I wondered if I had ever had a shot at saving the woman, and why I had tried. You don’t jump off a six-storey building if you want to live. In my own darkest moments, I had thought about not going on, but I would have gone out painlessly with an overdose of pills and a chaser of Jameson, a Leonard Cohen tune on the stereo. How could someone stand on a roof, six storeys up, teetering on the edge with life behind them and death in front of them and decide to go over? I couldn’t do it.
It was time to do my job. I knew I had only minutes before the police took over, with the central station just blocks away. I picked up a bottle of water that had fallen to the ground in the chaos, poured it over my blood-stained hands, then wiped them dry with a handful of napkins from a container on one of the patio tables. It would have to do for now. I tried not to think about blood-borne diseases.
Adrenaline helped push me into the routine of work. I used my iPhone to fire off four quick shots of the woman, then a few more of the scene, showing horrified onlookers across the street. The city desk would want video, too, but there was a limit to how far I would go towards what the new corporate speak called “embracing the digital culture.” What they really would have wanted was a picture of the poor girl impaled on the fence, but there was no way I was going to stand by taking pictures while she bled out. In the end, my efforts to save her had been futile, but I had to try.
I called the city desk, to tell them what I had. “Peterson,” a gruff voice answered.
Bad luck. I’d hoped to get Barry Peterson’s sharp young assistant, Melinda Khoury. Peterson himself was a superannuated warhorse who finally rose to city editor only because there was no one else left to do the job after continuous rounds of buyouts. Peterson, an alcoholic, couldn’t afford to stop working.
“Barry, it’s Kris. We’ve got a jumper downtown, right in front of my building.”
“Humph, suicide then. Sounds routine. We don’t normally cover suicides.”
I was all too familiar with the Petersons of the news business. They’d seen it all before. Nothing ever excited them. If flames came out of Peterson’s ass and ignited his pants, he’d remain calm and say he’d seen the same thing back in ’82.
“She was actually impaled on a spiked fence and there is a crowd of screaming people in the street.”
“Gruesome,” Peterson said. “Now you’re talking. How quick can you give me a web hit?”
“Five minutes. I’ve got some pictures I can upload right now. I’ve got the woman, and the crowd reaction.”
“All right. Give me all of it. We’ll post it and if people complain about the body pictures, we can pull them off the site.”
I decided not to tell Peterson about my attempt to save the woman’s life. Then he’d want some kind of self-glorifying first-person account.
“You want me to keep on this?” I asked.
“No, she’s most likely a jumper. Unless she’s someone prominent, it will be a brief by this afternoon. We need you down at the Sandhu trial.
“You say she jumped from your building. I don’t suppose you can ID her, can you?”
I thought the woman did look vaguely familiar, once I imagined her standing in the building’s creaky old elevator rather than impaled on the fence. I saw a young Asian woman in the morning sometimes. Well dressed, carrying a briefcase. Sometimes she was with a man, but I couldn’t visualize him. I wondered if there was a husband or a boyfriend who was going to be in for a shock. I had never spoken to the woman, though. The Prince Albert was a building that housed quite a few government and media types. It was a somewhat uncomfortable mix and people respected each other’s privacy.
“Don’t know who she is,” I said. “And I’m not going to go fishing in her pockets for ID. I’ll file in five, then head over to the court.”
I sat at one of the empty tables and started to type. I would knock off 200 words and file to Peterson by e-mail.
I wondered who the woman was and what had made her end her life in such a spectacular way. If she was really so desperate to die, the fence had been a blessing. There was no saying the fall would have killed her otherwise. If she’d hit one of the umbrellas on the patio, for example, she might have lived, only to experience years of pain and disability.
The story I e-mailed to Peterson was bare bones, the few paragraphs the web demanded. Not that I knew even the most basic facts, except to say that an Asian woman who appeared to be in her early 20s had fallen to her death from the roof of an apartment building on Elgin Street at 8:10 on a bright and hopeful spring morning. I decided not to call her a jumper, although she almost certainly was. My natural curiosity made me want to know more, but Peterson was probably right. By this time tomorrow, at best, the woman’s death would be bumped from the news cycle by some other macabre event.
