She pulled out the sports page of the Star. At least she could read about the great Leafs victory and the amazing save by the old goal-tender at the end of the game.
The courtroom door opened. Two Crown Attorneys every defense lawyer hated—Phil Cutter and Barb Gild—sauntered in along with Hap Charlton, the Chief of Police. The axis of evil, Parish thought to herself as they sat in the front row.
Fernandez finally came in just before ten. Neat and trim as ever. He approached the counsel table without even looking around the room.
Parish put down her newspaper and walked up to him.
“Albert, I got here before you,” she said, shaking his hand. “That’s a first.”
He just nodded. None of his usual banter. Did he have any kind of hint of what was coming? As ever, Fernandez was impossible to read.
She was tempted to tell him that something was afoot. The only other case they’d had together, when she’d won it, he’d taken it well. He insisted that he hadn’t lost anything. That it wasn’t his job to win or lose.
Parish had laughed when he said that. It was the oldest line in the book for Crown Attorneys.
Maybe he was a good loser. Let’s see if he’s a bad winner.
63
Follow me,” a deep voice called out behind Daniel Kennicott. It was the burly off-duty cop from the construction site. Kennicott hadn’t realized that the man was behind him. He barreled into the crowd, and Kennicott tucked in behind him. They squeezed their way across Queen Street as the chimes of the bell tower finished their four-part introduction.
Bong, it rang out. Nine more to go, Kennicott thought. I’m not going to make it.
The plaza in front of Old City Hall was packed. The off-duty cop kept moving people aside, like a plow cutting through virgin snow.
Bong. Bong. Bong.
They got to the broad steps leading to the front door, and there was an opening. Kennicott took the steps three at a time. A group of hookers were standing in front of the cenotaph smoking, sending out clouds of smoke as he brushed by them.
The clock was up to its eighth bong.
Kennicott kept moving. He had to break through the waiting line. He spotted two bewildered-looking businessmen in suits. Must be a tax-evasion case, he said to himself as he rushed up to them. He could hear the clock bong again.
“Police. Let me through.”
The men looked up, startled, and instinctively parted.
Bong, the clock rang out for the tenth and last time, silence filling the space where the next beat should have been.
Damn, Kennicott thought as he grabbed the big oak door and yanked it open. Inside, he cut his way to the front of the line, grabbed his badge, and waved it at the stunned-looking guard.
“Police, urgent business,” Kennicott yelled as he rushed through the security check and ran into the big main rotunda. It was packed with cops, lawyers, clients, and even a few judges, accompanied by their clerks, rushing to court. Everyone seemed to be talking at once, creating a buzzlike hum.
He charged up the stairs, cut around the corner to his left, and ran headlong toward courtroom 121. The old constable with the bell was still outside. Kennicott waved his badge as he ran up.
“You haven’t started yet?” he practically screamed at the man.
“His Honor was delayed. Had an important phone call. Family business.”
“What luck,” Kennicott said as he rushed inside and stopped. His heart was pounding. His forehead broke out in sweat.
The court was about to begin. Kevin Brace was standing in the prisoners’ box. Fernandez and Parish were on their feet. Up in his chair, Judge Summers was uncapping his old fountain pen. Next to him in the witness-box, Detective Ho was opening his police notebook.
The rest of the courtroom was almost empty. Phil Cutter and Barb Gild were in the front row with Police Chief Charlton. Aside from a handful of reporters, there was only one other person in the audience, an olive-skinned man in an old leather jacket.
Kennicott looked at Phil Cutter. The guy had a smug smile on his face. He thought about Jo Summers and what she’d overheard Cutter say to Gild. The Crown’s office was a place where careers could rise and fall on the whim of whoever was in charge. Just like prisoners who never wanted to rat out their fellow felons, or doctors who’d never point out the mistakes of their colleagues, or cops who’d cover for each other, there weren’t too many Crowns willing to stick their necks out to criticize an office mate.
