Denial

by Beverley McLachlin

  He ignores the sally. “Your client’s well, then?”

  “Well enough. She’s eager to get the trial on and over with.”

  “Interesting. I heard a rumor that she might be—out of sorts. I’m glad to hear the trial is moving forward.”

  “Your concern is touching.” My finger is reaching for the end call button when Cy’s voice comes at me again. “Yes, Cy?”

  “I think it would be a good idea to have someone with Vera from now on.” Cy’s voice takes on a bullish tone. “I’m not talking about changing bail conditions. But I’ve arranged for a police car to be outside her gate once she’s back home. I would suggest someone be with her in the house. Not Joseph, not a good idea seeing that he’s testifying for the Crown. What about the son, Nicholas?”

  “Vera will be fine, Cy. But I’ll speak to Nicholas about moving in with his mother.”

  “And another thing. I’ll be providing a sheriff escort from her home to the courthouse for the duration of the trial. Random surveillance is no longer adequate. Vera Quentin will be attended. At all times, outside her home, which of course will be guarded.”

  “Virtual house arrest,” I say. “That’s not in the bail order.”

  “Call it a courtesy, Jilly. Or maybe a precaution. If you want to get formal, we can see the bail judge. When I explain the circumstances”—a pregnant pause—“I’m sure the judge will see it my way.”

  A shiver slides down my spine. Whatever happened to Vera Thursday night, it’s irrelevant to the only issue that matters—who killed Olivia Stanton—but it’s not beyond Cy to make something of this, and not just to the bail judge. If Vera takes the stand, he’ll find a way to bring out her near-death experience in cross-examination. Why would an innocent woman try to kill herself on the eve of her trial, ladies and gentlemen of the jury? Ask yourself that question, and you will conclude there is only one answer.

  Cy reads my thoughts. “All I want is a fair trial, Jilly. And a living, breathing person in the dock.”

  “So considerate of you,” I say icily.

  “Thanks for understanding, Jilly. It would be a shame if anything were to happen to the accused this late in the process.”

  “Indeed, Cy.” I hang up.

  I’m just about to call Nicholas and suggest he might want to stay with his mother at the house when she returns from Palestrina Suites tomorrow, when I hear the front door bell ring. What now, I think.

  It’s Joseph Quentin. He blusters with fury, thumb on the bell, fist on the double glass door. “I hear you,” I mutter as I leave the room to unlock the door that separates Truitt & Co. from the outside world. I swing the door open wide and offer a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Quentin. So good to see you.”

  He follows me past Debbie’s empty desk and plunks himself into a boardroom chair. The man I see is not the impeccably groomed Joseph Quentin the world knows. His hair is a mess of straw; unshaven growth bristles from his chin and purple crescents hang from his eyes. He looks like he hasn’t slept in days. Who can blame him? His wife just tried to kill herself and now she’s insisting on going to trial on a case she can’t win.

  “This trial must not go on,” he says.

  “In the best of all possible worlds, I would agree with you. The problem is that we are stuck in the real world, one in which my client, your wife, adamantly refuses to ask for an adjournment.”

  “Then make her.” His fist hits the table with a sudden thud. “You are her lawyer. It’s up to you to pump some sense into her head. First, she refuses a generous plea bargain. Now she refuses an adjournment we desperately need while we regroup and try to find some—any—defence.” He leans toward me across the table. “Jilly, it’s up to you. You need to make her see reason.”

  My body contracts and pulls back. This is not the Joseph Quentin I have come to know, calm and collected. This is a man I don’t recognize, hanging onto control, but barely. The thought strikes me—absurd as it is—that Joseph Quentin could be dangerous. I push it away. I need to defuse his ire and get on with my job—providing some sort of defence for Vera Quentin.

  “I cannot and will not make your wife do anything, Mr. Quentin. She is my client—I don’t give her instructions; I take them. As a seasoned lawyer, you know that.” I pause. “Now let’s start again. I have advised Mrs. Quentin that she should ask for the trial to be adjourned. My partner, Jeff Solosky, has seconded my advice. But your wife is stubborn.”

  “You’re right, Jilly. I apologize for my little tirade. But that’s the thing. Vera is not stubborn. I’ve lived with her for almost thirty years. Sure, she’s a bit crazy, or was, but generally speaking, she is the most agreeable of spouses. She’s always done what I suggested. Yes, dear; no, dear; whatever you say, dear. I used to wish she would be more independent, give me a fight once in a while.” He looks at his hands and whispers to himself. “Be careful what you ask for.”

  “Even the malleable have stubborn moments. Things come up that, for whatever reason, they just can’t compromise on.”

