Indefensible

by Pamela Callow

  Deb whistled through her teeth. “What do you think, Warren?”

  Warren seesawed his hand. “I’m fifty-fifty. I can’t think who else would have done this. The scene is clean, Deb. Everything we turned up—as skimpy as it seems—points to Barrett.”

  She turned to Lamond. “What about you?”

  Lamond studied the list Deb had written on the whiteboard, pulling at his lower lip. “I think Barrett is smart enough to cover his tracks. If we didn’t have the doctor’s notes, I’d say no way. But…” He slapped his palm on the table. “I think we should charge him.”

  Deb studied the whiteboard one more time. “Fine. We’ll lay the charges. Do the paperwork, Ethan. This is your show.”

  Relief spilled through Ethan at her words. Deb was on board. But when she turned to look at him, he saw the warning in her eyes.

  If this explodes, you will be wearing it.

  Because they both knew that in this case, there could be only one winner. If Randall was convicted of murder, the media would crown Ethan a hero for bringing the heinous, überpowerful ex-husband to justice. But if the Crown was unable to secure a conviction, then the media would crucify Ethan for allowing his personal grudge against a respected pillar of the legal community to color his investigation.

  It was a very fine line.

  He was doing his damnedest to walk it as straight as possible.

  51

  Thursday, 3:53 p.m.

  Randall stalked out of the elevator on MB’s partner floor. He barely nodded to the new receptionist, not even trying to remember her name, and turned down the hallway to Nina Woods’ office.

  He flung open the door. “What the fuck are you trying to pull?”

  She froze, the phone to her ear. “Can I call you back?” she said calmly before hanging up the phone. She rose to her feet. “You need to control yourself, Randall.”

  “You are a sneaky, conniving bitch.”

  Her face hardened. “I am doing exactly what you would have done. I am protecting the firm’s assets.”

  “That’s bullshit.”

  “Actually, it’s not. We’ve lost three clients since Tues day. No one wants to be associated with a man who everyone believes threw his ex-wife off a balcony.”

  Blood pounded in his ears. The pressure of his rage was so intense he could barely think.

  But he knew that he could not lose control. Especially here.

  “I have not been accused of any crime,” he said.

  “Not technically. But in the court of public opinion, you are the prime suspect—and guilty as hell.” There was almost a look of sympathy in her eyes. She walked around her desk and leaned against it. “It doesn’t matter what I believe, Randall. I take my duties as managing partner very seriously. The firm was teetering after TransTissue. We were only getting back on our feet when this happened. We have to distance ourselves from you until this matter is settled. Clients can forgive one bad apple.” He knew she was referring to John Lyons. “But they can’t forgive two. Not when they’re both senior partners of the same firm. And when both scandals transpire within months of each other. If we don’t take preemptive action now, there won’t be a firm to return to when this is all over.”

  She was right. If he were in her shoes, he’d be compelled to do the same thing. “But you can still pay me.”

  “Actually, I can’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because your billables haven’t been paid yet, Randall. Your clients aren’t in a big rush to pay you, for some reason. And the compensation committee is sitting on your income share until it is clear that you have not been involved in any criminal activity.”

  “I’m not charged with anything, Nina. You can’t invoke the criminal activities clause of the partnership agreement unless I’m charged.” He ran a hand through his hair. “Why would they even do that? They’re lawyers, for Chrissake. They should be able to interpret the fucking contract.”

  “Once bitten, twice shy, Randall. John Lyons has left everyone jumpy.” She eyed him. “You know what, I agree with you. We can’t have our partnership agreements not honored. I’ll call a meeting of the committee tonight and we’ll discuss it.”

  Her about-face threw off Randall. Had he misjudged her?

  He couldn’t tell. This could be another manipulation. He hated being in her debt. And he bet she knew it.

  He hated being in debt, period. He’d reduced his income share to keep the other partners’ income flowing after they lost all those clients, acknowledging his responsibility in overlooking John Lyons’ fraud. Then he’d spent thousands of dollars on the new lobby. He should have financed it through the firm, but it was one more liability that the firm didn’t need right now. So the partners had agreed to reimburse him at the end of the year, when they calculated their net profit.

  Stress had driven him to buy the new car—the damage John Lyons had done to his old vehicle was minor, but he couldn’t bear driving that car after it had been tainted by evil. He regretted it now. Combined with his larger support payments, reduced income stream, the capital costs of the home he had built when he moved to Halifax and the yacht he had purchased two years ago, he was up to his eyeballs in expenses. He had even reconsidered whether he could afford to take two weeks away from work, but had decided that Nick needed him more.

  So here he was, his line of credit maxed out, his loan payments due and no income to take the heat off. Hell, he couldn’t even scrounge up the five grand for Eddie if he didn’t get this check cut.

  Nina shook her head. “I’m sorry, Randall—”

  “Randall Barrett?”

  Randall spun around. A man stood at the door, dressed in a sports jacket, dark pants and neutral tie. “Yes.”

  “I’m Detective Constable Lamond from the Halifax Police Department. You are under arrest for the murder of Elise Vanderzell.”

  Randall darted a glance at Nina Woods. Had she set him up? But her face had paled.

