This man had the power to use the Taser that was tucked in a side holster. On him.
The sheriff nodded to him through the bars. “You’re up in another hour, Barrett,” he said cheerfully.
If it hadn’t been for the fact that she was directly involved in the criminal matter that had brought all the media in the Maritimes to Spring Garden Road, Kate might have enjoyed the carnival atmosphere. Reporters, photographers and police officers crowded the lawn in front of the old provincial courthouse. A jazz trio busking on the corner added a festive note.
Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Nat taking a photo of her. You’d better get my good side, she thought. She hurried into the building, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other. A long line of spectators and media personnel waited to go through the security check. Lawyers did not need to go through the screening, so she skirted around the queue, and flashed her bar society membership to the sheriff. “Do you know which courtroom has arraignments?” she asked.
He smiled and pointed down the hall to number four. “But you can’t take your coffee in there.” She gulped it down, then walked into the courtroom, her coffee-induced bravado fading quickly. Like the rest of the building, the courtroom was designed in an earlier era, with a gravitas befitting its function. Olive-brown paneling met cream-colored walls that stretched to a vaulted ceiling arching overhead. On a dais at the front of the courtroom sat a massive desk where the judge would preside. Below the dais, the court clerk provided an effective barrier between judge and counsel. Facing the judge’s desk was the counsel’s table, shaped like an L. Green velvet drapes gave the room an air of dignified formality.
Fortunately, Kate was the first lawyer in the courtroom. She strode over to the L-shaped table, conscious of the eyes of the spectators in the wooden benches at the back. Eddie had told her to take a seat by the corner of the L so she could see both the judge, the Crown counsel and the accused.
Just as she sat down at the table, trying to appear as if she did this regularly, the Crown prosecutor bustled into the room, carrying a massive document box crammed with files. She dumped it on the table, yanked out a group of folders and began scribbling notes while lowering her neatly suited bottom into the chair. Most Crowns have to shoot from the hip, Eddie told her this morning. They don’t have the luxury of time to prepare.
Kate tried to catch the woman’s eye, but the Crown prosecutor didn’t look up. She scanned the files methodically, her eyes darting behind her glasses, making notations, flipping pages, checking facts. Kate opened her own file and pretended to look busy.
At 9:28 a.m., three more lawyers rushed into the room. One of them sat next to the Crown, murmuring a greeting as he opened his briefcase. The other two walked to the end of Kate’s table that faced the accused and claimed their seats. She glanced over. And wished the floor could swallow her.
Curtis Carey sat next to a frizzy-haired lawyer from Legal Aid. What are you doing slumming in the criminal courts? his expression said. She mustered a smile, although the last thing she wanted was to have a lawyer she knew—intimately—witness her inexperience. She mouthed, “Barrett.”
His eyebrows rose. He reached over and scribbled on her notepad: “Welcome to the dark side.” She glanced at him. But he had turned his attention to his files. Was his message a joke about practicing criminal defense law? Or was it a reference to her defending a man accused of domestic homicide?
“All rise,” the court clerk intoned. The door reserved for the judges swung open, and Judge Norbert Miller strode in. A small man with a large nose and balding head, he perched behind his desk like a weary eagle.
Randall’s case was near the bottom of a long list of accused. Kate watched the Crown present the charges for an assortment of garden-variety criminals, listened to her describe the facts, including reading for the court record the obscenity-laced threats of one drunk. Kate’s admiration for the Crown prosecutors of the world rose a notch even as her apprehension grew. The criminal court was its own little planet, the procedure alien, the culture insular, the language coded.
The court bailiff escorted Randall up the narrow, low-ceilinged concrete stairwell that looked like it had been imported from a prison in Siberia.
When they entered the main level of the old courthouse, the high gracious ceilings, dark wood trims and bustling people jarred him. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. No sleep and little food were catching up to him.
He swayed. The bailiff took his elbow and propelled him toward courtroom number four. Where justice and mercy battled it out amidst the punks, drug dealers, skinheads, drunks, mentally ill, and the drug addicted
“Regina versus Barrett,” the court clerk announced. The entire spectators’ gallery swiveled on the hard wooden benches to watch the bailiff escort Randall Barrett into the courtroom.
He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his face unshaven, his bruises a ghastly combination of purple and yellow. Exhaustion dragged at his face. But he walked in with his back straight, his gaze level.
Kate willed him to look at her. I’m here, she wanted to say. I’m here. She quelled the pang she felt at the sight of him.
When he saw her, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. The Crown prosecutor stood, peering down through her glasses to read the charge against him. Her voice rang in the courtroom, the earlier midmorning slump chased away by the excitement of a murder charge.
Then the Crown began reading the facts and Kate listened carefully, but she could not dispute what was being said. When the Crown described how Elise was thrown over the balcony, the row of benches in the back—which had had its share of fidgeters during the course of the morning—exploded with whispers and exclamations. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on Randall’s forehead. Judge Miller barked a sharp “Order! Order!,” glaring at the reporters. He turned to Kate. She rose to her feet.
“Your Honor, my client is seeking bail. To that end, I would like to request a date to appear in Supreme Court. As soon as possible,” she added.