Kennicott thought about his last moments in Jo Summers’s cottage. He’d hung up the cell phone after talking to Greene, looked at her, and said, “I’ve got to run. You know your father. He’s never late for court.”
“Believe me,” she’d answered, “I know.”
He looked at his plate full of freshly cooked food. “Sorry,” he said. Instinctively he started toward the kitchen with it.
“Just go,” she said, stepping forward and taking the plate from his hands.
For just a moment they stood very close to each other. He reached out for her elbow, and she grasped his biceps. He kissed her and her hand tightened on his arm. It was only a second or two, but it seemed like much longer.
She was the only person who knew he was desperately trying to get to court on time. Her father’s court. And the constable had just told him that Summers was delayed by an important phone call, family business.
“Thanks, Jo,” Kennicott whispered to himself under his breath.
“Oyez, oyez, oyez,” the clerk said, pulling his robes lavishly forward on his shoulders. “All persons having business in this court, please attend and ye shall be heard.”
No one seemed to have noticed Kennicott come in.
The moment the clerk sat down, Nancy Parish said, “Your Honor, I wish to address the court immediately on an urgent matter. I have new instructions from my client. I’m going to be making an application to be removed as counsel, and I believe my client then wishes to address this court.”
Kennicott’s heart was racing, from nerves now, not exertion. After all his running to get here, the next few steps were the toughest to take. He swallowed hard, pushed through the swinging wooden gate, and entered the lawyers’ arena.
Suddenly noticing Kennicott, Summers glared down at him. Parish turned and stared. So did Fernandez.
“Officer Kennicott,” Summers shouted, “what do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m here not as a police officer,” Kennicott said, instinctively straightening his tie, “but as a lawyer. In that capacity I wish to address this court on an urgent matter.”
Summers looked stunned. Good, Kennicott thought. He needed to buy a few seconds to talk to Fernandez and make him adjourn the case before Parish got to speak.
“But you have no standing in this case,” Summers said.
“Your Honor,” Kennicott said, planting his feet firmly, “I could argue that I’m technically a part of the prosecution team. But of greater import, I’m a member in good standing of the Law Society of Upper Canada, and as such I am obliged to act at all times as an officer of the court. I’m making an extraordinary application for standing in your court in order to prevent what I believe could be a serious miscarriage of justice.”
“In thirty years on the bench,” Summers stammered, “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Kennicott moved up to Fernandez. “You need to adjourn for ten minutes,” he whispered.
“Your Honor,” Parish said, raising her voice, “it’s not just extraordinary, it’s improper. I need to address this court immediately.”
Kennicott kept whispering to Fernandez. “Greene just saw Katherine Torn’s mother. You need to hear this.”
Fernandez’s dark eyes widened as he stared at Kennicott. His look seemed odd. Hard to read.
“Mr. Fernandez, what do you say?” Summers said, shouting from the bench.
“If I could have a moment, Your Honor,” Fernandez said. He was remarkably calm.
Kennicott kept ta
lking quietly. “Katherine almost choked her mother to death two years ago. Like Brace, Allison Torn can’t talk anymore.”
“Mr. Fernandez!” Summers was screaming now.
Kennicott tried to read Fernandez’s eyes, but they were expressionless. He kept whispering. “Greene told me to tell you that this is why Mrs. Torn never said a word when you met her in December. Why she always wears a scarf around her neck. The reason Dr. Torn kept her away from you.”
Kennicott willed him to nod in agreement, but Fernandez’s head didn’t budge. He seemed to grow even calmer.
“Mr. Fernandez!” Summers shouted from the bench. He was turning red with anger. “Mr. Kennicott, stand forward.”
“Your Honor, please,” Parish called out.
“Look, Fernandez,” Kennicott hissed. “You just heard Parish say she’s resigning from the case. Brace wants to address the court. He’s going to plead guilty to something he didn’t do to protect his first wife, Sarah McGill. She was there, hiding behind the door. And their son. The autistic one. He lives down the hall. You’ve got to stop this now.”
