“Goodbye,” I say out on the street, and feel the pain of the word.
CHAPTER 17
FRIDAY, NOT THE THIRTEENTH, BUT the bad luck vibe from whoever is pursuing me persists. The unmarked car outside my condo this morning—the police patrol Stan promised—only made it worse. My little team, at the end of a tough week, seems to share my mood. I walk into the office in the morning to find them discussing plans. They’ll get through their must-do lists and bog off early for a safe evening at home. Jeff will treat Jessica to oysters and halibut fresh from the sea at the Blue Water Café, a short walk from their condo. Alicia, bushed from a grueling week in Provincial Court, will take the SkyTrain straight home to her condo in Metrotown. The ever-resilient Debbie advises me from beneath fake lashes that she’s met yet another new man and is heading out for some preparatory self-care. “Go for it,” I say. As for me, I will see Mike tonight, my reward for a long, grueling week of runarounds.
Richard hasn’t made any headway with Black and Conway. Dr. Menon has been booked solid at his clinic. I’m starting to feel like nobody wants to talk to me. Not even Olivia’s friend, Elsie Baxter.
While I toiled in the courts yesterday on the constitutionality of mandatory minimum sentences, Debbie spent her time cajoling, threatening, and beseeching Elsie Baxter to come into the office for an interview. To no avail.
“That’s it,” Debbie told me when I returned from court, washing the memory of Elsie away with a wring of her hands. “I will never speak to that woman again.”
I know better than to argue with Debbie. Now it’s up to me.
I pick up the phone. If I tell Elsie I want to talk to her about the trial, she’ll hang up. I detest duplicity, but it’s the only available option.
“Hello,” a deep female voice rasps on the other end.
“Am I speaking to Miss Baxter?” I ask in the sweetest tones I can muster.
“Who is this?” Her tone is wary.
“I’m a lawyer. Your name has come up in connection with a bequest to the Society for Dying with Dignity. I need to discuss the matter with you, Miss Baxter.” Not a lie, but not the whole truth either.
“Finally,” Elsie says. “I knew Olivia would leave us something. What took you so long?” A note of suspicion creeps into her voice. “You’re not from that law firm that’s defending Vera Quentin?”
“In fact, I am. My name is Jilly Truitt.”
“Goodbye.”
“If you hang up, you will regret it,” I say quickly.
I’ve lost her, I think. I’ll have to get in my car and waste the morning trying to corner her in person. And then her voice comes through.
“What do you mean, I will regret it?”
“My investigation leads me to believe that you may be a material witness in Vera Quentin’s murder trial. You were the second-to-last person to see Olivia Stanton before she died, and you discussed her will and a bequest to the Society for Dying with Dignity.”
“So what? None of that has anything to do with the fact that Vera Quentin killed her mother.”
“Let me rephrase,” I say. “It may have everything to do with discovering who killed Vera Quentin’s mother.”
“Goodbye, Miss Truitt.”
“Then you leave me no choice. I will have to force you.”
“You can’t do that. We still live in a free society.”
“Perhaps not as free as you suppose. The law requires every person who can shed any light on a crime to testify. And it has the power to compel them. In other words, Miss Baxter, you don’t have a choice. Or more accurately, the only choice you have is this: come to my office voluntarily and tell me what you know now, or wait for law officers to arrest you and bring you in by force.” I let my words sink in. “And don’t think you can evade service. Make no mistake, they’ll find you, maybe put you in jail to boot for not cooperating with justice.”
I think it’s over when I hear a snort. “Very well. But you’ll see, I have nothing to add. Ten thirty on Monday.”
“Today.”
“Monday. I have commitments today that I cannot break.”
I flip open my calendar. Kevin Brandt, another client, is scheduled for ten thirty that day. “Very well, Monday at nine.”
“Ten,” says Elsie Baxter, splitting the difference. She likes to be in control, even when she isn’t.
“Ten then.” I’ll just have to make it work. I hang up, unsure how hopeful I am to feel about this small, hard-won victory.
