Hangman

by Michael Slade

  In the philosophy of law, there are two schools of jurisprudence. The British favor positivism, the belief that law is an objective pursuit governed by statutes and previous court decisions that offer some certainty to the outcome of trials. The Americans favor realism, the belief that law is a subjective pursuit influenced more by whether the judge just had a tiff with his wife or spent the past hour in bed with his mistress.

  I’m a realist.

  And so was Quick Draw.

  McGraw knew this would likely be the crowning case of his legal career, with more publicity than he could imagine. His finger was in the air to determine how the wind was blowing, and I knew he would side with me to make himself look good.

  “Clear the deck,” he ordered. “Counsel for Ethan Shaw has a habeas corpus.”

  “And an abuse of process,” I added.

  “Sheriff.”

  “Sir?”

  “Let’s ‘have the body.’”

  With his backbone ramrod and his shoulders squared for the media, the “brownie” went to the door that brought Ethan up from the cells, then led him with even-handed respect across to the dock. No sign of torture, as you can see.

  From my battered briefcase, I withdrew the secret papers I had just filed and dropped copies of what the clerk handed to the judge in front of Wilde.

  “My lord,” he chuffed, “this material takes me by surprise.”

  “It shouldn’t,” I said. “As you will see.”

  “Once we know where this is going, I’ll deal with that,” said McGraw.

  “My lord?” I prompted.

  “Begin, Mr. Kline.”

  “Some background is essential for perspective. I was aboard the North Star the night of the hanging. My client dined with me as we sailed north from Seattle; then, before dessert was served, Ethan Shaw asked his brother, Justin Whitfield, and Alexis Hunt to join us at our table. For quiet, we later moved to a bar called the Captain Ahab, where three of us had coffee and Mr. Shaw drank. A compass built into the tabletop tracked the ship’s direction.

  “By then, we were cruising in the Strait of Juan de Fuca, somewhere near the border between Canada and the United States, which runs along the middle of that dividing waterway. While we were talking, two crucial things occurred.

  “First, a photographer took a picture of the four of us in the bar, with the lights of Victoria, British Columbia, twinkling in the background. Next, Ethan Shaw spilled his drink on the table, and as it was wiped up by our server, she drew our attention to the direction of the inset compass. The ship was sailing due west in the strait.

  “The documents filed to prove these truths are as follows: My affidavit—”

  Wilde was on his feet.

  “My young friend should know better than to offer himself as a witness in his own case.”

  “The affidavit of Justin Whitfield—”

  “The brother of Ethan Shaw! Blood is thicker than water, my lord. Res ipsa loquitur.”

  “The affidavit of John Dunn, captain of the coast guard vessel Vector, to confirm that the configuration of lights in the background of the photograph is indeed Victoria.”

  “So?” said Wilde.

  “I’m sure my friend has a cellphone if he wishes to call the captain.”

  “Do you take issue with that, Mr. Wilde?”

  “No, my lord. So what?”

  “And finally, the affidavit of Diane Marsden, the bar server, to confirm that the inset compass did point due west.”

  The judge turned to Wilde.

  “Is that in issue, Counsel?”

  “No, my lord. Again I say, ‘So what?’ Nothing my friend has offered changes matters one whit. The ship sailed west past Victoria. I accept that. It’s a fact. But even if, as this photo indicates, Alexis Hunt was alive at the time, who’s to say the ship was north of the borderline?”

  “Do you sail, Mr. Wilde?”

  “No. Golf is my passion.”

  “Pity,” said the judge. “I do,” he added.

  “Your lordship gets my point?”

  “Yes, Mr. Kline.”

  “I fear my learned friend thinks I’m wet behind the ears. Perhaps your lordship would explain the problem to him?”

  The judge nodded.

  I had made him my co-counsel.

  “The sea, too, has rules of the road, Mr. Wilde. And the rule of the road in the Strait of Juan de Fuca is this: ships sailing east cruise in American waters and ships sailing west cruise north of the borderline in Canada’s jurisdiction.”

