“I don’t believe so. But I suppose it is possible.”
“Sergeant Mitchell, doesn’t your entire arrest depend on that call?”
He hesitates before answering. “Yes.”
Justice Dickson is leaning forward. He fixes Mitchell with his eyes. “I think what Ms. Truitt is trying to suggest, Sergeant, is that you have not established a satisfactory connection between the drugs at issue in this case and Mr. Mah. She is suggesting that there are other explanations for the content of the call—explanations that having nothing to do with the drugs found in that coffin.” The judge pauses. “Not to put too fine a point on the matter, Sergeant, Ms. Truitt is suggesting that this may be another case of police tunnel vision.”
Mitchell gestures to the roster in front of him. “The body was there, the two brothers, right there on Flight 839. It all fit. That was enough, we believed.”
“You believed,” repeats Justice Dickson. “This Court operates on the standard of proof beyond a reasonable doubt. You may stand down, Sergeant.” He looks over at me. “Unless you have further questions, Ms. Truitt.”
“No, my Lord.” Three-fourths of the practice of criminal law is knowing when to quit.
“Mr. Olson?”
Craig, in a state of shock, shakes his head.
“The jury is excused,” Justice Dickson intones. I return to my seat at my table. Once Sergeant Mitchell leaves the witness box and the jury has filed out, the judge returns his attention to Craig. “According to your witness list, this officer was your last witness, Mr. Olson.”
“Yes, my Lord.”
“It is manifestly clear to me that Sergeant Mitchell has failed to establish the necessary connection between the accused and the alleged drug shipment. I have not heard such evidence from any other witness, either.”
“My Lord, one may draw inferences from the date and circumstances.”
“Inferences perhaps. But not proof. Not proof beyond a reasonable doubt. Mr. Olson, perhaps you can tell me where that leaves your case?”
Craig takes the path of last resort. “My Lord, may I ask for a brief adjournment while I consider my position?”
“Do you have another witness, perhaps, a witness who can prove a link between the contraband and the accused, Mr. Mah?”
“No, my Lord.” Craig gathers up the tatters of his dignity. “My submission is that the inferences from the circumstances suffice to establish the necessary connection, my Lord.”
“Then I see no need for an adjournment. Mr. Olson, I think your case must fail. Ms. Truitt, do you have a motion to make?”
I rise to my feet. “My Lord, I would ask that you direct the jury to enter a verdict of not guilty.”
The jury files back and Justice Dickson wheezes out the direction. They retire once more. It’s over, I think, the smoke and mirrors were so much easier than I had imagined. When they return two minutes later, the foreman stands, visibly deflated by the odd turn of events this trial has taken and gives the verdict of not guilty.
“Mr. Mah, you are free to go,” Justice Dickson thunders. “Court stands adjourned.”
I look over at Danny Mah. If I expect him to be grateful, I am mistaken. His face contorts in anger as he makes his way over to me at the counsel table.
“What I ship is my business,” he hisses, his chubby hand biting into my wrist. “Learn to keep your mouth shut.”
I pull my arm out of his grasp. “Mr. Mah,” I whisper. “I know nothing about what you have shipped or may ever ship—indeed, I couldn’t care less. My job was to try to get you off. I did my job. That’s all.”
He swivels away wordlessly and marches to the door. The men in leather jackets at the back of the courtroom push off their bench and follow, and I wonder what other pies Danny Mah has his fingers in that he should need such protection.
I breathe a sigh of relief that I am no longer his lawyer. All I can do now is forget it and move on. It’s not the first time I’ve been threatened by a client who thinks I know more than I do. Nothing ever comes of it.
But when I rub at my wrist, I can still see the blue imprints of Danny’s nails on my skin.
CHAPTER 6
BACK AT THE OFFICE IN the late afternoon, I start in on the tasks I set for myself under the shower that morning. But news of my unexpected victory in Regina v. Mah has filtered onto the street, and I find myself interrupted by congratulatory emails and tweets from lawyers who labour in the trenches of the criminal courts and notice such things. I should ignore the kudos but I tell myself that I’m allowed to bask in the glow of professional approval for one day at least. My client may not be pleased, but I’ve done my job.