  Ethan Drake stepped next to Detective Lamond. He held out the charge document and began to read: “Randall Barrett, you are charged with the murder of Elise Vanderzell…”

  Randall stared at the two detectives. They were in plain clothes, their features impassive. But Randall thought he detected a gleam of triumph in Drake’s eyes.

  Why had they decided to arrest him at his firm?

  The court of public opinion. People loved to see the guilty humiliated to the fullest extent.

  Detective Lamond stepped forward with a pair of handcuffs. Nina’s eyes widened.

  “Sorry, it’s police procedure.” Ethan Drake did not look sorry at all.

  Detective Lamond pulled Randall’s hands together behind his back and snapped the cuffs on his wrists. The cool metal rubbed against his skin.

  The two detectives flanked him as they left Nina’s office. Randall’s jaw tightened when he saw the entourage they had assembled for his arrest. Two more plainclothes detectives led the way, telling the shocked legal staff and stupefied lawyers to “get back, get back.” Behind them trailed two uniformed constables.

  More lawyers came out of their offices as the procession filed down the hall. It was by the library that Randall saw Kate. She stood in the doorway, a stack of books in her arms. Her gaze darted to the tall dark-haired detective flanking him. The blood drained from her face. Drake did not acknowledge her.

  Her gaze met Randall’s. Then fell away.

  His gut clenched. Did she think he had actually murdered Elise?

  Randall didn’t know if the detectives’ pace was deliberately slow, but it took three times longer than usual to walk to the lobby. Finally, the elevator arrived. They stuffed themselves around Randall in the elevator, not allowing any passengers to get on as the elevator took them down to ground level.

  Randall took one look outside and braced himself. News vans lined the front curb. He had the strongest urge to hide his face—his battered, bruised face—from the reporters who were gleefully taking advantage of this
photo op. It had been bad enough walking through the hallways of McGrath Barrett with his hands cuffed.

  But he knew that if he skulked under cover of his coat, he’d look guilty. So he stared ahead, his jaw rigid.

  And remembered that he still had no funds available to lend Eddie Bent for his bar fees.

  52

  Thursday, 4:34 p.m.

  “The police just arrested Randall Barrett, Kate,” Nat announced over the phone. “Were you there?”

  Kate checked her office door. It was closed. “Yes.” She didn’t think she’d ever forget it. To see Randall Barrett humiliated in front of his colleagues and employees made her feel sick. He didn’t deserve to be treated that way.

  What had the police found? What made them think Randall was guilty? “How did you know?”

  “Well, no thanks to you, but I’ve got my sources.”

  “You mean someone tipped you off?”

  “Your ex, to be exact. Didn’t think he’d ever speak to me again, but they wanted some media coverage.”

  “How kind of you to provide it.” Kate knew she wasn’t being fair. This was Nat’s job. But how could she live with herself when she paraded a man’s humiliation on the front page?

  Probably the same way you live with yourself after your client retains a biased medical expert to under mine a man’s suffering.

  “Listen, I know this is upsetting,” Nat said. “But I’m covering the story.” There was a note of pride in her voice. “Do you want to give me the insider’s perspective?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Come on, Kate. Better you than someone else. At least you can give one side of the story.”

  “Who are you going to call for the other side?”

  There was a hesitation. “Nina Woods.”

  “Shit, Nat. She’ll skewer him!”

  “Kate, I have no choice. This is my job. It’s called journalism.”

  “Not when it becomes a kangaroo court.”

  “You’re the one who is always talking about how the justice system ensures that the innocent aren’t convicted. If Randall Barrett didn’t kill his wife, he should be okay.”

  “But he’ll already have been pilloried by the media.”

  “We’re no worse than lawyers who argue in front of a judge, Kate.”

  “Yeah, well, judges have laws to uphold.”

  “But they can only apply the laws based on what facts they’re given, right? That’s the same with journalists. That’s why I need your statement, Kate.”

  The way Nat had turned the argument around almost made Kate smile. “You should have gone to law school.”

  “No, thanks. Couldn’t stand the company, with the exception of yours truly. So when do I get your statement?”

  “Come over after supper.”

  The gravelly, smoke-stained voice was not one Kate recognized. “Kate Lange?”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s Eddie Bent. Randall Barrett’s lawyer.”

  Kate straightened. “Hello, Mr. Bent. What can I do for you?”

  “I take it Randall didn’t speak to you before his arrest.”

  She froze. She didn’t think he was referring to that wine-laden confession in her house the other night. Surely Randall wouldn’t have told Eddie Bent about that? “No.”

  “Your boss needs your help.”

  “I thought he had hired you.”

  Eddie Bent cleared his throat. “He wants me to represent him, but there’s a technical difficulty.”

  Kate closed her eyes. “You’re still suspended from the bar, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. For nonpayment of fees. Randall was hoping that you could handle the court appearances. I would help you prepare.”

  “Shit.”

  He laughed. “Not what I was hoping you’d say, but I understand your sentiments.”

  “No, I mean, I don’t do criminal defense work, Mr. Bent. I’ve never done any. I can’t appear in court for him. He’s facing a murder charge!”