“Very well.” Judge Miller turned to the court clerk. “Set a date to appear at the Supreme Court. Preferably Monday.”
The clerk peered at her calendar. “Monday, 9:30 a.m.,” she announced.
“And Your Honour,” Kate said. “I have received nothing from the Crown. If they are going to charge a man with murder, I need more than a charge sheet.”
The Crown glared at her. Kate ignored her. The police had something that triggered Randall’s arrest. She just didn’t know what.
Judge Miller exhaled. “Counsel, the Crown is not required to disclose until the bail hearing has been set.”
And that was it. Randall was led out of the courtroom. He didn’t, as Kate expected, look back. She watched him go. He would be sent by wagon to the correctional center. There, as part of the prison population, he would await his bail hearing.
She became aware of a set of eyes watching her. Curtis Carey quickly looked away, his expression inscrutable.
There was nothing left for her to do. She packed her briefcase, bowed to the court and slipped out of the room through the same door Randall had come in.
A sheriff intercepted her in the hallway. “There’s a mob of reporters waiting for you out front, Ms. Lange.”
Kate stiffened.
“Let me show you out the back.”
The sun was bright, warming her skin as she strode to her car. Seeing Randall being escorted by the bailiff had been disorienting. A man who had always been a leader, who was always one step ahead, no longer in control.
Of anything.
57
Friday, 1:22 p.m.
“What the hell is going on?”
Kate glanced up from her work to see Nina Woods standing in front of her desk.
“Just working on the settlement for the Naugler case.”
“Don’t bullshit me, Kate. I know who you’re representing.”
Kate raised a brow, knowing Nina would correctly interpret the minuscule movement: she
was throwing down the gauntlet to her boss.
Nina’s eyes were hard. “You cannot do this. I will not permit it.”
“Why not?”
“He’ll drag the whole firm down. McGrath Barrett can’t afford another scandal!”
“Randall Barrett has not been convicted of anything, Nina.” And that was the crux of the matter for Kate.
“You and I both know that even the perception of wrongdoing will seriously impact our firm.”
“Have we lost any clients yet?”
Nina’s mouth tightened. “Yes. And we cannot afford to lose any more. We’ll have to start laying off associates if things continue like this. If they haven’t already fled for greener pastures.”
“We can’t just abandon him, Nina. He needs us to stand by him.”
Nina’s lips twisted. “There won’t be anything left if we do that, Kate. The firm is on shaky ground. He’s dragging us all down. Including you.” Her tone softened. “You have your whole career ahead of you. You don’t want to get dragged down by a man like Randall. He’ll just take what he wants and then move on.”
Kate prayed that Nina did not see the stab of fear that shot through her at her words.
“He asked me to be his defense lawyer, Nina. I can’t say no.”
Nina crossed her arms. “I forbid you to act as his counsel.”
Nina Woods had just said the wrong thing to her. Kate was not going to be bullied by this power-hungry woman who believed she was entitled to take what she wanted. Kate had gone through too much and been forced to confront her worst fears. What had Nina Woods accomplished in her life in comparison?
Kate raised a brow. “Or else?”
“Or else you’re fired.”
“I see.” Kate tapped a finger against her chin. “Are you sure you really want to do that, Nina? You might get away with choking Randall out of the partnership, but I don’t think you can get rid of me, too. After all, I’m the one who caught the bad guy and saved McGrath Barrett’s ass. Not you.”
Nina Woods’ nostrils flared.
Too much Botox? Kate couldn’t tell, but the woman sure as hell looked as if her face were carved of marble.
“And,” Kate added, “I think ‘perception’ might swing the other way if people find out the partnership choked off Randall’s income so now he can’t afford to hire a defense lawyer—and then fired your own associate for trying to help him out.” Kate’s voice softened. “Just think how you could spin this—managing partner Nina Woods assigns Kate Lange to handle partner Randall Barrett’s defense pro bono. Sounds pretty good, don’t you think?”
“You think you’re very clever, don’t you?”
Kate shook her head. “On the contrary. But it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to deduce this whole thing stinks.”
Nina’s white-blue eyes flickered over Kate. The coldness of the partner’s gaze was almost palpable on Kate’s skin. “Fine. You can represent Barrett pro bono.”
Kate tried not to allow her triumph to show.
“Although I think you are jumping off a very steep cliff. Have you ever done criminal defense work, Kate?”
Kate kept her gaze steady, but inside she was thinking, Nice one, Nina. She knew how women like Nina operated. They got to where they were through hard work and sacrifice, ramming through the old boys’ club until they’d proven their worth. They wore their sacrifices as a badge of honor and they weren’t about to let anyone—especially another woman—get off easy.
“Didn’t think so.” Nina smiled. “Well, Barrett will get what he deserves.”
“What he deserves is to be paid for the legal work he’s done.”
Nina shook her head. “Don’t blame the partners. It was his clients who wouldn’t pay him. Anyway, what happens between the partners is our business, so don’t push me, Kate. You get to represent him, although I seriously question both your judgment and Barrett’s. I will not be calling another vote on the issue of Barrett’s income. He’s got plenty of assets.” With that, Nina Woods pivoted on her heel and strode out of the room.
