“Further, your honour,” Faulkner said, “the Crown will show that Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung had no background or expertise in green energy, a fact that should have been apparent to the accused, Mr. Sandhu. We will also show that a federal grant was approved within two weeks of their meeting with Mr. Sandhu.
“Now, I don’t work in the bureaucracy, your honour, but I’m pretty sure that’s not business as usual in government,” Faulkner said.
“Objection,” Bernstein said, waving his right hand as if batting away a fly. “Opposing counsel is giving testimony.”
“Sustained,” the judge said. Roderick Macpherson was looking particularly flushed this morning. I wondered if he’d taken a wee dram with his morning coffee.
Despite his ruling in Bernstein’s favour, it was clear that Faulkner had given the media another good line for Twitter.
‘In addition, your honour, the Crown’s case rests on the testimony of a number of friends and political supporters of Mr. Sandhu who have intimate knowledge of the matter before us.”
Intimate knowledge, interesting turn of phrase. I wondered how intimate their knowledge would prove to be.
Faulkner carried on, detailing other witnesses and experts that the Crown would call, going into some detail about what she hoped they would say. I had covered enough trials to know that a good Crown’s opening remarks always created the impression of an airtight case and an accused who was undeniably guilty.
This one was special, though. With the usual losers who paraded through court, there wasn’t all that much at stake for the Crown one way or the other. Once the system decided to prosecute a high-profile person like Sonny Sandhu, they were going to get him, whether he was guilty or not. Too many people had told their bosses that this was a solid case. Whether it was or not, the Crown would go for the throat now.
Once the defence had taken a run at it, matters could seem quite different.
In a way, the case looked straightforward. Two shady guys who had engaged in a fraud said that Sandhu had misused his influence. The MP appeared to have received the cash they claimed to have given him. Their deal had gone through, apparently in record time. No doubt Faulkner would soon be telling the court that no windmills were ever built. The Crown would invite the judge to connect the dots. Kris was sure that Bernstein would argue that there might be dots, but they had nothing to do with his client, and everything to do with two crooks that had turned on a bigger target to save themselves.
I rolled those thoughts over in my mind, thinking of an angle for the column. My trademark was filling in the blanks between what was said in court and what was really happening. The other media would report on Faulkner’s opening and presumably the testimony of her first witness. All that would make Sandhu sound guilty. I could put it in perspective, remind people who didn’t follow the courts that there was plenty more to come, that they were only hearing one side of the story. It wasn’t going to win a National Newspaper Award, but once you found an angle, a column would come together. The deadline jitters I had experienced earlier started to dissipate.
It was an approach that might help me connect with Gail Rakic, too. My instinct said that she would know a great deal that wasn’t likely to come out in court. Winning her trust would be a challenge, but it would give me some insight and angles that no other journalist would have.
At the front of the courtroom, Sharon Faulkner was wrapping up.
“In conclusion, your honour, the Crown will show, beyond any reasonable doubt, that Mr. Sandhu is guilty of this offence.”
“Well, that’s certainly the standard,” Macpherson said drily. He looked at the clock on the courtroom wall and said, “It’s now 11:45. Do you think it feasible, Ms. Faulkner, to deal with your first witness before the lunch break?”
“No, your honour. I will require more time than that.”
“In that case . . .”
Bernstein rose to his feet to catch the judge’s attention. “Your honour, if I may?”
“Not objecting to the lunch break I hope, Mr. Bernstein?”
“Not at all, your honour. With the leave of the court, I would like to present my opening remarks before Ms. Faulkner begins to call her witnesses. As we can see from the substantial media presence here today, this is a matter that will be tried, not just within these four walls, but in the court of public opinion. I intend to present quite a different version of the events the Crown has described here this morning. I would like the public to hear that version, so that they can weigh those competing stories in a timely manner. Your honour, I don’t think this court should let the Crown’s interpretation of this matter stand unchallenged.”
“Well, that’s why we have a trial isn’t it, Mr. Bernstein? Your request is a bit unusual, but perhaps not unreasonable. Let me ponder it over the lunch hour. Both of you be ready to begin when we return. One p.m. sharp.”
With that, the judge got to his feet and swept out of the courtroom, the assembled mass of gawkers and media struggling to their own feet to show respect and relieve the cramps caused by the hard courtroom benches.
THREE
I went into the washroom and soaped my hands under hot water, again and again. Despite the shower I had taken earlier, I imagined that there were still some last vestiges of blood. In the courtroom, I had been totally engrossed in the trial and what I would write about it. As soon as the break started, my thoughts turned again to the jumper. Vivid images of her death flooded my mind. I couldn’t shake the sight of the young Asian woman impaled by sharp iron spikes. What a way to die. I was glad that I had at least gotten her off the fence. It hadn’t saved her life, but no one should have to be displayed like that for the public to gape at.
In the last minute of her life, the dead woman’s eyes had been wide open, staring at me, and yet they revealed none of her secrets. Why had she done it? What had literally tipped her over the edge? When a woman killed herself, it was usually because of a man. Who was the other player?