“I will have a court officer lead Mr. Kennicott out,” Summers shouted from the bench. “And have him cited for contempt. Mr. Fernandez, what do you say?”
Fernandez broke his eye contact with Kennicott. He turned and looked to where Cutter, Gild, and Charlton were sitting. Fernandez nodded, and Kennicott felt a chill go down his spine.
Oh no, Kennicott thought. His heart sank. What have I done? I’ve just shown Fernandez how to win his first homicide case. All he has to do is let Brace plead guilty right now and he’ll be a hero. Then he’ll go after Sarah McGill.
This is it, Kennicott thought, expecting Fernandez to turn back to the front of the court. Instead, he shifted his gaze to the factory worker sitting in the audience. Kennicott took a second look at the olive-skinned man and then studied Fernandez. The resemblance was obvious.
Fernandez’s stone face broke out in the smallest of grins. He reached into his lapel pocket and pulled out a large pen, and he seemed to tip it to the man, who could only be his father, before he turned back to face Judge Summers on the bench.
“Your Honor,” Fernandez said. He placed the pen carefully on the desk. “The Crown has many concerns about the continuation of this prosecution. Unfortunately, certain members of my office have taken actions that compromise the integrity of not just this case, but their higher duty to this court. Moreover, Mr. Kennicott has just confirmed information that would provide Mr. Brace with a complete defense. I thank him for that. There can no longer be said to be a reasonable prospect of conviction in this matter. Nor is it in the interest of the administration of justice to continue with this prosecution. I wish to remind this court, and everyone in this courtroom, that the role of the Crown Attorney is not to win or lose a case, but to ensure that the integrity of the system is upheld. Therefore, Your Honor, the Crown withdraws the charge of first-degree murder against Mr. Kevin Brace.”
For a moment there was total silence in the court. Like the pause between the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder when a storm is overhead.
Summers’s jaw dropped. Parish turned to Fernandez and let out a loud sigh.
Kennicott could hear the reporters scrambling to their feet.
Suddenly a voice came booming in from the audience. It was Phil Cutter up on his feet. “Wait a minute, Your Honor!” he shouted, his words blasting through the silence.
“That’s against Crown policy.” It was Barb Gild, on her feet now too.
The clerk rose, tugging his robes forward, and said, “Silence in the court.”
“Thank you,” Summers said, recovering his cool.
Kennicott looked over at Fernandez.
Fernandez sat down and calmly straightened the edges of his papers. He put the pen carefully back in his pocket. Kennicott wheeled around and looked at the prisoners’ box.
Brace was on his feet, his eyes a whirl of confusion. He lifted his head. Kennicott could see that he was straining to speak. “No . . . I’m . . . I’m . . .” he said, trying to squeeze the words out.
“Silence!” It was Summers. “Officer,” he said, addressing a young court officer who stood beside Brace just outside the prisoners’ box, “is Mr. Brace being held on any further warrants?”
The officer fiddled in his breast pocket, pulled out a narrow piece of paper, and read it for a moment. “No, Your Honor.”
“Any outstanding charges?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Any other detention orders pending trial?”
“No, Your Honor.”
“Officer, do you have any cause to continue the detention of this man?”
The officer scanned his piece of paper one last time. “No, Your Honor.”
“Release the prisoner. Mr. Brace, you’re free to go. This court stands adjourned. God save the Queen.”
Brace seemed utterly baffled. The police officer opened the door to the prisoners’ dock, but Brace didn’t seem to know what to do. Instead of walking out, he turned his back to the officer, his hands still behind him, waiting for the handcuffs to come on.
Out of the corner of his eye Kennicott saw the reporters scrambling to get out of their seats.