Kate exhaled and lowered herself to her chair. She closed the Naugler file folder and pulled out Randall’s.
All she had hoped for was that she could stay on Randall’s case. She hadn’t expected that she could convince Nina to let her bill her time as pro bono.
Score one for Kate Lange.
But she wouldn’t gloat. Nina had exposed Kate’s weakness to the light of day and given her a glimpse of what she was in for.
She supposed she should thank Nina for that.
But she couldn’t bring herself to.
58
Saturday, 4:42 a.m.
Dawn lightened the highway to a pale black, studded with a darker patchwork of the potholes for which Nova Scotia highways were famous. Jamie Gainsford slowed his car to look for the track to his cabin. It had been three years since he’d been here. He was glad for a little daylight to help his search.
There. The gate was almost obscured by shrubs, but the No Trespassing sign could still be seen.
He turned off the highway. He’d made good time. In fact, the timing was perfect. He had enough light to find the track yet was early enough that there were few cars on the highway to note his arrival.
He stopped in front of the gate and slipped out of his car. The air was fresh, soft. His breath eased out of his chest. He was finally here. He was closer to Lucy. Not that his cabin was very close to Prospect; it was two hours away from Halifax. But at least he was in the same province.
During the drive from Toronto, he’d figured out the final leg of his plan. He could see no flaws. That was the beauty of a simple plan. Less chance of it getting screwed up.
He’d grab Lucy during Randall Barrett’s bail hearing, which he guessed would be in four or five days. He’d call Penelope Barrett on Monday and caution her that Lucy should not be permitted to attend because she wasn’t emotionally stable. Lucy had told him that she liked to take Penelope Barrett’s dog for long walks, and he’d suggest to her grandmother that Lucy be encouraged to do so. It would be easier for him to abduct Lucy if she wasn’t in the house.
He unlocked the gate barring the track. The headlights of his car caught the tall, weedy bushes and small saplings that had sprouted in his three-year absence. The gate swung closed with a rusty squeak that made his teeth clench.
After five minutes of spine-jarring bumping, and a near miss with a stump that Jamie barely remembered in time to spare his muffler, he pulled into the small yard in front of his cabin. A few trees had been cleared to allow sunlight.
Compared to Jamie’s luxuriously appointed house in Toronto, the cabin was primitive. But Jamie had done his best to fix it up after he bought it from the nephew of the old hermit who had built it with his own two hands—staining the shingles a deep caramel, caulking the windows to keep out the winter chill and overhauling the cellar. Over the years, he added more homey touches: a zebra-skin rug, a rocking chair, bookshelves, several games. But no mirrors.
It was just the way Jamie wanted it.
He parked the car in front of the shed, leaving the headlights on. He unlocked the small outbuilding, sweeping his flashlight around the interior, squatting to illuminate the underbelly of the truck that he had left untended. Selling it had been out of the question; he suspected too much evidence lay embedded in its seats. He ran the light around the truck’s interior, along the bed and under the tailgate, making sure that the truck hadn’t become home to a creature that might take it into its head to attack him.
No, the shed had withstood the attempts by the woods to overtake it.
He hurried back outside and hoisted a battery out of the trunk of the rental car. It took only a few minutes to replace the truck’s dead battery. He turned over the engine. It came to life with nary a complaint. He shut off the engine and returned to his car. Lifting a suitcase out of the trunk, he walked over to the cabin.
His heart began to pound.
He unlocked the f
ront door, the key slipping from his fingers when the unmistakable foulness of rotting flesh met his nostrils.
No. It wasn’t possible.
A body could not still stink three years later.
He dropped his suitcase, skimming his flashlight over the main room of the cabin.
There, by a broken window, lay a dead raccoon. It had feasted on the poison Jamie had left for any pests that infiltrated the cabin.
He found a shovel in the shed and carried the rotting corpse out to the back, flinging it as far as he could into the woods.
The next corpse would require a little more effort.
He’d buried Becky Murphy in the basement.
And even though her corpse no longer smelled, he didn’t want any reminders of her in the cabin.
Not while he waited for Lucy.
59
Monday, 11:30 a.m.
Eddie Bent settled himself in a chair in McGrath Barrett’s boardroom. “Nice view.” Halifax Harbour lay below them, silver shimmering on blue.
Kate grinned. “It’s overkill to book the boardroom for just this box of files, but I decided to make a point with Nina.”
It was time to take a stand with McGrath Barrett. The firm needed to understand that, as of now, Randall Barrett was a client. No more backstabbing.
And she’d forced herself to treat him like a client, and not visit him at the correctional center over the weekend. She could not afford to have the lines blurred. Not until the case was over. She’d seen him briefly this morning, at the Supreme Court. He’d looked like crap.
“The police must have been working all weekend to put this together,” Eddie commented. The box in question had been given to Kate by the Crown this morning. It contained evidence against Randall that the Crown was required by law to disclose, such as the interviews of witnesses, including Randall and his family, the medical examiner’s preliminary findings, the FIS notes, a blood/alcohol report and whatever else the police had dug up.
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