There was bound to be money involved, too. Despite its somewhat decrepit condition, the Prince Albert was pricey. You didn’t get in there unless you had some and the woman looked young, surely in her 20s.
I knew about dark places and how they could make suicide seem like a rational act. Fortunately, rational acts weren’t my style. Every blow somehow made me tougher. That’s what I told myself on the bad days.
Maybe if the jumper had the same kind of self-protective instincts, she wouldn’t have ended up on the fence, or maybe she had experienced things I couldn’t even imagine.
All I could do now was tell her story. I felt like I needed to explain her death, to give her a name, at least. The little bit of information I had quickly put together would likely appear under a heading like, “Woman dies in apartment plunge.” Anyone deserved more than that.
When the cops contacted me later to take a witness statement, I would see what I could squeeze out of them. Maybe there would be a weekend column in it.
I rushed down to the food court and grabbed a sandwich. It was some kind of slimy ham and what purported to be cheese, although it had been described as “artisan.” Like most things in the courthouse, that was more a contention than a fact. I ate half, then chucked it in a metal waste bin and headed back upstairs to the courtroom.
I liked to be a few minutes early, to check out the waiting area to see what I could discreetly overhear. The scuttlebutt from the civilians who had watched the morning’s proceedings was that Sandhu was clearly guilty, but people tended to be persuaded by the last thing they had heard. If Bernstein got his chance to open, in a couple of hours these same people would probably be sure the politician was innocent. I certainly hoped the judge was going to let Bernstein have his at bat. It would make it a whole lot easier to write a column criticizing the Crown’s case.
People had just settled into their seats when the court clerk said “All rise,” and Macpherson reappeared. He didn’t waste any time getting started. “Mr. Bernstein, I have considered
your request over the break. I am certainly alive to the fact that perception is an element of what’s before us here today. I wouldn’t count on a lot of other concessions, but I am prepared to let you take your turn now. Please proceed.”
Bernstein got to his feet and said, “Thank you, your honour. I will try to keep it brief.”
Macpherson smiled at that. The word “brief,” at least as it related to time, had no fixed meaning in the legal world.
With a quick glance back at the reporters in media row, Bernstein began. “Your honour, the Crown’s case, as just outlined, is a curious mixture of supposition and testimony that I will show the court is unreliable, at best.
“Consider the Crown’s two key witnesses, Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung. By their own admissions to the Crown,” Bernstein said, tapping the binder in front of him, “these two gentlemen colluded to defraud the government, and yet they face no charges. As the defence will show, Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung have a long history of dubious business practices.
“And yet, the Crown would have the court believe that despite their consistent track records, these two witnesses will tell the truth.
“As the Crown indicated, its case will also rely heavily on an extensive forensic examination of Mr. Sandhu’s financial records. Records, I might add, that my client offered voluntarily. Not to spoil the suspense your honour, but the Crown will not be able to identify even ten cents that passed improperly from Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung to my client, Mr. Sandhu.”
Glancing back at the reporters again, Bernstein underlined the point. “Not a dime, your honour.”
“Please address the court, not the media, Mr. Bernstein,” Macpherson said, showing a touch of irritation.
Bernstein ignored the mild rebuke and carried on. “Now, the Crown is going to direct the court down a complex path, a trail of breadcrumbs if you will, that the Crown asserts links Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung’s money to Mr. Sandhu.
“And how are they going to do that? Do they have a witness that saw a briefcase of money?
“No your honour, they do not. Instead what they have is a political event that these two witnesses organized for Mr. Sandhu’s riding association. The Crown is going to take the commonplace business of political fundraising and portray it as something that benefited Mr. Sandhu personally, when it emphatically did not.”
That was new. I could see the excitement of the reporters who were madly thumbing out Twitter updates. Over at the Crown table, Sharon Faulkner was examining her manicure, as if Bernstein’s attack was barely worthy of her attention.
“The Crown will take the thin tissue that connects these three men and stretch it beyond the very limits of elasticity, your honour.”
Bernstein paused to make sure the media would have time to get that one down. He knew the value of colourful phrases and he wielded them like a stiletto.
“Now, we have to ask ourselves why, then, is Mr. Sandhu here today? What are the motives that underlie this case? The Crown would have the court believe that Mr. Sandhu was willing to risk his good name and a rising political career to put $25,000 in his pocket, even though Mr. Sandhu and his family are quite wealthy.
“The Crown would have the court ignore the fact that Mr. Gill and Mr. Fung clearly have a motive to transfer their guilt to Mr. Sandhu, to save their own skins. The defence will also show that there are others who would benefit from casting the routine work of politics as some kind of shady affair, indeed have benefited from Mr. Sandhu being displaced from his position as a leading figure in the Conservative Party.”
This seemed to electrify the three dark-suited political aides in the front row. Two furiously worked their iPhones while the third shot up the aisle, phone in hand. Bernstein’s allegations were vague, purposely so, no doubt. The defence lawyer’s move was designed to get the media speculating about political names other than those of his client.
“These individuals will be called to testify under oath as to what they know about this matter,” Bernstein said.