CHAPTER 18
AFTERNOON ARRIVES, AND MY OUTLOOK hasn’t improved. I spend the day poring over the police files, looking for a tangible clue with no luck. Instead I found an email chain between Olivia and Vera, showing Olivia imploring Vera to end her life in the days before her death, buttressing Cy’s theory that Vera finally gave in to her mother’s demand.
The phone interrupts my musing. “It’s Cy,” says Debbie, and puts him on.
Cy doesn’t waste time on pleasantries. “I’m calling to tell you the plea bargain will be off the table as of five o’clock tonight. Either your client agrees or it’s full steam ahead for the trial.”
Cy had warned me that the plea offer might not last forever. But the abruptness of his ultimatum rocks me. It’s the old Cy, that much I can figure out. What I can’t deduce is whether his volte-face is personal or just a reversion to business as usual.
“I’ll tell her,” I say tersely.
“Last chance.”
“Cy, stop bullying. I will convey your message to my client. But you should know, I don’t think she will accept.”
“Then she is a fool.”
“It’s not my job to disparage my clients. I just take their instructions,” I say. “Speaking of jobs, where are the statements from the doctors you intend to call? You sent me your witness list, but I’m entitled to know what they’re going to say.”
“You’ll have them soon,” says Cy, like the rules are irrelevancies. “Getting back to the offer, let me know what your client’s answer is. Before five.”
The line goes dead. No goodbye, no see you. I put my phone down and peer out to the reception area.
“Get Mrs. Quentin,” I tell Debbie. “I need to see her. Now.”
Forty minutes later, Vera walks into the boardroom where Jeff and I sit. I gesture to the empty chair on the other side of the table. “Good day, Mrs. Quentin.”
“Ms. Truitt,” she replies. “What has come up that is so urgent?”
Jeff and I have decided to leave Cy’s ultimatum on the plea to the end. “We need to discuss some recent developments with you,” I say neutrally.
I watch her face carefully as I tell her what we’ve learned about Olivia’s final days. When I mention the visit to Dr. Menon, she reels back. “Without me? Never. I always took her.”
I decide not to argue. “Have you ever heard of a law firm called Black and Conway?”
“No.”
“Your mother called them the day she died. We haven’t confirmed what it was in regards to, but we believe it might have had something to do with her will.”
Vera’s face remains blank.
“There’s something else,” I say, and describe the email threads I’ve just been poring over. “Why didn’t you tell me about the continuing pressure Olivia was putting on you about ending her life?”
She shrugs. “I told you about her demand; these were more of the same; after a while I started ignoring her pleas.”
I’m not sure I believe her, but I move on. “There’s one final development we must share with you, Mrs. Quentin. We heard from the prosecutor, Mr. Kenge. He has given us an ultimatum. The plea bargain he offered—two years for a guilty plea, which could get you out in a year or so—will be revoked, as of tonight. In the circumstances, Mr. Solosky and I agree you should give serious consideration to accepting it.”
As I relay Cy’s message, she listens calmly with her hands folded in her lap.
“There won’t be another opportunity,” I say. “And you should know, w
e haven’t been able to build you much of a defence and we are a little over a week away from trial.”
“This does not change my mind,” Vera says. “They say the justice system is fair. I still nurse a hope that may prove true.”
I wait for Jeff to launch into a lecture on why she needs to reconsider. But he just shakes his head. He understands what I’ve already come to accept. Nothing will change Vera’s mind.
Except maybe a dose of the one reality that may, just may, sway her. I consider my words carefully. “You should know, Mrs. Quentin, that your husband will testify for the Crown. Against you.”
She sits very still, but I see the wave of shock before she recomposes her face. “You are mistaken, Ms. Truitt. Joseph would never take the stand against me.”
I pick up Cy’s witness statement and shove it across the table to her. “Look at the last name on the list. There. Read it.”
Her finger shakes as she traces down the long list. When she finds the name, she pulls back in disbelief. “No,” she whispers. “No.”
“That is what the document says, Mrs. Quentin.”