  The prosecutor winced.

  He was in big trouble.

  The kind of trouble that can turn your bowels to water in court.

  Be it Canadian or American, the ship of state had taken a torpedo below the waterline.

  I closed in for the kill.

  “My elderly friend has much to learn about jurisdiction,” I said, giving him back the line he had laid on me yesterday. “But even more troubling, he has much to learn about ethics.”

  “I protest!” fumed Wilde.

  “Careful, Mr. Kline,” cautioned the judge.

  These West Side wimps were virgins when it came to street-fighting. In the East End, you fight like this. First you knee them in the balls. Then, as they double over, you ram your fingers into their eyes. Then, once you have them on the ground, you curb-stomp their heads against the concrete gutter.

  “My lord, Mr. Wilde seeks to deceive this court. In the aftermath of what occurred aboard the ship, an unfortunate turf war developed between authorities on both sides of the border. The result was that they refused to share witness statements, and this extradition was launched to send my client to the United States so he can be executed. It is only by fortune that this information fell into my hands, because these crucial witnesses—Justin Whitfield and the bar woman—were interviewed by American police.”

  Another pregnant pause.

  Let it fester.

  I whiffed the stench of fear coming off Wilde.

  Time for the coup de grâce.

  “In other words, the key to jurisdiction lay within Mr. Wilde’s grasp, and knowing my client is fighting for his life, counsel for the United States hid this fact from you!”

  That did it.

  The hair of the judge was on fire.

  If there’s one thing you never do in court, it’s make the judge look like a dupe.

  “Mr. Wilde, what have you to say?”

  The old boy began bailing water as fast as he could heave.

  “My lord, I can assure you that I knew nothing of this. My learned friend has bushwhacked me with these allegations. In all my years at the bar, I have never been a party to—”

  “Judgment,” barked the judge.

  The court recorder sat up. That was her cue.

  “Ethan Shaw applies for a writ of habeas corpus. He submits that this court lacks jurisdiction to extradite him to the United States of America to stand trial on an indictment for murder. This morning, a provisional arrest warrant was issued by this court. The death of the victim, Alexis Hunt, occurred on board a ship that was sailing from Seattle to Vancouver. From what this court has considered in unchallenged affidavits filed by counsel for Ethan Shaw, it is now evident that the murder occurred in Canadian waters, and that there is no jurisdiction in this court to extradite Ethan Shaw to stand trial in Washington State. A writ of habeas corpus will issue. The warrant is vacated.”

  That’s how I like it.

  Shoot from the hip.

  We don’t call him Quick Draw McGraw for nothing.

  “My lord,” I said, pulling more paper out of my briefcase, “I have taken the liberty of drafting the writ. If your lordship would sign it here and now, my unjustly imprisoned client can walk out of your court a free man.”

  The scratching of reporters’ pens was music to my ears.

  “Damn!” one cursed. “I’m out of ink!”

  I do believe I heard the clench of Lyndon Wilde’s hemorrhoids.

  “My lord,
I ask you not to sign the writ until I can have the provincial Crown re-lay a charge of first-degree murder.”

  It was time to curb-stomp this old fart. After I finished putting the boots to him, his cases from the Feds would dry up too.

  “Enough!” I exploded, slamming down my fist. “Has this man no heart? Has this man no shame? In this same court yesterday, I submitted that there was no case against my client. I asked him for a trial in Canada’s courts, and his dismissive reply was this: ‘The consent required to try an American for murder committed on a foreign ship in Canada’s territorial sea is a matter for the attorney general of Canada. No consent is forthcoming. Those are my instructions.’ What he did was force your lordship to say to me, ‘That ends the matter of the necessary consent.’

  “Well”—I was building steam—“that does end the matter.”

  I whacked the table again for emphasis.

  “Because this crime assuredly occurred on our territorial sea”—I pointed west toward the wide Pacific—“and without the consent of the attorney general of Canada, there can be no charge tried by the provincial Crown!”

  Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.

  I was breaking bones.

  “Mr. Wilde has already deceived this court in an attempt to lynch Ethan Shaw, and now he seeks to make your lordship a henchman too.”

  I walked to the dock to stand with Ethan.

  “This is habeas corpus.

  “This isn’t a game.

  “Give my client justice.

  “Sign the writ, my lord.”

  The gallery held its collective breath in anticipation. Quick Draw weighed the scales of justice in his best interest. Should he rein me in for stepping over the line, and thus make it look like he was a closet Crown prosecutor, or should he let Lyndon Wilde, QC, take the fall?

  No contest.

  The judge signed the writ.

  “File it,” he told the court clerk. “You’re free to go, Mr. Shaw.”

  As I led Ethan out of court to reap my reward in the limelight of the cameras massed outside, I had to pass the player on the other side. Zinc Chandler stood by the gallery exit.

  I could have said something nasty like “I’m sorry for your loss,” but hey, I’m a lawyer who’s got a soft spot.

  So as my lips passed within range of his ear, I whispered in consolation, “Every noose has a loophole.”

  Red Herring

  Vancouver

  November 15 (One day ago)

  Sunlight beamed in through the sloped glass roof of the great hall of the law courts, but even the sun was no match for the glare of the cameras flashing at the pair of lawyers outside. Zinc witnessed the chaos from the five-story hall, an angry man seething to his core, the pain in his head worsening with every flash of instant fame.

  Turning his back on the media circus to leave by the rear exit, the Mountie found himself face to face with the statue of Themis. The blindfolded goddess of justice held balanced scales in one hand, but, befitting a country that had abolished the noose, the sword of justice in her other hand had been replaced with a scroll of paper.

  A flurry of paper had freed Ethan Shaw.

  For an instant, in Zinc’s mind’s eye, the figure of the goddess was that of Alex Hunt, and in that brief moment, he relived the intimacies the pair had shared. The memories struck home with a pain so sharp he feared his heart would explode, and he grasped how profound a loss he would suffer every day for the rest of his life.

  “Alex,” he said to the statue, “this I swear to you: If it takes everything I have, including life itself, you will have justice for the injustice done to you.”

  From his pocket, Zinc withdrew a Swiss Army knife. Prying open a blade, he nicked the index finger of his left hand.

  Blood welled in the cut.

  Zinc watched it flow.

  Then he touched the cold gown of the statue and let it run red.

  “This I swear in blood.”

  * * *

  The inspector was leaving the law courts by the Smithe Street exit when his cellphone rang.

  “Chandler,” he said, expecting it to be DeClercq. The chief superintendent, hit by a relapse, was back in bed with immobilizing flu.

  “Zinc, it’s Maddy.”

  “My favorite detective.”

  “Your sarcasm is cutting.”

  “I’m angry. Have you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “Ethan walked. All because of you. That was about as stupid a move as I have ever seen—trying to hide where the ship was when Alex was killed so you could allege she was hanged in the States to support your request that we extradite Shaw.”

  “You’ve lost me, Inspector.”

  “Don’t play games.”

  “Be specific. Exactly what do you believe we hid from you?”

  “Justin’s statement.”

  “What about it?”

  “He signed an affidavit to scuttle your request to extradite Shaw. Justin swore he was with Alex when the ship entered Canadian waters. A photo of them proved it.”

  “That’s not in his statement.”

  “No? What is?”

  “I’ll fax you a copy.”

  “It’s too late for that. The horse is gone. The milk is spilt.”

  “It’s never too late. Justin is here. He’s waiting outside. I’ll speak to him.”

  “You do that. Meanwhile, now that Ethan is back on the street, let’s hope the Hangman doesn’t strike again.”

  “He already has. That’s why I called. Remember George Koulelis? The father of the girl Peter Haddon didn’t kill? I’m at the Athens Taverna. The Greek’s restaurant. Last night, he was hanged and butchered in Seattle.”

