Cherry Beach Express

by R. D. Cain

  The jury seemed mildly amused by Carscadden’s threat to sing. Brown was becoming less confident and somewhat confused by Carscadden’s approach. “I wouldn’t really know about the Cherry Beach Express; it was before my time. It’s like an urban legend.” Clancy tried to sound authoritative, trying to close the line of questioning.

  “So, to recap for the jury, sir, you readily admit to knowing how to dispose of the murder weapon efficiently, a skill not in the domain of general public knowledge, yet you deny that the Cherry Beach Express routinely takes troublesome street hoods for street justice, a fact which is general knowledge to anyone who has lived in the city — teenagers, old ladies, postal workers — everyone who has lived here for more than a few years.”

  Dewar’s lips began to purse. Nastos thought she was trying to decide whether to object or not. She did. “Again, there was no question, Your Honour.” She sat.

  “The question, Judge, is whether Officer Brown expects anyone here to believe that.”

  Brown tried to get back on track. He cited a line police use all the time in testimony. “I can’t testify to what other people know. I can only testify to what I know.”

  Carscadden did a quick scan of the jury, making sure they were paying attention to him and his next question. “Well, I can say that you’ve been on the stand for a short period of time and already people wonder if they should doubt your credibility —”

  Dewar stood to object again, but Carscadden finished. “Shouldn’t they, Officer?”

  “I couldn’t say,” Brown replied.

  “No more questions for this witness, Your Honour — seems he’s out of answers.” Shaking his head from side to side and even rolling his eyes, Carscadden took his seat, trying to project as much disappointment as possible in Officer Brown, as if the detective-sergeant should be ashamed of himself. No lawyer was above the most pathetic games when nothing else was working. Carscadden was so involved in his high school drama revival that he missed it when Dewar appraised him. Nastos saw that she was at least a little impressed.

  She got to her feet. “Redirect, Your Honour?”

  “Please, Ms. Dewar,” Montgomery said, graciously.

  “Your Honour, something that came up in my friend’s questioning of Detective Brown; did you say that no one else knew of this investigation into Dr. Irons?”

  Brown cleared his throat. “Yes, ma’am, that’s right. Detective Nastos only wrote one property report about Irons, just that he had come up from another investigation and he should be looked into. That was the last of the paper trail. Irons was never even questioned. Someone just skimmed the surface with him, and next thing we see he’s doing the backstroke in — sorry, deceased in the water.”

  “Did he ever come to anyone else’s attention in the Sexual Assault office?”

  “No one. I asked Detective Nastos that question when he was interviewed —”

  Nastos nudged his lawyer to stand up, to stop the incoming hearsay evidence. Carscadden began to rise, but Dewar redirected Brown. “And as a result of asking that question, were other leads pursued?”

  Brown said, “I asked Nastos very specifically about that point, but no other leads came up, Ms. Dewar.”

  “Thank you, Detective-Sergeant.”

  “Thank you.”

  Judge Montgomery smiled to the officer and waved his permission for the detective to step down.

  As Brown left the witness box, Nastos followed his gaze toward the back of the courtroom, where Detective-Sergeant Koche was standing. Nastos saw the conspiracy in their eyes. Brown gave a smug smile to the jury, pleased with himself. Brown opened the low swing gate, heading from the front of the courtroom to the gallery. When he did, Koche’s eyes set into a hard stare, his face flushing red as he looked from Brown to Dewar. His lips tightened. He cast his stare down at his phone and started dialling a number.

  Montgomery leaned forward to his microphone. “Okay, it’s three-thirty. I’d rather not have to interrupt the next witness in the middle of their testimony, so let’s call it a day and be back ready to go at nine tomorrow.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Dewar said.

  Carscadden was the first to his feet, quickly saying, “Yes, sir, thank you.”