A wise lawyer had told me long ago that simply being under oath wouldn’t compel people to tell the truth. The smart ones always stuck to their story. Still, Bernstein’s ploy was certain to be effective. I would almost guarantee that Luc Champagne’s name had already been mentioned in social media. Sandhu had been his parliamentary assistant at Industry and later his chief rival for the party leadership.
This was going to play well with the media, but it would take more than supposition to impress Macpherson. What did Bernstein really have up his sleeve?
“Your honour,” Bernstein continued, “I said I would be brief, and I don’t intend to reveal my entire case here today. I did feel, in the interests of fairness and getting at the truth of this matter, that certain points had to be made at the outset. I thank you for giving me that opportunity.”
Bernstein had made a number of reportable points, offered a couple of quotable phrases and hadn’t gone on long enough to exceed the attention span of the average reporter. In all, a nice piece of work and so much the better because he had made my job easier. I could already see the shape of my column in my mind.
“Thank you Mr. Bernstein. I will wait with interest to see how you support these points,” Macpherson said with the understated scepticism that was his trademark. I had seen him in action before. He was a dry old coot, but he knew how to cut through the BS.
The judge glanced at the clock and said, “Is the Crown prepared to proceed with its first witness?”
Sharon Faulkner rose and said, “We are your honour. We would like to call Mr. Vikram Gill.”
“And how long do you think you will be with this witness?”
“Several hours, your honour.”
“Any prospect of finishing with him by the end of the day?”
“Unlikely, I’m afraid.”
“Well then, we’ll have to run late. Half an hour break, then we resume.”
Macpherson was up and gone in a swish of black robes before the clerk could even bring the spectators to their feet.
The break was unexpected, but I decided to take advantage of it.
FOUR
Cutting Gail Rakic loose from the Sandhu herd was going to be a challenge, but I decided to play a hunch. I had noticed the nicotine stains on Gail’s hands that morning and she had disappeared in a hurry when the lunch break was called, not joining her husband while he conferred with his lawyers.
I understood the compulsion of smoking addiction better than most. After sitting patiently in court, knowing that the whole room was staring at her, Gail Rakic would be twitching for a smoke.
People spilled out of the courtroom into the hallway. The reporters headed towards the temporary media room to file brief hits on the developments since the last break. Some of the onlookers broke into social groups, others headed for coffee.
Gail Rakic was powering down the stairs, heading for the exit. Definitely smoke time. I hung back and allowed her to get a bit of a lead so that it wasn’t too obvious that I was following her. Getting Sandhu’s wife to talk was a long shot, but it would be a great exclusive if I could pull it off.
Gail’s body language in court suggested that she was seething with anger. Her clenched jaw, overly erect posture and refusal to acknowledge anyone around her except her husband told me that she was furious at the turn her life had taken. And who could blame her? In only a few months she had gone from being a wealthy Conservative power bitch to being Mrs. Felon. She’d blame someone. The most obvious choice was her husband, but Gail was there beside him, even if there was a bit of space between them. Perhaps her anger was directed at whoever had blown the whistle on him. All the Crown and police had said so far was that Sandhu’s problem came to light because of an internal report.
Anyway, it didn’t matter. The angry wife was a good story, whatever direction the anger was pointed.
As Gail walked out of the courthouse through the revolving doors, a stiff breeze nudged her blond hair, but only a little bit. She reflexively raised her righ
t hand and fussed with it, making sure everything was still in place. Gail wasn’t even ten feet from the door when she pulled a cigarette from her purse, then turned her back to the wind to light it. I slowed and pretended to check my phone. I wanted Gail out of sight of any of Sandhu’s handlers before trying to start a conversation.
Gail headed to the paved courtyard between the courthouse and City Hall. The old part of City Hall was a former women’s teachers college, a Gothic stone pile that looked like a miniature of the Parliament Buildings and was typical of the jumble of old and new that characterized downtown Ottawa. The stone buildings now had a modern office building tacked on, and people with business at City Hall were walking past Gail in both directions, seemingly unaware of her celebrity.
The temperature had risen since I had first entered the courthouse and had reached that point where it felt neither warm nor cold. The sky was a light blue, cloudless. It was a perfect day, unless you happened to be Gail Rakic or that poor woman who had jumped from my building. I was seeing a theme here, men who messed up and women who paid the price. It probably went back to Odysseus, maybe longer.
I put the jumper from my mind and focused on Gail. She was already nearing the end of her first cigarette, drawing greedily on it like the nicotine was as comforting as a mother’s breast. Gail examined what was left of the cigarette, then stubbed it out with a shiny, black high-heeled shoe. I was sure they were from some famous designer and so expensive that a mere newspaper writer couldn’t even afford to dream of owning them.
I wondered which Sandhu loved more, Gail or her daddy’s money and connections? Gail wasn’t exactly the kind of wife I had expected a heart-throb like Sonny Sandhu to have. She had the big boobs that men liked, but unfortunately, she had hips to match. She must hate them. I pegged Gail as about 35, but in a few years she would be a matron. You could see the middle-aged spread starting already. They said black was slimming, but Gail’s dress had met its match. Even being rich couldn’t make you thin.
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