Zinc had sacrificed to his hunt for a psycho, and the last time—chasing Cutthroat in Hong Kong—had cost him a bullet to the brain. It had been doubtful whether Zinc would ever get through that grinder, and no
w the angry inspector was going through it again.

  For the past week, DeClercq had been flat on his back with flu. A wiry man, tall, lean, and somewhere in his fifties, with wavy hair, alert eyes, and an aquiline nose, DeClercq had watched the bug turn him into a ghost of himself. This, however, was too volatile a situation not to keep in control, so, flu or not, DeClercq was here.

  He gripped the inspector’s arm. “Let the courts handle it, Zinc.”

  Zinc pulled away. “That’s what I’m afraid of, Chief.”

  The Best Defense

  Vancouver

  Tonight

  Courtroom 102 was the usual zoo. Be it murder or stealing candy from a baby, every criminal case in Vancouver begins either there or next door in 101. Since 102 gets last names from I to Z, Ethan Shaw—two days ago—was to make his debut in that prisoner’s dock.

  The zookeeper that morning was a judge we called the Quip. The Quip thought he was funny. The Quip was in his element. The flotsam and jetsam of Vancouver came into his court like a tide, providing the Quip with fodder for his razor-sharp wit. At that moment, he was dealing with the black hooker who had propositioned me several days ago in front of the strip joint across the street from the courts. She wriggled provocatively in a chair facing the bench, as if trying to line the Quip up for a quickie over lunch.

  “Madam,” said the judge, “I know you’re not used to hearing this from the men of your acquaintance, but would you please stand up for me.”

  The packed gallery groaned.

  I groaned silently.

  The Quip made the face of a stand-up comedian facing a rough crowd.

  The watchers who police the courts for anything they perceive as politically incorrect scribbled sour notes.

  The crowd in the gallery was rough indeed. Junkies by the dozen, as you’d expect to find in the major gateway for Asian heroin, as well as Native court workers propping up mumbling drunks and street loonies with MPAs (mental patient advocates) trying to keep them from decomposing into nuts. Buzzing in and out of court like flies on shit were harried runners bringing files and taking files away, and lawyers for the Crown and for the defense, and duty counsel representing the lawyerless ones. A woman in the gallery clutched a pair of infants crying for feeding, while she cried for her husband locked in the cells.

  The doors guarding the dock from the cells were run by two sheriffs; they were known affectionately as Laurel and Hardy. Laurel was the skinny one who manned a built-in desk, and Hardy was the fat one hunkered in a chair on wheels. The dock, a half-and-half cage of Plexiglas and wood, was on the left side of the court if you faced the bench. Feeding the dock with riffraff were two steel doors, one for males and the other for females and PCs.

  To call an in-custody case, the procedure was this. A lawyer wrote the name of his client on the sheriffs’ calling board. Laurel would phone the jail to have the prisoner sent to the dock. Hardy would get off his fat ass and enter the pen through a swing gate with the latch on the outside. Then he would unlock one of the steel doors, releasing the client from either the male cells or the cells for women and those in protective custody. The sheriff would stand with the prisoner while the case was heard, then send him or her back to jail. A square in one corner of the calling board advised the court how many jailed were still unprocessed. Comedians that they were, Laurel and Hardy had written, over the number in the square, “Now serving …”

  An hour had passed since I put Ethan’s name up on the board.

  He still had not been called.

  Why? I wondered.

  “Vertical prosecution” was the answer I was given by the black team. The provincial Crown counsel office, run by Nellie Barker, was forever trying to impose order on the chaotic zoo, and the latest attempt, also doomed to failure, was the team system. The black team was the bail team in remand court. Anyone arrested made a first appearance here to resolve the issue of release or detention, then the case was sent, according to the first letter of the accused’s last name, to a court staffed by one of four prosecution teams. The white team took A to E, the green team F to L, the red team M to R, the blue team S to Z.

  If you think that sounds like high school, so do I.

  Boom-a-licka, boom-a-licka, bow-wow-wow,

  Chick-a-licka, chick-a-licka, chow-chow-chow,

  Boom-a-licka, chick-a-licka, who are we?

  The team that wants your ass in custody.

  YEEAAY TEEAAM!

  It could be worse.

  At first, they were “pods.”

  Pods made the prosecutors a laughing-stock in the courts. The members of a team were the “peas” in the pod. A prosecutor who switched pods was a “pod-hopper.” There was a horror movie from 1956 called Invasion of the Body Snatchers, and what snatched your body was a pod. The term “pod” was scrapped in favor of “team,” but it was fondly remembered by the Quip.