  Seattle

  While those who make murder their business went about their grisly work, Maddy stood in the restaurant with her cellphone to her ear, describing the crime scene to the Mountie in Vancouver. The Greek—or what was left of him—hanged from a ceiling beam surrounded by a colorful array of snipped neckties. The ladder used to lynch him lay flat on the floor in a pool of blood that was collecting from the stumps of what were once his arms and legs. The same shocking color had gushed down his chin from a slash across the open mouth of the face, which had turned cyanotic blue by asphyxia. The severed limbs, both arms and legs, were propped against the bar, on one side of which the killer had drawn a hangman game in blood:

  “So what do you think?” said Maddy.

  “The Hangman isn’t Twist. The doctor was in Canada when the Greek was killed.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “In custody. Charged with the attempted murder of me. I broke his arm during the arrest.”

  “Scratch him,” said Maddy. “So what’s your theory now?”

  “Know what a red herring is?”

  “Sure. A false clue.”

  “And the origin?”

  “You got me there, Zinc.”

  “According to Alex, the term was in use at least as far back as seventeenth-century England. Those who abhorred the idea of a fox being hunted to death by a pack of hounds and aristocratic horsemen thought up a way to throw the dogs off track. They bought herrings at the fish market and smoked them at home until they took on a reddish color. Dragging the cooked herrings around the countryside left a pungent odor throughout the woods and fields that covered up the scent of the fox and confused the hunting dogs. Since then, a clue meant to distract a sleuth from his or her quarry has been known as a red herring.”

  “You smell something fishy?”

  “It stinks,” said Zinc.

  * * *

  The usual crowd of onlookers feeding off the drama of violent death had gathered on the street outside the Athens Taverna. In days of old a mob like this might have been treated to the spectacle of a public hanging, but these bland times offered little more than a body on a gurney hidden under a sheet. Maddy’s exit from the building caused a stir, but they would have to wait a while for death to appear.

  A street cart wa
s approaching to sell the mob hot dogs.

  The familiar features of Justin Whitfield were in the thick of the throng. With a nod of her head, Maddy signaled him to meet her at the Starbucks a block away. By the time he arrived to sit with her at a corner table, the cop had a steaming mocha java waiting for the reporter.

  “An affidavit, huh?”

  “You heard,” he said.

  “The Mountie told me. It sank our extradition.”

  “Good,” he said, stirring a packet of sugar into his cup. “I lost one brother to a noose. I won’t lose another.”

  “A scoop like that? Why aren’t you in Vancouver?”

  Justin blew the steam away and took a sip.

  “Kline’s suggestion. Tactics, Maddy. He didn’t want me available for cross-examination. And I don’t want to be the focus of media attention. Besides, I’d have missed this.”

  Maddy nodded. “So it’s a tie. Sue Frye scoops you in Vancouver. You scoop her here.”

  “No,” said Justin. “I get both scoops. The Star’s doing a special edition that will hit the street today. Guess who got to interview Ethan and his lawyer last night? A super-scoop, since I was promised exclusive access until we publish.”

  “Quite a coup.”

  “With more to come. Assuming you have something for me?”

  The cop slapped a Polaroid face down on the table. She kept her hand on it. “To add to your thirty pieces of silver,” she said.

  Justin glared. “I’m no Judas, Maddy. My affidavit did nothing more than tell the truth.”

  “How’d that come about? You teaming up with Kline to spring Ethan?”

  “He approached me yesterday after court adjourned and asked if I’d swear an affidavit about what went on in the bar.”

  “To prove the ship was in Canada?”

  “Yes,” said the reporter.

  “That’s not in your statement to us.”

  “Because I didn’t know. I had assumed we were sailing south of the line when I was questioned by police. Did you know about the rule of separation in the strait? A westbound ship sails in Canada, an eastbound one sails in the States?”

  “No,” said Maddy.

  “Crafty lawyer, huh?”