When I call Vera Quentin, her velvet voice greets me with a soft hello.
“Mrs. Quentin,” I say. “I have decided to take your case.”
A silence ensues, so long I think I’ve lost her. Then I hear a soft sob. “Thank you, Ms. Truitt.”
I want to tell her how difficult this has been, but decide my personal reservations are not what she needs to hear. When I hang up, I dial Joseph Quentin. While a battery of secretaries checks out my bona fides, I make a note to add the minutes I wait each time I phone Joseph to my bill.
“Good afternoon, Jilly.” He sounds tired. “What’s your decision?”
“I just spoke with Vera. I told her I would take her case.”
An audible expulsion of breath. “Thank you. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate this.” He pauses. “I know that this was not an easy decision. I give you my word, I will do whatever I can to help you.”
“That’s appreciated. I will do my best to represent her interests,” I reply.
Next, I text my go-to detective, Richard Beauvais. He replies that he’s buried in a mound of matrimonial-asset investigations but promises to surface sometime after this weekend. I can’t argue—discovering where errant husbands have stashed their millions pays his bills, which cannot be said for my work. Besides, if the courthouse gossip is right, there’s not much to investigate. The case, as they say, is open and shut. Still, I’m determined to follow up on every possible lead.
Finally, Prosecutor Numero Uno, Cy Kenge. There’s a reason I left him for last. I scroll through my contacts and find the private number I vowed never to call again after what he did during the Trussardi case. I push the screen and wait for the ring.
“Jilly,” he answers. “What a surprise. As lovely as it is unexpected. How are you, my dear?”
I want to tell him it’s neither politically correct nor personally appropriate for him to call me dear, but I bite my tongue. I owe him my career. He brought me up through the ranks of the criminal bar. Once I called him my mentor and my friend. But no more. We’ve done battle one too many times and he’s crossed me once too often.
“I’m well enough, thank you.”
He chuckles. “No, no, not just well enough. Reports are that you are brilliant, indeed dazzling of late. Queen of the criminal defence bar.”
“Really?” I’m surprised to hear him say so. Cy has built his entire career exposing and prosecuting the underground networks that fuel Vancouver’s sex trade and drug wars. Whereas I’ve made my name as a lawyer on the other side, someone who believes that everyone, no matter what they’ve done, is entitled to a defence. I still believe that, but of late I’ve occassionally wondered if I have to be the one to provide said defence.
“Getting Danny Mah off—nothing short of astonishing. Bodies are live people, just maybe, and the judge lapped it up. Now that was some feat. But I know you’re not calling to discuss your rising reputation. Or how you’ll stop at nothing to get a notorious criminal back on the street and into business. I once had a soft spot for you, Jilly—before you bought into the ethic of a defence at any cost.” He sighs. “The old Pygmalion story, all those lessons I gave you about going for the jugular, fighting to the bitter end. You learned them. Too well.”
There’s a sting of rebuke between the lines—Regina v. Mah, spinning fantasy into reasonable d
oubt to release a criminal. But unlike Cy, I never break the rules, not technically. I just do my job. I have nothing to regret or apologize for. Still, I feel an unexpected twinge of sympathy.
I walked away from the Trussardi case with battle scars, but so did Cy. Every echoing step he takes in his barn of a house is a reminder that his wife, Lois, is no longer there. I close my eyes, relive the scene that is etched indelibly in my memory. Cy and Lois fighting outside the courthouse after Cy’d routed me at the trial where, in a slippery move, he’d suppressed evidence. Lois had let herself be seconded into his plot and regretted it. I remember her tiny fists pummeling Cy’s bulk, his hands gripping hers, and her body toppling backward into the path of the oncoming bus. I forgive Lois and mourn her loss. Not so much Cy. It’s his fault Lois is gone. And his ploy wasn’t even successful. I got Vincent acquitted in the end.
Now, though, I force myself to say what I should have said long ago. “Sorry about Lois’s passing, Cy. We will miss her.”
“Yeah,” says Cy. His voice cracks. “Thanks.”
Not mine to judge, I think, and move on to business. “This is just a courtesy call, Cy. I’m calling to advise you that I will be acting for Vera Quentin in her murder trial.” I wait while he takes this in.