  “Can’t you see? Vera is not being rational. She’s in denial. She makes up her own reality and convinces herself it’s true. Denying she killed her mother. Denying that she overdosed. Believing the jury will accept her myths and acquit her. Delusions, all delusions.” Anger creeps into his voice and he gestures over the table full of documents. “You, her lawyers, with your stratagems and clever ploys, your learned arguments and mounds of papers—you are feeding her delusions. I used to be one of you; I know how you think. But you should know, to me this is not just a game. I can’t just pocket my fee and walk away when the trial’s over. This is my marriage, my life.”

  “I feel your pain,” I say in a low voice when he is finished. “Believe me, we tried to persuade your wife to accept Cy’s plea bargain, while it was still open. We also told her she should ask for an adjournment, given yesterday’s events. We’ve given our advice, as forcefully as we can. But Vera refuses to accept it.” I take a beat. “So, here’s the legal reality in which we find ourselves. Vera has not been declared incompetent to make decisions about her life. Vera is her own person, entitled by law to make decisions about her future. We have no choice under the law—or simple morality—to interfere with her decisions.” I turn to my laptop, where Jeff uploaded the video he covertly took of our visit. “I anticipated you might not agree with your wife’s instructions, Joseph, knew you would be upset.”

  I angle the screen of the laptop toward Joseph, press play. Vera’s face peers out at us, bleak and determined. My voice comes through.

  You are instructing me not to request an adjournment of your trial.

  I am.

  You wish to go forward, against my considered advice to you.

  I do.

  Joseph Quentin sits staring at the screen long after it has gone black. Then he speaks. “You still have a choice. You can refuse to take her instructions, refuse to act for her. The judge will have to adjourn, at least for a day or two while she regroups. Along the way, Vera’s condition may become apparent and—”

  “And this whole nightmare will go away, Joseph?” I ask. “Believe me, it won’t.”

  He looks at me. “We can fix it.”

  “No, Joseph, we can’t. This is one thing you may not be able to fix.”

  “Not with you against me, I can’t.”

  The gravity of what he’s asking hits me. “You want me to quit, like the other two lawyers did.”

  “Yes.”

  “On the eve of the trial.”

  “Precisely.”

  “Just so you can get an adjournment that your wife—my client—doesn’t want.”

  “Believe me, Vera doesn’t know what she wants.”

  I lean back. “Pardon? You just listened to her voice, saying precisely what she wants.”

  He stares at me. “I hired you—oh yes, I did—and now you are telling me—”

  I feel my ire rising. “We’ve been through this, Joseph. Your wife hired me, and I take my instr
uctions from her.” I glare at him. “Only her. Not her husband. Who incidentally happens to be a witness for the Crown without so much as telling me.”

  Joseph Quentin’s white face is reddening. He stands, reaches for his jacket, glowering over me. For a brief moment, I fear he will strike me. Then, once again, he regains his calm.

  “Then there is nothing more to be said, Miss Truitt.”

  The door bangs shut behind him. I allow myself an audible expulsion of breath as I fall back into my chair. Suppressed violence hangs in the air like a malignant miasma.

  Alicia pops her head in. I didn’t realize she was still here. “Jesus Christ, what was that?” she asks.

  “I’m not sure,” I say. “But this I know. Joseph Quentin is irrationally invested in this trial not happening. Why, is what I don’t understand.” I offer a faint smile and stand. “All will be revealed in due course. In the meantime, I have to make a call.”

  “To whom?”

  “Nicholas. He needs to find his mom right away. Did Vera decide to down those opioids in a moment of despair? Or is it more complicated?”

  CHAPTER 27

  DAY ONE IN THE TRIAL of Vera Quentin for the murder of her mother, Olivia Stanton.

  I wake early, don my Lycra, and hit the street running—my way of staving off the thoughts that have kept me awake for half the night. Showered, dressed, and groomed for whatever lies ahead, I look for Mike. I find him buried in his bank of computers, immersed in algorithmic oblivion.

  I plant butterfly kisses down the line of his cheek, below, on his neck. He grunts in acknowledgment, reaches his hand to grasp mine.

  “Just my luck,” I say.

  “Hmm? It’s early. Explain.”

  “Just my luck to fall for you, Michael St. John.”

  His smile reaches his eyes. “I’d call that good luck.”

  “Yeah, and bad. Just my luck to do it when I’m deep into a murder trial.”

  He pulls me into his lap. “The trial will end and I will still be here. We will still be here. A whole lifetime ahead of us.”

  “Yes,” I whisper. “l keep reminding myself of that.”

  An hour later, a cab pulls up and deposits Jeff, me, and our briefcases at the courthouse door. The morning is clear and the air brisk. A few yellow leaves among the greenery warn of the end of summer.