  The Quip was dealing with yet another theft charge against the Time Traveler, a skid-row drunk reeking of rubbing alcohol who, for some reason known only to him, had stolen his sixty-third wall clock. So jelly-legged was the TT with the DTs that Sheriff Hardy had to hold him up in the dock.

  To everyone’s surprise, the Quip was off the bench and down to the dock in a flash.

  “Didn’t I tell you to cut this crap?” he yelled at the drunk.

  Through crusty, red-rimmed eyelids, the TT blinked at him.

  “Ish ’at you, Larry?”

  “You were a bum when you were my client, Moe, and you’re a bum now. I ought to lock you up and throw away the key. Instead, I’m going to lock you up and dry you out. What have you got to say?”

  “Thanksh, Larry.”

  “You’re welcome, Moe.”

  The Quip turned to Hardy. “Take him away,” he said.

  Win one for the Quipper, I thought.

  With puns like that, I definitely had the makings of a judge.

  Like I said, a zoo.

  The Quip was returning to the bench when he spied Nellie Barker coming into court through the barrister’s door.

  “The pod god arrives,” he said.

  Nellie walked to the black team’s podium, near the door, and usurped the position of the remand-court team head.

  “Calling the case of Ethan Shaw,” she said.

  You could feel a shudder of anticipation grip the gallery. Everyone knew the Hangman was about to appear in court. The reporters, including Justin Whitfield up from Seattle, poised their pens and pads. Sheriff Hardy fetched Ethan from the male cells while I rose from my seat and approached the bench.

  “Jeffrey Kline for Ethan Shaw,” I announced. “The spelling, Madam Recorder, is K-L-I-N-E.”

  That, of course, was for the media.

  The Quip was about to say something off the cuff, but he must have decided to be judicious for once in his career.

  Now Ethan was in the dock.

  A hush came over the court.

  My law associate looked like forty miles of bad road.

  “Yes, Ms. Barker?” said the judge.

  I thought Nellie was going to tell the court that Ethan’s case was a “special assignment.” That meant it would be a vertical prosecution up through the courts, with the same Crown counsel at both the preliminary hearing and the Supreme Court trial. What usually happened was that one of the color teams did the prelim, and if the case met the standard for committal (is there a substantial likelihood of conviction and is the prosecution in the public interest), it was sent to senior counsel uptown to try.

  Instead, Nellie stunned me with …

  “The Crown withdraws the charge of murder against Ethan Shaw.”

  Someone in the gallery gasped.

  Ethan exhaled a sigh.

  “You’re quite the advocate, Mr. Kline,” responded the Quip. “Without a single word, it seems you got your client off.”

  “May he step out of the dock?”

  “Sheriff,” said the judge.

  Laurel undid the latch on the outside of the gat
e to the counsel area, then Ethan stepped out to join me in front of the bench. As we moved toward the barrister’s door, a rush of reporters scrambled for the gallery exit to intercept us outside. No photos can be taken inside the building, so milling beyond the doors to the street were camera crews and anchors by the dozen.

  “Smile,” I cautioned Ethan. “We’re on uncandid camera.”

  Andy Warhol got it wrong. It isn’t fifteen minutes of fame, it’s fifteen seconds. No sooner were we out on the street and in the public eye than I caught sight of the player on the other side. Parting the sea of camera crews like Moses did the Red Sea in the Bible, Zinc Chandler closed on us with his badge in hand and said, to send poor Ethan back to infamy, “Ethan Shaw, I have a warrant for your arrest. The state of Washington seeks to extradite you on a charge of aggravated first-degree murder. Come with me.”

  * * *

  Another rubby had marked his territory at the door to Kline & Shaw. This time, I didn’t stop to mop it up. Win Ethan’s case, I thought, and I will never clean up piss again. No one pisses on the door of a law firm in fancy digs uptown.

  Word spreads fast in the legal profession. If you chase ambulances, you listen for sirens. The phone had been ringing nonstop since Ethan’s arrest on the extradition warrant that morning. Silver spoons in the fat-cat firms towering over the law courts kept calling to offer their uptown services to my client. A few were subtle, but most weren’t. One spoon had the balls to warn me that I was skating on thin ice and might be reported to the Law Society for a conflict of interest by acting on behalf of my law partner. I told him we were associates, not law partners, and if I did decide to farm out Ethan’s case, he would be the last shyster I would call.

  Have Gun, Will Travel was the game Seattle attorneys played. Several, including my good buddies the Learned Hand and the Rustler, offered to be the American half of my “defense team.” They said they’d come up to help block the extradition request, and if we lost that battle, I was to let them defend the trial of the decade in the States. I told them Canadian lawyers don’t need a “defense team.” We’re trained to win murder cases by ourselves.