  Nastos leaned back in his chair, watching Dewar as she put papers in her briefcase and closed it up for the day. She didn’t seem to revel in prosecuting him, but it didn’t seem to bother her too much either. Carscadden nudged Nastos’ arm, distracting him from his appraisal of the prosecutor, so he missed it when she turned to appraise him.

  Carscadden flipped through the pages of his briefing notes, and saw the notation about the dentist’s secretary. She must have access to the patient list, he thought. I should just drop by and see her. It would only take an hour. Nastos would just be getting dinner ready. “Nastos, I just got a text message from Hopkins.”

  “Oh yeah?” he replied, only half-interested.

  “She needs to see me after court. It should only take an hour.”

  “Sure, whatever. I’m going to get tired of feeding your face every night anyways.” Nastos’ eyes narrowed. “What’s going on?”

  “I dunno. I asked her to check into something, now she wants to meet.”

  “So what’s the dinner plan?

  “This time it’s on me.”

  Nastos smiled, “You’re going to cook?”

  “Jesus Christ, no. Meet me at Frankie’s. Hey, it’s good food and we’ll be home by six. There’s a game on tonight too.”

  “Okay, see you there.” Nastos tried a smile, but it didn’t seem to fit very well on his face.

  BEFORE THEY LEFT, DEWAR OBSERVED how nastos seemed to have paled and wrinkled around his eyes in a way she had not noticed before. His hands were red and raw from the wringing and clenching they had been taking. Many people on trial for murder were much more apathetic than Nastos. In her experience, accused murderers often just sat back, watching the show of their lives unfolding around them like they were in a nightmare, where they had only the vaguest understanding that it was their lives on the line. Others had resigned themselves to being convicted at the outset and considered the trial a formality delaying their transfer to the more civilized federal prison for the gone and forgotten.

  To Dewar, Nastos seemed acutely aware of his surroundings and knew what was at risk. He didn’t seem like he was ready to give up and accept the inevitable. She gathered her things and left for the office.

  11

  CARSCADDEN REGRETTED LYING TO NASTOS about having to meet Hopkins, but it was necessary. The last thing he needed was Nastos out with him — he’d cause a scene. Besides, the thought of doing something out of court, investigating this mess on his own, felt liberating.

  He tapped the address into his gps and started driving. Flemingdon Park wasn’t the worst area of Toronto, but parts of it were pretty bad. Carscadden thought back to the privileged area of Vancouver where he’d grown up — although at the time he had not realized how lucky he was. His dad had worked two factory jobs to help him get a university education, despite the old man’s contempt for neighbourhood people he considered the snobby elite. Life in Kitsilano was nothing compared to life here, the ghettoized apartment complexes and row houses. Garbage and other litter were all over the place as though there had been a garbage strike for the last few years. Thankfully, it didn’t smell too bad; scavenging raccoons, skunks and dogs probably ate any table scraps or loose trash. It was the type of neighbourhood that was more likely to scramble into action to welcome a patrolling squad car with a stone-throwing riot than to work together in the garden for the May tulip festival.

  Carscadden stopped at the curb. It was small house with run-down caged-metal fencing around the perimeter, missing shutters and cobwebbed windows. Partially chewed-through bags of garbage and recyclables sat on a sagging porch with an empty dog bowl and filthy Welcome! mat in the wro
ng place. His jacket snagged on a loose wooden railing studded with protruding nails. The thing would come right off if bumped the wrong way. The doorbell rang without much enthusiasm and while he hoped that no one would answer, he had the sneaking suspicion that the occupants would not be at work. Soon enough, the screen door creaked open and a black man’s grimy, unshaven face appeared.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I’m here for Maggie.” He said, trying to sound nonchalant.

  The man’s Jamaican accent revealed itself. “Fucking lawyer, eh?” He sized Carscadden up. “What do you need her for?”

  Carscadden didn’t like being pegged as a lawyer so easily. He didn’t think he fit the stereotype. “I need to ask a few questions about her last job,” he replied.