  “Listen, I won’t beat around the bush. I wouldn’t normally agree to this. But your boss is desperate. I’ve known him since law school and I don’t think I’ve ever seen him like this, not even when his wife screwed around on him.” His voice lowered to a deep grumble in her ear. “He assures me that you are capable. And trustworthy. Those are the only things he needs.” He paused. “Besides me.”

  “What if I screw up? He could end up in jail for the rest of his life.”

  “Ms. Lange, I don’t know you personally. But I know what you’ve been through. If you can single-handedly kill a depraved killer—and believe me, I’ve met a few—you can do this.”

  She stared at her office door. Outside, the firm had resumed its usual efficient rhythms. The earlier events were a grotesquerie that everyone had taken great pains to smooth over.

  “We need you, Ms. Lange.”

  She felt like banging her head on her desk. There was not a single cell in her body that wanted to do this. But how could she say no? Randall was currently up the creek of the criminal justice system with no defense lawyer to paddle him out.

  She sighed. “Fine. I’ll do it. But we can’t meet here.”

  “My offices close at 5:00 p.m. Could we meet at your house?”

  She wondered why they couldn’t meet at his place, but decided she probably didn’t want to know. The guy had hit rock bottom. Maybe his dwelling reflected that. She gave him her address.

  “See you at seven.”

  It was only after he hung up the phone that she remembered she was supposed to meet Nat. She dialed her number.

  “Nat, there’s been a change of plans.”

  “I can come earlier,” she said promptly.

  Tenacity was her middle name, Nat liked to say.

  “I can’t give you the statement.”

  “You can’t bag on me now.” She hesitated. “I promise I’ll print you verbatim.”

  “It’s not that…” Kate shook her head. At herself, not Nat. She could not believe she was doing this. “I’m representing Randall Barrett.”

  “Shut the fuck up.” It wasn’t too often Kate could surprise Nat. She wished she could see her face. “Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

  “He just hired me.” She’d have to be very careful with Nat. She did not want to reveal Eddie’s role in this legal triangle.

  “First TransTissue, now this? How do you get these files?”

  How, indeed? “Just lucky, I guess.”

  Nat laughed. “You always see the glass half-full, don’t you, sweetie?” With those encouraging words, her friend hung up.

  Kate headed into the library. She needed to get her hands on a copy of the Criminal Code. She found the thick black book and stuck it under her jacket, then hurried to the elevator.

  She knew nothing about criminal law beyond her first-year courses in law school. No matter how hard she tried, she inevitably dozed off during her criminal procedure class. Now she cursed her professor. If he’d been a little livelier, she wouldn’t have slept through his lecture on Murder 101.

  53

  Thursday, 7:12 p.m.

  Dr. Jamie Gainsford slid open the file drawer on the side of his desk. He flipped through the folder tabs until he reached the very last one.

  Unmarked, the slim, plain folder could be mistaken by a casual observer as being empty.

  But it held, for Jamie, one of his most treasured possessions. He opened the cover. A small, blurry Polaroid lay crookedly inside, lost in the folder’s depths. Rather like his old self, blurred and lost in the depths of what he’d become.

  He picked up the photo. For the first time in his life, the sorrow at his loss was replaced by a different emotion. It was, he realized, a sense of calm. Completion.

  He studied the smiling girl with the light blond ponytail. Beth. His cousin. The child he had spent summer vacations with on his family’s citrus farm in South Africa.

  The girl he had ached for when he was fourteen years old.


  His desire for her twelve-year-old body had both disgusted and aroused him, his disgust feeding his excitement at the illicit nature of what he wanted to do to her. Her body consumed his thoughts, his heart, his soul. Finally, he couldn’t take it any longer. He cornered her in the shed and pulled off her panties, managing to push his hand between her legs before she ran away.

  He never saw his cousin again. He was sent to boarding school. He’d been ashamed but unrepentant. His need, at that age, had been underlined with defiance.

  Eight months later, Beth fell off the back of a pickup truck at her family farm. She struck her head and died of massive internal hemorrhaging.

  His grief was intense. He often wondered what would have happened if he’d been able to consummate the act with her. Would it have doused his unnatural lust? Could he have gone on to a normal life?

  Or would one taste of her prepubescent body have sent him over the edge at the tender age of fourteen? So blinded was he by lust, he’d most likely have ended up in prison.

  He attempted to understand his compulsion by studying psychology. Initially, he’d harbored the naive hope that he could eradicate his compulsion. It didn’t take him long to realize that it was something that would never leave him. So he taught himself methods of controlling it.

  His victims were few, and he was proud of that fact. He could have let the beast overwhelm him years ago—he could have taken advantage of many more clients than he had.

  But he hadn’t.

  But exercising control came at a cost. Every time the compulsion stirred, it was stronger, more powerful, forcing him to do things he had never thought possible—had never thought he’d take pleasure in—when he was a fourteen-year-old boy lusting after Beth.

  And every time he allowed the compulsion to take over, it was so much harder to return to his normal life. After the Becky episode, he fled to Toronto, partly to cover his tracks, partly to regain control of whatever was left of him.