He turned to Fernandez, who was calmly packing up his briefcase. For a moment he glanced over at Kennicott and nodded. Kennicott looked at Nancy Parish. She was sitting at her desk, her head in her hands, her shoulders heaving. He looked back at the judge’s bench. Summers gave him a slight smile before he bolted out of his chair.
Then Kennicott felt it. The cleansing wave of it all washing over him. The coursing of clean blood rushing through his veins. The feeling that he so wanted to savor for just one moment of one day for his lost brother. The thing Michael deserved more than everything else. Justice.
PART IV
JUNE
64
I made you some tea,” Jennifer Raglan said as she opened the door to Ari Greene’s room and slipped into bed beside him.
Greene took a pillow and propped himself up.
“Didn’t boil the oxygen out of the water,” she said, laughing a bit as she put a tray between them. There was a teapot, one mug, and a plate of sliced oranges, neatly arranged.
“Thanks,” he said, reaching over for the teapot.
“I’ll do it,” she said.
Greene waited. She filled the mug and passed it over to him.
“Nothing for you?” he asked.
Raglan shook her head. She was wearing one of his black T-shirts. The sleeves were halfway down her forearms.
“I gave notice at the Crown’s office yesterday,” she said, looking straight ahead. “Taking the summer off. When I come back, I’m stepping down as head Crown. I want to go back to prosecuting cases one at a time.”
The mug Greene was holding was very thick. He held it tight, but there was no warmth in it yet.
“The kids are a mess,” she said, shaking her head. “Simon’s talking about quitting hockey, and William left his science project at my house when it was his dad’s week and I was up north on a conference and Dana can’t stand . . .”
Greene reached down and took her hand.
She finally turned her head to him. Her bottom lip was quivering.
“It’s okay,” he said.
“It’s just—just—” She started to cry. The way someone who doesn’t cry very often cries. “The kids just hate this. And I’m afraid they’re going to start to hate me.” She shook her head again. “He’s not a bad man.”
“It’s fine,” Greene said.
“I need to give it one more try. I’m so sorry.” She buried her head in his shoulder.
He lifted her back up. “Nothing to be sorry about,” he said.
She wiped her eyes on the sleeve of his shirt. “Don’t worry,” she said, laughing. “I’m not Ingrid Bergman about to get on a plane.”
He laughed back. “And I’m not Humphrey Bogart walking away into the mist.”
“What are you going to do?” she asked.
Greene shrugged. The answer was obvious. But he was afraid he’d hurt her if he said it. “There’s always another murder,” he said instead.
“And always another woman,” she said, jabbing him playfully in the ribs.
“Now, now,” he said. “You can’t have it both ways.”
She touched his cheek and let out a long sigh. “I don’t have to pick up the kids for another hour and a half.”
He took her hand away from him and held it. “I’m going back up to the Hardscrabble Café for breakfast,” he said. “It’s a long drive.”
She squeezed his hand and nodded. “Never give up, do you?”
“There’s always something I missed,” he said.
She leaned over and kissed him and snuggled into him. “I lied,” she said. “I am Ingrid Bergman. Just hold me, Ari.”
65
Ari Greene is always the detective, Daniel Kennicott thought as he looked out the front windows of his flat and saw the big Oldsmobile drift past his front door. Even though there was plenty of space right in front of the house, Greene parked farther up the street and walked back.
It was a real cop move, probably so instinctive that it was second nature—drive past the scene and take a look at it before you make your entry. And he was ten minutes early. Another cop move.
Kennicott zipped his carry-on suitcase. It took him a few minutes to close up everything in the apartment. He had a note for Mr. Federico about watering his plants for the two weeks he’d be gone.
By the time he got down to the front lawn, Greene was engrossed in conversation with Kennicott’s landlord. The topic, of course, was Mr. Federico’s tomatoes, which were already in full bloom thanks to the unusually hot spring.
“Is full moon today,” Mr. Federico said, pointing to the horizon, where a round early-morning moon hovered over the housetops. “Best day for planting.”
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