  “Like what?” The man’s teeth clenched and his lower jaw jutted out defiantly. A voice shouted out from behind him. “Troy, who is it?” Carscadden noticed that the door opened slightly when the man turned back into the apartment. Troy was shirtless, with bruises and red patches all up the inside of his right arm. Tattoos covered the outside. Troy was nearly sleeved out — nearly every square inch of both arms was covered in prison ink, faded indiscernible markings.

  A woman came to the door and Carscadden recognized her as Maggie, the dental assistant. She was a little gaunt but pretty, despite the greasy, lifeless blond hair and dark patches under her eyes. She saw Carscadden’s suit and naively optimistic face.

  “You’ll have to excuse Troy; he’s a little suspicious of lawyers.” Troy grunted and retreated into the apartment, leaving Maggie at the door. She opened it halfway and squeezed out onto the porch, closing it behind her to stand next to Carscadden.

  How can they tell I’m a lawyer so easily? He hesitated only briefly, then extended his hand. Maggie took it.

  “Yes, I’m Kevin Carscadden, and I’m a lawyer.”

  Maggie, with her arms crossed, drummed her fingers impatiently.

  He continued, “I understand that you used to work for Dr. Irons — is that right?”

  “Yes, what a mess that turned out to be.” Maggie took a cigarette out of her pocket and lit it, making Carscadden take a half-step back to get away from the stench.

  “Yes, well, we represent the man who was charged with murdering him, and we’re trying to get a copy of the complete patient list from the office. You wouldn’t know how we could get one, do you?” Carscadden watched the woman closely for any sign of deception in her answer.

  “I’m sorry, I can’t talk about that.” Maggie moved to go back in the house but Carscadden touched her arm, stopping her.

  “You can’t talk about it? Why not?” he asked.

  “Well, I signed the form, the non-disclosure agreement. I can’t say anything about anything.”

  “Who would ask you to sign that?”

  “Some lawyer. He said it was all pretty standard. That it protected me from having to talk to the media or anyone. Easiest money I ever made.”

  “He paid you?”

  “Five thousand in trust. Two thousand for me right now — the five goes to my son’s college fund. It’s all done automatic.”

  “Can you get me the lawyer’s name? I need to talk to him.” Carscadden pulled out his notepad, but it was no use.

  “No, I don’t have it. The money all got deposited and that’s that. If I say anything I get sued and lose all the money from the trust. He said that if he gets one single phone call mentioning my name the deal is off.”

  Troy shouted something from inside the house and then a child started to cry. Maggie squeezed the door open and turned away. “Sorry, I have to go, nice talking to you.” The woman disappeared back into the house leaving Carscadden on the porch by himself. He saw a few young men from the street corner watching him. He got the creeps and left.

  KOCHE OBSERVED THE GREY AND heavy sky as he walked to the Crown attorney’s Case Management office. He had let her leave before him while he was on the phone and now he followed discreetly, not wanting her to think he was following her like some kind of stalker. She probably attracted more than a few of those.

  He allowed himself to check her out. Nuances like the gentle lilt of her hips as her small, tapered waist twisted to accommodate the easy stride of her heeled shoes escaped him just as much as how her loose hair unfurled behind her in the gentle wake.

  Koche was an ass man and his eyes barely left his target.

  He did see her confidence, the smug superiority and entitlement. Like her team had all of the cards stacked in their favour now. He knew that women got promotions and raises because not to do so would invoke lawsuits and more bullshit than it was worth. It was better or cheaper to promote them and just let them screw everything up. And if they were beautiful, they really had the world by the balls. Because now, not only did they have the old guys scared of lawsuits, they had the young guys rubbing their feet and cooking them dinner every night — basically becoming wives. The world was going to hell.

  Koche entered the building, and when he saw Dewar in the elevator, he took the stairs to Jeff Scott’s third-floor office, sucking air most of the way. He walked down a hallway until he found Scott’s door and walked in without knocking.