The Sandhu trial was going to top every front page and newscast today and I had to get moving before I got tangled up with police questioning. I also needed a shower, preferably scalding hot. Despite my attempt to wash them, my hands were stained with blood and I could still taste the dead woman’s lipstick on my mouth.
It was a horrifying start to the day, but curiously, it made me feel glad to be alive. There was nothing like someone else’s death to give perspective on your own life. Suddenly, my day didn’t seem so bad.
I finished the brief story and hit send. I was done, but the images of the woman’s death continued to run through my mind like a GIF. I saw the horrified face, the flowing hair, the rapid descent, the terrible impalement, and finally, I heard the last two words she uttered, “Help me.”
If only I could.
TWO
As I walked up Elgin toward the courthouse, I tried to clear my mind, but it was a futile attempt. As soon as I pushed out the images of the jumper, they were replaced by my creepy dream about Sonny Sandhu.
I had been looking ahead to my first day back on the job with a combination of fear and anticipation, but I hadn’t figured that it would start with me trying to save a life and ultimately witnessing a death. I reached into my purse and pulled out the cigarettes that I shouldn’t be keeping there, then put them back. I couldn’t start falling apart now.
The courthouse was situated beside City Hall in the heart of institutional Ottawa, just five blocks from Parliament Hill. I could see the crowd around the entrance of the court when I was still a block away. The curved drive that led to the building was swarming with reporters carrying TV cameras and microphones. Everyone wanted a shot of the accused MP as he headed into court. I knew they were all hoping Sandhu would allow himself to be scrummed, but it would be a stupid play on his part.
As I got closer to the courthouse, I felt a familiar depression. Although I spent a large part of my work day there, I hated the building. It was a modern atrocity. I didn’t know much about architecture, but even I could see that. It was a windowless concrete mass, its walls punctuated by what looked like boulders erupting. I had never seen anything like it, anywhere. Maybe it was meant to give the accused a feel for what prisons looked like.
I decided to take a chance and pass up the crowd scene out front. I knew the rest of the media gaggle would be gossiping and speculating on how the Sandhu trial would unfold, but I wasn’t really in the mood for it. Maybe it had something to do with the jumper, or maybe I just didn’t like being part of a pack. When I covered trials now, most of the other reporters acted like pals and were eager to help each other out so that no one missed an angle. What had happened to competition? When one of your rivals missed a story, you were supposed to be happy.
I ducked into the courthouse through the revolving glass doors and went up the steps to the security area. Not too long ago, anyone could walk into the building. Now, it was like an airport for people who weren’t going anywhere. Bored security staff went through the motions, eyeing the endless parade of lawyers and losers with only mild interest.
Behind them there was a three-storey atrium that was the only source of natural light in the gloomy building. The c
ourtrooms themselves and offices for the Crowns and judges ringed the atrium. Everything in the building was either concrete or a greyish bland fabric. Despite the constant human drama that took place there, the courthouse was as soulless as a parking garage. Over the years, I had worked in some ornate nineteenth-century courthouses, the ones that sent the message that justice was a grand and important thing. Perhaps that was debatable, but it seemed preferable to a government processing centre.
The courtrooms themselves were like a series of theatres, each presenting a different type of drama. On the lower level, number two was used for trials or pleas. Number three was usually for bail hearings. First appearances were held in six, for accused who were in custody. Number four was where they tried domestic assaults. Sometimes the sexual assault cases that went there could produce a good column. Number eight was the drug court. The provincial courts were on the ground floor and the superior courts on the top floor. Sandhu’s trial was in 36, one of the biggest. Whoever had designed the building was literal-minded, with the most important courts and their judges being just a little closer to God.
If you were going to cover the courts, you needed to know what was likely to produce a story, because it was all happening at the same time. My normal routine was to check the dockets at the number two desk to see what sounded promising, but court was like any other beat. You counted on your contacts to point you to the best stuff. That meant having a good relationship with the Crowns and the key defence lawyers.