“You’re aware there is no defence in the case, Jilly.”
“So I’ve been told.”
“And you’re aware that I will fight this trial with every ounce of strength I have. The law’s the law, and it says children should not kill their ailing parents, however much of a nuisance they may be.”
I sidestep the lecture. “You offered a plea bargain. I need to know if it’s still on the table.”
At the other end of the phone, Cy emits a long sigh. “The lovely and slightly crazy Mrs. Quentin is guilty as sin, to use the vernacular. I made that offer for one reason and one reason only—I felt sorry for Joseph Quentin and wanted to spare the family a public airing of the intimate details of their lives.”
“Is the offer still open? Yes or no. I need to advise my client.”
“For what it’s worth, Jilly, the offer’s still on the table, although the closer we get to trial…”
“Leave it with me. I need a few days to get into the case. In the meantime, it would be good of you to send over the documents.”
“Sure.”
“Full disclosure this time, Cy.”
Cy takes the hit without demur. “Absolutely, Jilly. Although there isn’t much. A few police reports. Some medical reports. A psychiatric assessment of Vera. Coroner’s report showing cause of death by morphine—oldest euthanasia in the book, enough morphine to shut down the body functions.”
“While we’re on the subject of the evidence, why does the Crown allege that my client would want to kill her mother? That vital little thing called motive.”
“We have an embarrassment of motives. First, your unfortunate client’s mother was begging her daughter to end it—euthanize her, kill her. Second, Mrs. Quentin was buckling under the strain of looking after her mother—responding to her calls and demands had become unbearable. Third, Mrs. Quentin was suffering from depression and anxiety, impairing her judgment. Take your pick. In the end, she just gave in. Gave Mom a double sleeping potion and offed her with morphine.”
“Compassion killing or nuisance killing, Cy? Hard to run both theories at the same time.”
Cy scoffs. “You always underestimate me, Jilly. I would have thought you’d have learned by now.”
“Right.” I remind myself never to miscalculate the lengths Cy will go to win a case. “Let’s get back to the trial. Any flexibility on timing?”
“Nope. Justice Buller has already granted two adjournments. The last time she made it clear that the trial would proceed on September 27, whether Vera Quentin had a lawyer or not. Frankly, she doesn’t have much choice. We’re at the outside edge of trial within a reasonable time.”
“I figured, but had to ask. Just send me the documents, ASAP.”
“Will do. But when you take a good look at them, you’ll arrive at the same conclusion as Barney and Slaight did. The case is hopeless. Her only option is a guilty plea. Unless she’s yearning for a decade behind bars.”
“We’ll see, Cy.”
“Don’t wait too long. The more I psych myself up for this trial, the less I’m likely to settle for a plea.”
I ignore the insinuation. “Good to talk.”
My hand is halfway to the desk when I hear his voice. It’s his old trick: the call’s over and he comes in with a coda. Sighing, I lift the phone to my ear once more. “Yeah?”
“It’s not about the case,” he says. “I wanted to tell you. I saw Mike the other day.”
It’s been a year and counting since I walked out on Mike. Find someone else, I told him, someone who will fill your empty house with children.
“How is he?” I ask lightly.
“Terrific. He was with a girl, very pleasant, someone up from California he met through some project for IBM. Ashling, I think he called her.”
A hook twists in my stomach. So Mike took those tender-cruel words I flung at him as I made my exit to heart. I should be happy, but all I feel is hollow. I swallow, try to find words.
“I only mention it because he asked after you,” says Cy, filling the vacuum.
“Sure.” I imagine how it was. Mike, smiling down on his new lover, looking back to Cy, Oh, by the way, if you ever see Jilly, say hi. “Thanks, Cy.”
“Thought you’d want to know.”
“Yeah.”
“Goodbye, Jilly.”
The click of the receiver echoes in my ear, and the truths I’ve been avoiding rise up and claim me. I see Cy at his desk, pale hand absently rifling a mess of documents as he ruminates on what his former acolyte has become. I see Mike, leaning to brush the fair Ashling’s ear as he shares some secret. Mike who has moved on, Mike who no longer needs me. I feel the twin anchors of my life shifting beneath my feet, and there is nothing I can do to stop the slide.