  Scott was sitting behind his desk. He was wearing a suit, shirt and tie. The shirt was denim blue with a white collar and cuffs. He was in his mid-forties, skinny, but flaccid and pale. He was severely balding with tufts of curly hair and large clunky glasses. As the chief prosecutor for Toronto, he was Dewar’s superior and was a political player.

  Koche got right to the point. “I don’t like the way the trial is going. That cunt of yours isn’t aggressive enough.”

  Scott rolled back from his laptop and put his feet up on the desk. He took a breath, and interlocking his fingers behind his head, said, “She’s taking the soft approach — it’s too slow and indirect. You’d think after ten years she’d lose patience for that and go for the jugular. You fart around, try to be cute, and it can backfire.”

  “Truer words have never been spoken,” Koche began. “So light a fire under her ass, Jeff. We need this guy to get convicted fast. If the media think we’re dragging it out, reluctant to pull the trigger on this guy, it’ll reflect poorly on the police department and the justice system even when he does get convicted. We go way back, Jeff —”

  Scott cut him off with a raised finger. “He’ll get convicted, and when he does we’ll make sure everyone knows that it’s because of our efforts, not Dewar the Indian window dressing.” Scott exhaled. “We’ll get the credit we deserve. The police chief will see how tough on corruption you are for starting this investigation, and the Attorney General will see the same in me.”

  Koche added, “So will the public, when you run for mayor.”

  Scott smiled. “Remember, Dave, not a word about that till the time is right. Most of the voting public in this town are socialists and cop-haters. When we get a cop convicted of murder and vindicate every allegation of the Cherry Beach Express that any homeless freak has ever made, that’s when it comes out that I’m a candidate.”

  Koche allowed himself to become optimistic again. He took a breath and found himself agreeing. “If Dewar gets with the program, I’ll make Inspector, Jeff.”

  “Just remember, Koche: Dewar is a woman lawyer. They don’t play nice with others; she’ll oppose any suggestions I make because I’m a man, just to prove a point. I’ll be honest with you — she’s tough to manage. But she’s the best.”

  Koche took a seat in the chair opposite Scott. He leaned forward with his elbows on his thighs and rubbed his chubby, sweaty hands together. “Back in the day, we made some good press throwing the Viet Cong pot growers and the black dealers in jail when I was in the drug unit and you were the prosecutor. That’s what got us where we are today. Dewar hasn’t learned to identify career moves. This is a career maker for her.”

  “I
know, I know,” Scott said. “She just doesn’t get it; she’s funny that way.”

  “So you’re going to talk to her?”

  Scott had seen this request coming a mile away and already agreed. “I’ll get her in here today and set her straight. You know, I remember that you pegged this Nastos guy as trouble when you first transferred into Sex Assault. Your instincts are as sharp as ever.”

  Koche never found it easy to be humble, but was too angry to bask in any praises. “Well, I don’t blame Nastos for killing the guy either,” he said, “but if he had been smarter about this, I wouldn’t have to put him down. This mess he’s in, it’s his own fault. He threw himself in front of a train that can’t stop — me, I can fix lots of things, but stupid isn’t one of them.”

  Scott extended his hand. “Well, tell you what, Dave, you take off and I’ll call Dewar in here right now.”

  “Sounds good.” Koche got to his feet, shook hands with Scott and pushed his chair back to where he had got it from, then headed for the door. As it was closing, Scott spoke to him again.

  “You around later? I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  Koche checked his BlackBerry for the time, his lips pursed. “No, I have to meet a guy — just send me a text when she’s sorted out. Thanks, Scott.”

  “Any time, Koche.”

  Scott tapped his intercom and dialled Dewar’s extension number.

  12

  WITH EACH SUCCESSIVE UNANSWERED RING, Dewar became more and more sure that Scott was seconds away from barging in on her. I should get my recorder going, if I have time. He knew when she was in — he always knew. She thought he had a camera set up under her desk or in the ceiling fan, but she had searched a dozen times and never found anything.