I figured I was in solid shape with Ben Bernstein, Sandhu’s defence lawyer. I had covered a lot of his cases and I had been pretty good to him. It wasn’t much of a challenge. Bernstein could always be relied on to present clear arguments and he had a knack for framing media-friendly quotes. In past cases, Bernstein and I had engaged in a little off-the-record briefing. It helped me understand his strategy, but I wasn’t naïve. It was his way to try to get his preferred interpretation of the day’s events into the paper.
I wasn’t so sure about the assistant Crown attorney on the case. Sharon Faulkner was a 35-year-old former Canadian national team hockey player who looked like a peppy soccer mom, but she knew how to battle in the corners. I’d seen her get her elbows up with lots of defence lawyers, and most of them came away bruised. I didn’t think it was fair, but Faulkner regarded me as too friendly to the defence. Maybe it was because I had seen the Crown put up too many weak cases.
I headed straight up the concrete stairs to the third floor. I wanted to make sure I got in ahead of the reporters who were still milling around out front waiting for Sandhu. They hadn’t unlocked the courtroom yet, but there was already a crowd of people waiting to enter. Trials were free entertainment and there was a regular group of retirees who came to the courts for their daily outing.
I recognized Rose Malone, a woman of about 75 dressed like she was going to a high society party, makeup perfect, hair just done and a red dress that looked like it came from Nordstrom. Not that I shopped at Nordstrom, but I had wandered through on my way to catch a bus. Rose had either been a lawyer or thought she had been. I was never sure which. I knew from previous trials that Rose would try to buttonhole me, to give her critique of the proceedings. It was one of the things I didn’t like about a long trial. It felt as if you were trapped with the lawyers, cops and hangers-on. It was like a cruise, but without the booze or the scenery.
At least the old folks were harmless. I wasn’t so sure about the three clean-cut young men in dark suits who sat in identical poses, like three crows on a wire. All three were hunched over their iPhones, getting their marching orders for the day. They didn’t interact with the others in an unsuccessful attempt to be discreet, but they were obviously political aides from the Hill, there to give their masters a blow-by-blow on the Sandhu trial. I expected one was a Conservative focused on ass covering, one a Liberal watching for references to Sandhu’s former boss, the turncoat Luc Champagne, and the third an NDPer looking for moral outrage. His job would be the easiest.
The court security officer swung open the heavy oak door of the courtroom and the crowd began to surge in. People hurried to their favourite spots, but politely. This was Ottawa. My own choice was back row, right-hand side. I liked to see everything unfold in front of me and it let me slip out the back when required.
I had just stood up when the elevator door opened and Sonny Sandhu and his entourage stepped off. Sandhu didn’t look much like the man from my dream. His dark suit was expensive and perfectly pressed, but his expression was as flat as his lapels. His movements seemed awkward and forced and he had already put on what would be his courtroom expression, that of a man who had encountered an unexpected problem, but one he could overcome with diligence and attention. His wife, Gail, was at his side, half a step back and looking as if she had just rushed from somewhere. Gail Rakic had a broad Slavic face that could be described as attractive. Her unnaturally blond hair was frozen in the kind of windproof do that TV reporters favoured. She wore a black suit that was neatly tailored, sensible black shoes and a single strand of pearls. It seemed a little too close to what one would wear to a funeral. Rakic’s father, Dragan, was big development money from Brampton, just west of Toronto, and a major donor to the Conservative Party. It was one of the little twists that made the Sandhu tale so interesting.
Ben Bernstein was to Sandhu’s right. In his black court robes, the lanky lawyer looked like a bird of prey. Trailing the big three were two other lawyers: Paul Pitman, whose black-rimmed glasses made him look sexy in a Clark Kent kind of way, and Aimee Nicholson, a redhead whose main function would be to drag big boxes of evidence on a little cart. Everyone had to start somewhere.