As if I want to. I put the phone down and straighten my back. I’m on my own now, so be it. I reach for Vera Quentin’s file and get to work.
CHAPTER 7
IT IS FIVE O’CLOCK, TUESDAY, September 7. The summer is gone, the holiday weekend but a memory. The legal world picks up the thrum of its pre-autumnal beat.
For three days shuttered courts have put justice on ice. But today the systems are up and running with pent-up vigor, sending shock waves through the sleepy legal firmament. Weekend miscreants wake up in jail and dial desperately for lawyers. Office telephones back up. Frantic emails and panicked tweets demand instant action. Jeff, Alicia, and I have spent our day racing from one crisis to the next.
Now the day is done, and calm descends. The courtroom doors have clanged shut; the judges are heading home. Such injustices as remain to be sorted out are on hold until tomorrow.
Liberated from the day’s frenzy, we huddle around the conference table where a banker’s box brings home harsh reality. Regina v. Quentin, the black letters on the side say. This is no longer a hypothetical case to theorize over—to take or not to take—it’s a real case that’s going to trial in twenty short days. And we own it. I don’t like losing, but the events of the weekend suggest that is exactly where we’re headed.
Cy sent an electronic bundle of documents my way late Friday evening. I eyed the long index of files hungrily—no time to think about Cy’s disapproval or Mike’s new love with three thousand densely packed pages of script to devour. Police reports, crime scene data, psychiatric assessments of the accused, gritty details of the final moments of Olivia Stanton’s life. And photos. Photos of the house, photos of the body.
As always, it’s the photos that get me in the gut. In death Olivia was ghastly; in life, I learn, she possessed patrician beauty. The police file is copious—full of photos of happier times, designed to impress the magnitude of her murder on the jurors. Photos of Olivia in youth, photos of Olivia in old age, photos of her
last birthday. Swathed in emerald green, she sits against a bank of pillows. Someone—Vera perhaps?—has strung celebratory birthday ribbons of pink and green from a lamp behind the sofa to tangle in Olivia’s lap. Her face—the same elegant bones her daughter inherited—is gaunt, but her crimson lips part in a rictus smile as she surveys the giant 75 on the cake before her through opaque round glasses. Olivia Stanton may have longed for death, but in this moment she peers out at life, bravely going on. Or so Cy will paint it.
I like to think I’m objective. I tote up the strengths and weaknesses of a case, build on the strengths, counter the weaknesses. I’d rather win than lose, but either way it’s just a job. I’ve learned the hard way that it doesn’t pay to care too much. But Regina v. Quentin has routed my usual sangfroid. I should resign myself to holding Vera Quentin’s hand while she goes down. Instead I’m obsessing about how, against all the odds, I can get her acquitted.
The mood in the boardroom of Truitt & Co. is as sombre as the Gastown dusk that gathers outside the long window. Jeff slumps into a chair, pulls up the sleeves of his navy shirt, and loosens the navy-on-navy tie he put on for Provincial Court that morning. Alicia, face gleaming, black hair skimmed back in a ponytail, patiently awaits what may or may not come. The door pushes open. Richard Beauvais.
“Bon jour, allons y, let’s go,” he says, running a hand through his thick brown hair as he settles into a seat opposite Jeff. Despite his busy schedule, he’s looking rested today. Improbably, an extra day with his wife, Donna, and their twins seems to have proved restorative.
“We have this case,” I say, trying for a tone of nonchalance.
I review the history of the case: the two lawyers who have thrown in the towel, my lunch with Joseph Quentin, my initial meeting with Vera Quentin, and finally, our short window until trial.
“Merde,” Richard says, but he opens the banker’s box and starts rifling through the files.
“Most victims of murder are killed by someone close to them. If it’s not Vera, that leaves the grandson, Nicholas, and the son-in-law, Joseph.” I flip open my legal pad where I’ve made some notes. “Let’s focus on what we know. According to the police, Olivia Stanton recently had the locks changed. Only four new keys were cut—one for her; one for her caretaker, Maria Rodriguez; one for Vera; and one for Joseph. They were Medeco keys and can’t be duplicated so that means only four people had access to the house.”
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