  A sheriff’s deputy nabs Jeff and me as we approach courtroom fifty-three. “Would you like to see the accused before court starts?”

  “Yes, thank you.”

  We wait in the witness room in silence. We’ve been over this situation a hundred times, nothing left to say.

  The door opens, and a burly sheriff in a brown shirt escorts Vera Quentin in. Her eyes are still dark pools, her cheeks gaunt hollows. A day’s rest hasn’t done much to rehabilitate her, even with Nicholas by her side. He didn’t hesitate when I asked him to stay with her and ensure her safety.

  “Vera, sit down,” I say softly. “Before you collapse.”

  She attempts a fragile smile as she sinks to the chair. She has chosen an expensive dress of navy-blue silk, but she’s lost weight since she bought it; it hangs on her thin body like tenting. Aware of the effect, her long fingers struggle to arrange the folds in her lap.

  “Vera, you’re unwell; you can’t do this. We should adjourn this trial.”

  She pushes a lank strand of brown hair from her face. “I am well enough, Ms. Truitt. Much stronger than I was on Saturday. However this trial may end, I am grateful that you are at my side. You, too, Mr. Solosky.”

  “So, you are determined to go on.”

  “I am.”

  The sheriff is knocking at the door. “One moment,” I yell, and turn back to Vera. “Very well, on we go. But if you feel faint, send us a note or put your hand up, and we will ask the judge for a break. Today shouldn’t be too arduous—jury selection—and we’ll speak more tonight.”

  The door opens and the sheriff nods at Vera. Gripping the chair for balance, she stands. A flash of concern momentarily crosses her keeper’s hardened features; he reaches out to offer her an arm.

  “Will she make it through the morning?” Jeff asks.

  “All bets are off,” I say.

  Jeff and I settle our black gowns and move into the courtroom. We find the defence table and organize ourselves: computers, binders of documents, notepads.

  Behind me, a distinctive, uneven tread and the click of an artificial limb tells me Cy is advancing. I don’t need to turn my head to see the high dome of his head, the bend of his body as he leans on his arm brace and swings his left leg ahead. A childhood case of polio failed to kill him but left its mark. He once mentored me; I saw up close how he suffers. But he refuses to let it show.

  I’ve spent some time thinking about how to act. Once I would have risen and greeted him warmly. But after his treachery on the Trussardi case, I no longer count him as a friend. I will be professional and polite. I will do what is civil and appropriate. Nothing less. Nothing more.

  Cy seems to have arrived at the same conclusion. He does not look to see if we’re at the defence table, just takes his seat opposite and huddles with the young man who is assisting him—the Jonathan something who called but never visited Dr. Menon, I presume. Only after they’ve chatted for a time does Cy turn to me with a tight smile, Good morning.

  The somnolent courtroom slowly stirs to life. The clerk, a young woman named Naomi with gleaming ebony skin, picks up the judge’s red book and places it reverentially on the bench. A minor attendant checks the jury box for readiness.

  I watch as the prisoner’s door opens and the sheriff leads Vera Quentin to the prisoner’s box. She takes her seat, folds her hands, pale but outwardly composed. Her gaze takes in the courtroom and settles on me. I attempt a reassuring look, which she acknowledges with a calm nod. But I can read her eyes, see the fear. It’s one thing to demand the trial that is your constitutional right, another thing to live it.

  I turn to see who has come to watch Vera Quentin go down. Not many. Joseph cannot be here; Cy will be calling him as a witness, and witnesses are excluded from the court before they testify, unless the judge otherwise decrees. Elsie and Maria are absent for the same reason. Nicholas, handsome in a dark suit and tie, sits alone in the front row. The back benches, however, are packed. I recognize some of the faces I saw outside the courthouse, the dying with dignity people on the right, the right to life contingent on the left. A handful of reporters and an artist who is already sketching Vera occupy the press bench.

  Clerk Naomi calls for order and our judge ascends the bench. She gives us a smile; we bow and smile back. The smile doesn’t fool Jeff and me. Everybody’s favourite grandmother; cropped wavy white hair, rimless half-moon glasses on the tip of an upturned nose. But beneath her benign exterior, Justice Millicent Buller is tough as nails.

  Justice Buller wastes no time on unnecessary pleasantries; no good mornings or are counsel ready? for this judge. “We will proceed with jury selection,” she announces peremptorily as she opens her red book.

  One by one they are paraded before us, the good burghers of Vancouver. Cy summarily rejects candidates he thinks might be soft on middle-class ladies accused of dispatching ailing mothers. For our side, Jeff does the culling, such as it is. We want women and broad-minded liberals; Cy prefers churchgoers and new Canadians. Some of the citizens who pass before us, reluctant to serve, tell the judge their mind is made up or they’re suffering from life-threatening diseases. