Parish’s observant father had once commented to her that Toronto was a city of straight streets and square corners built by Scottish bankers to make money—not to look at the beautiful lake or the wonderful valleys and forests. He was mostly right, but Bay was a rare exception to the city’s linear grid.
Heading north from her office, she could see the street going straight up a few blocks to Queen Street—like every other city in Canada, large and small, Toronto had streets named for the monarchy—where it bent to the left, sweeping around Old City Hall, its bell tower staring right down the middle of Bay like an exclamation point.
Bay Street was the financial capital of the country—the Wall Street of Canada—and the ten-minute walk on the narrow, crowded sidewalk was like a tour of the city’s economic history. The lower part was dominated by sleek, modern skyscrapers, each owned by one of the country’s five big banks, the names ranging from the pedantic—Bank of Nova Scotia and Bank of Montreal—to the pretentious: Toronto Dominion Bank, the Royal Bank of Canada, and the Canadian Imperial Bank of Commerce. Farther north, steel was replaced by older stone buildings, starting with the Toronto Stock Exchange and then a series of elegant art deco office towers from the city’s golden years in the teens and twenties of the twentieth century. They had evocative names like the Northern Ontario Building, Sterling Tower, and the Canada Permanent Building.
Then came the construction. Donald Trump had bought a big lot on the east side, and for the last few years a large billboard had announced the impending opening of a new condominium tower. Just north of the billboard, a full city block was surrounded by a chain-link fence as huge demolition machines took down an old concrete parking garage.
A block before Queen Street was the Hudson’s Bay Company Building, the grand old lady of department stores. Now its elegant name had been condensed to simply the Bay, and the building itself had been stripped down. But like those of a sophisticated older woman from another era, thinning with age, her good bones were still intact.
Parish let a streetcar rumble by, then crossed Queen, climbed the stairs to Old City Hall, and made her way quickly to the second floor. The bell tower had just begun to ring out the top of the hour. She ran down the hallway toward courtroom 121. A thin white-haired man wearing a full constable’s uniform, ribbons and medals on his lapels, rang a brass bell. “Court is in session, court is in session,” he called out.
“I just made it, Horace,” Parish said as she rushed up.
“The captain is taking his seat at the helm,” he said, his eyes smiling at her.
Parish paused for a moment to compose herself, then swung open the ornate door to 121. A few years earlier the dramatic old room—the former council chamber when the building was a real city hall—was used to film the movie Chicago. It was easy to see why: the courtroom had a foreboding feel, with its dark oak benches, swinging wooden gate leading to the long counsel tables, and wraparound upper balcony. And today it was filled to overflowing with the press, friends of Brace’s, women’s rights advocates, and court watchers. High drama indeed.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the court clerk bellowed as he swung open the oak door by the side of the judge’s dais and strode into court. He officiously rolled up the sleeves of his black robe and took his seat below the judge. “All rise. This court is in session,” he called out, his voice effortlessly filling the big room. “The Honorable Justice Johnathan Summers presiding. All persons having business before the Queen’s Bench, attend now and ye shall be heard.”
A thin court constable scurried to the judge’s desk carrying a tall stack of books. Hot on his heels, Justice Summers, resplendent in dark robes and starched white shirt and tabs, hurried in as if he were late for a tennis match. He brushed past his constable and ran up to his chair, high above the proceedings. The constable rushed nervously behind him and neatly placed the books before the judge.
Summers reached for a notebook on top of the pile. He opened it to the first page and, with great ceremony, fished into his vest pocket and pulled out a well-worn Waterman fountain pen. He began to write.
“You may be seated,” the clerk said to the audience in his booming voice.
After what seemed like an eternity, Summers lifted his head and looked out on the assembled masses, as if somehow all these people had crowded into his secret study to catch an illicit glimpse of the great scribe penning his masterwork.
Summers stared down at the two long counsel tables that faced his dais. Fernandez sat to his left, Parish to his right.
“Where’s the prisoner?” he growled at them.
“He’s on his way,” the clerk said in a terrified half whisper, like Bob Cratchit reporting to Mr. Scrooge. “The wagon from the Don Jail is late.”
Summers gave a great harrumph. He looked out at the full courtroom. “Ladies and gentlemen of the public and the press, as you can see, we’re all prepared to get to work. Our government doesn’t provide us with adequate resources to run these courts. If I’d run my ship like this in the navy, believe me, there would have been hell to pay.”
He looked back down at Parish. Here it comes, she thought.
“Ms. Parish, I have carefully reviewed all of your bail materials as well as Mr. Fernandez’s response. The affidavit of the applicant, Mr. Brace, is not sworn.”
She stood up. “Yes, Your Honor. I will ask the court for a brief indulgence to have him sign it when he’s brought in.” Summers was just showing off to the press. This was standard procedure when a bail application was prepared on such short notice.
“Very well,” Summers said.
She sat down. Sooner or later, Summers was going to get mad at one lawyer or the other. The trick was to make sure it wasn’t you.
The judge returned to writing in his notebook. The phone rang on the clerk’s desk. He grabbed it and spoke in hushed tones, the worry lines across his forehead growing deeper.
“He’ll be here in five minutes,” he half whispered again.
“We’ll wait. All hands on deck,” Summers said without looking up. Parish drew a little cartoon of Summers in his navy uniform hitting the clerk below him on the back of the head with a big toy gavel. It wasn’t a very good sketch, and she couldn’t think of a caption.
She looked around at the reporters sitting in the front row. As well as the usual Gang of Four journalists from the papers, who covered all the big trials, there were reporters from every major television and radio station. Parish easily picked out her friend Awotwe Amankwah, the only brown face in the group.
Parish had met Amankwah a few years ago while playing outdoor hockey. They would often help each other out. Amankwah would call when he needed a quote for a story or some inside, off-the-record dope on a nasty judge or wayward Crown. Parish would sometimes ask Amankwah to look into things she couldn’t do herself.
Amankwah smiled back at her. He rolled his eyes and shrugged his shoulders, as if to say, “Good luck dealing with Summers.”
Finally, there was a loud rap. The oak door opened again, and in stepped two guards, with Kevin Brace between them.
An audible sigh went up in the crowded courtroom. Brace was dressed in the same oversize orange jumpsuit. Now it was dirty. His arms were handcuffed behind him. His hair was even greasier, his skin more sallow, his chin down on his chest, and his eyes lifeless. He shuffled into the court like an old man.
When the guard reached for his keys, Brace automatically turned his back to him, waiting for his cuffs to be unlocked. Like some lifer who was accustomed to doing time. Her heart sank.
With so much evidence, her best hope had been Kevin Brace himself. The man’s sterling reputation. Parish always worked hard to clean up her clients for court. She knew that if a jury saw Brace looking like this, they’d convict him in record time.
She stood up quickly, hoping to take some attention away from her client. “If I could have a moment, Your Honor.” She lifted the affidavits in a file in front of her.
“Be quick,” Summers
said, waving his hand dismissively.
Parish approached Brace, keeping her eyes down.
Brace stood awkwardly. He was a tall man. She put her hand casually on his arm, something she always did in court. Let everyone know she wasn’t afraid of her client. He leaned down so she could speak into his ear.
“This is a one-page affidavit. It just says who you are and that you will obey the rules of the bail. Take a moment to read it, and then sign it.”
He nodded as she gave him her pen. A fresh, new Bic. Brace looked at the affidavit, turned it over, and started writing something on the blank back side. She read his brief message upside down.
“Mr. Brace, are you sure?” she asked.
“Counsel,” Summers yelled at her from the bench, “there have been enough delays in my court this morning.”
“Yes, Your Honor,” she said, turning back to the judge. She swung back to look at Brace one more time.
He handed her the pen.
“These are your instructions, Mr. Brace?” she asked.
He nodded once and sat down.
She took a deep breath. “Okay,” she said. Taking back the papers and pen, she marched to her counsel table. If you’ve got bad news to deliver in court, do it fast. Short and sweet. Or, in Summers’s case, short and sour.
“Your Honor, the defense will consent to the detention of Mr. Brace,” Parish said quickly, and sat down.
There was a stunned silence in the already quiet courtroom. Summers did a double take. “The defense consents?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Those are my instructions.”
She stole a glance at Fernandez. He looked shocked. The man had just spent the last forty-eight hours preparing for this bail hearing, trying with all his might to keep Brace in jail. And now Parish was throwing in the towel. He’d won without a fight.
Summers was apoplectic. “Your client is what?” he thundered down at Parish.
She stood up. “Mr. Brace is consenting to his detention, Your Honor,” she repeated slowly. “We no longer need to have this hearing.”
“Well, I never . . .” Summers’s face was flushed. He turned to Fernandez. “What does the Crown say about this?”
Fernandez got to his feet, still looking dazed. “Your Honor, the Crown takes the position that Mr. Brace should be detained until his trial. If he’s changed his mind and doesn’t want a bail hearing, so be it.” He sat down.
Summers glared at Fernandez, expecting him to say more. Clearly there was nothing else for him to say. To his credit, Parish thought, the guy was not gloating.
Grinding his teeth in frustration, Summers let out one big, all-encompassing growl, grabbed his own papers, and then, like a lion heading back to his den, stormed off the bench.
“Both counsel will see me in chambers,” he shouted just before the door slammed behind him, his words reverberating through the crowded courtroom, which was erupting in noise.
The moment the judge was gone, Parish whirled back and looked at her client. She still had the pen in her hand, and she realized she’d been clenching it so hard under the table that it had left an indentation in her thumb. Right now she felt like stabbing Brace with it. He didn’t even meet her eyes. Instead he stood and turned, arms behind his back, waiting for the handcuffs to come on. As if hope were gone.
22
This isn’t going to be pretty, Albert Fernandez thought as he followed one of Summers’s frightened clerks through the long, wood-paneled corridor to the judge’s chambers. Parish was at his side. They walked in silence.
Fernandez sneaked a peek at Parish. She must be nervous, he thought. She’d just torpedoed an all-day bail hearing in front of a packed courtroom, and now the senior judge at Old City Hall was hauling her into his office.
Parish caught his eye and flashed him a smile. Under the circumstances, she seemed remarkably relaxed.
“Your Honor,” the clerk announced in a ghostly voice when they arrived at the judge’s doorway, “Ms. Parish and Mr. Fernandez.”
Summers’s chambers were part legal library, part hockey museum, but mostly a shrine to all things naval. Almost every inch of empty wall space was filled with hand-drawn sketches of battleships. A bookshelf was adorned with odd-shaped bottles, tiny sailboats captured inside. On the credenza behind him was a set of framed photos, most of them showing Summers on sailboats with different members of his family. There was one large photo on his desk of him and his daughter, Jo. His arm was around her shoulders, her magnificent hair was down—something Fernandez had never seen before. They were holding a championship cup between them. In the background were white sails and blue sky.
The nautical motif was occasionally interspersed with photos of Summers in blue or white hockey jerseys, posing with well-known players from the Toronto Maple Leafs. In the corner was a collection of hockey sticks, apparently signed by members of the team. A glass frame held an old hockey sweater with a big crest that said CORNELL, with a large C in the top left corner.
“What the hell’s going on?” Summers demanded, ripping his gown off and throwing it onto a side chair. He glared at Parish. Fernandez looked at her too.
She took a breath and slowly exhaled. “What’s happening, Your Honor, is that I’m acting on my client’s instructions,” she said, speaking in measured tones. “He’s consenting to his detention.”
Technically, of course, Parish was bound to do what her client told her, and she wasn’t allowed to discuss their conversations with anyone. But that didn’t satisfy an angry judge.
“So I just heard.” Summers sat down and picked up a silver letter opener, which he twirled between his fingers. Fernandez could see that it was engraved with some initials, worn down and hard to read. Probably a family heirloom. “Ms. Parish, if ‘your client’ was going to ‘consent to his detention,’ why did we just go through that whole charade this morning?”
He thwacked the letter opener into his palm. It looked like very fine silver, Fernandez thought.
“And why did you file this stack of material?” he said, stabbing at her thick legal brief with the letter opener. “I was up all night reading this stuff.”
Fernandez picked a point on Summers’s desk and stared at it. It was best to be a humble winner.
“I’m bound by my client’s instructions,” Parish said. From her tone, it was clear that she wasn’t going to say anything else. She shrugged. Fernandez had to admit that she had guts.
Summers seemed to sense her resolve. He turned his gaze on Fernandez, probing for weakness.
“Mr. Fernandez, I know you’ve got these women’s groups tearing up your backside to make an example of Brace. And Chief Charlton wants to pad his police budget. Listen: I read all your materials and those statistics.” Summers yanked out a large brief and turned to a page he’d marked with a yellow sticky tab.
“Four out of five women report they are abused by men. Give me a break.”
He reached behind him and pulled out a folder. “I checked the background of these statistics of yours. The study they’re based on was done in 1993, and abuse is defined as—wait, here it is—‘The three largest contributors to the eighty percent number were, Did he do something to spite you? Did he insult you? and Did he accuse you of having an affair?’” Summers tossed his folder on his desk. “Look, I’m no fan of violence against women, or men or anyone. But come on. Let’s not trivialize things.”
“Yes, Your Honor, but the heart of my submissions was—,” Fernandez said, concentrating on keeping his voice even.
“Look,” Summers said. “The simple statistical fact is that a man convicted of murdering a spouse in a crime of passion is ten times less likely to re-offend than a simple shoplifter. Everyone who works in these courts knows that. Everyone except the bloody press.”
Before Fernandez could get a word in, Summers turned, like a referee at a tennis match, to take in Parish. But now his face had softened. He’d finished playing bad judge; now he was playing good judge.
“Na
ncy, you hear about that game last weekend?” he asked. “Cornell whooped Colgate four to one.”
Parish smiled back. Fernandez had heard she was a hockey player, but he hadn’t known she’d gone to college in the States.
“That was the men’s team, Your Honor,” she said. “Let’s see what happens when the women play next weekend.”
“Touché,” Summers said. He turned back to Fernandez and shrugged. “Excuse us, Mr. Fernandez. Old school rivalries.” He returned to Parish. “You see that Leafs game a few nights ago? I was with the chief justice. Great win. Maybe they’ve turned the corner.”
Parish shook her head emphatically. “Too many older players on the team,” she said. “They’re going to get tired.”
As tempted as he might have been to add his two cents’ worth to the conversation, Fernandez knew that anything he said about hockey would sound ridiculous. Besides, Summers didn’t even consider that he might have an opinion on the subject.
“Listen,” Summers said, sitting back and spreading his arms out, as if to envelop them in his embrace. “We’re in chambers. You’re both excellent counsel. We can speak candidly about this matter, can’t we? Ship to shore?”
Fernandez saw the letter opener flash in the judge’s hand. A big grin unfurled on his ruddy face. It wasn’t really a question.
“Certainly, Your Honor,” Fernandez said.
“Of course,” Parish chimed in.
“Two brilliant young lawyers. A case like this puts the whole judicial system on trial. Every move you two make will be scrutinized.”
Summers looked back at Parish. “Nancy, if you sat down with the Crown’s office, I’m sure something could be worked out. The man’s sixty-three years old, after all. There must be a way to get him bail. Doesn’t belong in the brig.”
Fernandez gripped the sides of his chair. “Young lawyers,” “Crown’s office.” Summers was speaking in code, and his message was very clear. Classic judicial carrot and stick. The carrot: He expected Fernandez to grovel a bit. To say, “in light of Your Honor’s helpful comments,” he’d confer with his colleagues and reconsider the Crown’s position. To try to get on his good side. The stick: If Fernandez didn’t find a way to get Brace out on bail, then Summers would be very pissed off, since he thought that was the appropriate result.
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