“This must be some ruse. I’ve heard that Mr. Kenge is very tricky. Joseph would never abandon me. He would never let me down. He has stood by me through everything, all these years. He won’t let me go to jail. He loves me.”
The reality of the situation hits me. Vera Quentin may or may not be guilty, but all her protestations of innocence boil down to one simple delusion—that Joseph will protect her.
“Mrs. Quentin, whatever you may feel about Joseph and his loyalty, the point is this: he is going to testify for the prosecution. The Crown expects he will give them evidence that will go against you. As your husband is a man of repute and integrity, the jury will find it hard to reject that evidence, whatever it may be. Those are the hard facts. You have one last chance to accept a guilty plea that will reduce the time you actually spend in jail to a year, assuming you behave yourself, instead of the minimum ten you will get if the jury convicts you. As your lawyer, knowing what I know about the case, I would advise you to give serious consideration to the prosecution’s offer.”
Her thin shoulders heave angrily. “Ms. Truitt, don’t overstep. I know my rights, and neither you nor anyone else can force me to plead guilty. I did not kill my mother, and I will never say I did.” She halts, and her voice drops to a whisper. “Joseph will see that everything turns out for the best.”
I sit silent for a long moment, then close the black cover of my interview book. “Very well, Mrs. Quentin. We proceed to trial. In the meantime, we’ll keep working, hoping to turn up something that will buttress our defence.”
She seems not to hear. Her head is moving mechanically from side to side. A tear makes it way down her cheek, a rivulet in the soft plane of perfect makeup.
“Mrs. Quentin,” I say, my voice softening, “There is nothing more to be done today. We’ll be in touch next week.”
She gazes at me balefully as Jeff rounds the table to hand her bag and wrap to her.
“Yes,” she nods, rising shakily. “Next week. Until next week.”
I see Vera out. Debbie’s already left; I lock the door and return to the boardroom. I check my big watch—almost four.
“You need to get out of here, Jeff. Jessica awaits.”
He rubs his eyes. “I cannot understand that woman. I’d suggest we plead her not guilty by reason of insanity, but to raise that defence she has to admit she killed her mother.”
“Which she refuses to do.”
“What the hell are we going to do, Jilly?”
My cell phone pings. Richard. I show Jeff the text.
“Who’s Riva Johnson?” he asks.
“The elusive lawyer who visited Olivia.” I scan the rest of Richard’s message. “Apparently there are only two women at Black and Conway, and only one is tall. Richard’s done some background checking. She graduated five years back from UBC Law, articled for a small firm, moved on. She’s worked at a few firms, been with Black and Conway just over a year.”
“It’s not much, Jilly. Just a name.”
“It’s a start,” I say. “I’m done making phone calls. I’m going to visit their offices next week. With a name, I have something—someone to subpoena if I need to.”
We’re interrupted by the click of the outside door.
“What’s that?” I ask. “No one should be here. I locked the door.” I feel my stomach clench. Jeff is watching at me curiously. “Debbie probably forgot something and came back.”
The door pushes open and Mike’s lean figure appears.
“Mike,” I breathe. “How did you get in?”
He smiles, dangling the office key I gave him in another life. “This thing always saved me throwing pebbles at your window. As I’ve learned through long experience, Jilly, when you’re into a case, you forget everything else. I mean everything.”
“Too true,” Jeff teases, but his eyes are still on my face. “What’s the plan for tonight?”
“Mike and I have a date to inspect that new gallery down the street.” I give Mike what I hope is a calm look. “Followed by a long, languorous dinner.”
“Great plan,” says Jeff. He picks up his jacket. “Well, Jessica will be waiting for me. Good to see you again, Mike. Have a good weekend, Jilly. Take it easy.”
I push the papers away, find my bag. Mike locks the outer door behind us and checks it twice. “Have to make sure it holds till Monday,” he growls.
I force a laugh as we head down the street.
CHAPTER 19
I WAKE IN MIKE’S BED at seven Monday morning and reach for the place he should be. No one. A note of panic creeps into my groggy brain and I grab a robe and head to the stairs. Mike halts me with a grin from the third step where he stands carrying a tray bearing croissants and coffee. “Back to bed,” he sternly orders, and I exhale, smiling.
As we munch companionably, oblivious to the buttery stains that are accumulating on the linen, I am assailed by an overwhelming sense of happiness. Maybe Mike was right; maybe you can start again. I lean to plant a kiss on his cheek, scrunching my eyes shut against the harsh streak of daylight that tells me this moment must soon end.
“Call me tonight?” I say later when I hug him goodbye at the door.
“Count on it.”
I should be stressing over how I’ll get through my double-booked day, but instead my mind keeps wandering back to the weekend as I nose my Mercedes into the downtown frenzy. I had forgotten the pleasures of Saturday lie-ins with a lover, the joys of late lunches by the sea. The simple delight of his company in quiet moments. What will happen next, I wonder absently, braking just in time to avoid hitting the car ahead. Will I give up my bright condo and move in with Mike? For the first time, the idea seems plausible. For the first time, I ask myself if I am finally falling in love. Jilly “Tough as Nails” Truitt, that’s what they call me. I allow myself a rueful smile. If only they could see me now.
At the office, I breeze by Debbie’s desk. “How did the weekend go with your date?” I ask.
“Great, until last night, when I got the I-can’t-do-this-to-you speech. I like you a lot Debbie, but I don’t want to use you.”
“Sorry, Debbie.”
Debbie shrugs. “Good riddance. Now, for your day. You’ve double-booked yourself again. Elsie is scheduled for ten, and Kevin Brandt is coming in at ten thirty.” She sees my scowl. “I told him you were busy, tried to push it, but he insisted, something he has to tell you for the trial coming up next month.”
I can’t stop myself from frowning. Kevin Brandt stands charged with three counts of sexual assault on a woman who worked for him at his advertising firm. He insists she made it up—a bunch of lies concocted out of spite because he didn’t promote her—but I’m not so sure. I’ll provide the defence the law says he’s entitled to, but I’m not overly fond of the man.
“Remember, tomorrow morning,” Debbie is droning on, “you have the sentencing in James. The Gladue
report for that just came in; I left it on your desk.”
“Thanks, Debbie.”
I shut the door of my office, slide into the chair behind my desk. As I wait for Elsie to arrive, I flip open the Gladue report. Three years ago, Clement James was found guilty of stealing a case of beer from the back of an untended pickup truck on the lower east side. He pleaded guilty and was given a six-month suspended sentence, accompanied by a raft of conditions, including that he meet with his case worker once a month. Clement attended his first appointment with the worker but failed to show up for the second, and a warrant duly went out for his arrest. My plea to the judge that Clement arrived for the appointment a day late and that it can be hard for homeless people to keep track of dates fell on deaf ears, and now Clement is facing two sentences—one for the original offense and a second for failing to comply with a court order. My only hope is the Gladue report the Criminal Code requires judges to consider in sentencing Indigenous offenders. But the sentencing’s tomorrow and the report has only just arrived. I desperately need a couple of hours to read it and craft my argument. Hours I don’t have.
Debbie’s line blinks, telling me Elsie Baxter has arrived.
I hear her before I see her. “Wretched place, wretched part of town,” her voice rings out. “When I was young, no respectable person would be caught dead in Gastown.”
I round the corner and am met with her glare. Her eyes swim behind thick rimless lenses, twin pools of ire in her round, white-wreathed face. Her solid body is swathed in wrinkled linen and tie-dyed scarves, and she heaves from the effort of walking with her cane.
Debbie, unable to stick to her resolve never to speak to Elsie again, saves me from myself. “The neighborhood is trendy now,” she pipes up. “Great restaurants and pubs.”
“You look like you would know.” Elsie’s lips settle in a thin line as she takes in Debbie’s bright lips and backcombed blond do.
Quit the silly petulance, I want to tell her. There are more important things in life than putting others down. But I swallow the words. I need to keep her on my good side.
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