The courtroom’s three blocks of seats were quickly filled. Sandhu nodded to his supporters, mostly people from the Indian community and a smattering of teenage girls who should have been in class. Because Sandhu’s alleged crime didn’t involve anything as crude as violence, there had been no need to sit him in the glasssided box that was used to contain lesser types of accused. He ushered his wife into the front row, right hand side, then sat beside her in the seat nearest the aisle. He reached for her hand and then held it up, making sure everyone could see him doing it. It was a touching show of support, but I wasn’t convinced it was genuine. One of my goals was to get a few minutes alone with Gail Rakic, to gauge what she really thought. Sometimes the best stories took place outside the courtroom and the dynamics between this couple had to be worth writing about.
At the front of the court, Bernstein sat with the other two defence lawyers at the table to the right, flipping through the thick binder that contained the facts of the case, as disclosed by the Crown. On the left, Sharon Faulkner conferred with a middle-aged man who wore a navy suit, well-cut, a white shirt and a red tie with a small polka-dot pattern. His grey hair was gelled and a little bit spiky, his goatee beard close cropped. Probably the lead investigator, although the quality of the suit didn’t say cop. Faulkner had her thick dark hair drawn back in a French twist. Combined with her black robes, it gave her the appropriate appearance of seriousness.
Everyone was waiting for The Honourable Roderick Macpherson to enter the courtroom, but they didn’t have to wait long. The judge valued punctuality.
“All rise,” the court clerk said and everyone got to their feet as ordered. It must be nice to have a job where everyone stands up when you enter the room and bows when they leave your presence. One of the reasons I sat in the back row was because it allowed me to avoid the bowing. I was all for rules, as long as they only applied to other people.
It was difficult for any judge not to look distinguished while wearing the black robes, red sash and the badge of office that looked like an important military decoration, but Macpherson’s face could be most charitably described as well-worn. He had a bulbous nose, deep bags under his eyes and a perpetual squint. His hair was full on the sides, sparse on the top and he had a greyish-white goatee that made him look like an unkempt Colonel Sanders.
The judge nodded to the Crown and the defence, then said, “All right then, Ms Faulkner, are you ready to proceed?”
“Yes, your honour. What we have before us today is a case of political corruption at the highest levels of this country. Mr. Sonny Sandhu, a former minister of the Crown, stands accused under Section 121 of the Criminal Code with the offence commonly referred to as influence peddling.
“The Crown will show that Mr. Sandhu and his associates, Mr. Thomas Fung and Mr. Vikram Gill, engaged in a business arrangement whereby Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung were able to use Mr. Sandhu’s influence with the government to receive preferential treatment for a proposed green energy project, specifically, a wind farm.
“The Crown will show that, in fact, the supposed power project was nothing more than a sham and that Mr. Sandhu and his associates were fully aware of that when Mr. Sandhu sought, and the government approved, a grant in the amount of $1.5 million. In exchange for arranging that grant, the Crown will show Mr. Sandhu received an illegal cash payment of $25,000. Both Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung will testify to that.”
There was the weakness in the Crown’s case. If the two crooks had bagged $1.5 million, why was Sandhu’s cut so small? And why would a guy who had married into money risk throwing it all away for a relatively tiny sum?
“In addition, your honour, Inspector Terry Carmichael of the RCMP commercial crime branch will testify as to the results of a thorough examination of Mr. Sandhu’s finances.”
Faulkner gestured toward a stack of banker’s boxes piled six feet high to the left of Crown’s table. God knew what was in them, but one was supposed to get the impression that there was all sorts of dirty stuff. Faulkner was definitely playing to the media. I could see my colleagues across the back of the courtroom furiously tweeting the details of the Crown’s allegations.
Ben Bernstein sat with his arm draped across the back of his chair, half turned so that he could watch Faulkner’s performance. Bernstein affected a look of studied indifference, as if Faulkner were referring to a number of jaywalking citations. To his right, Paul Pitman and Aimee Nicholson tried to wear exactly the same expression as their boss. Behind them sat an even larger stack of document boxes. Sandhu himself sat erect on the hard wooden bench, staring straight ahead.
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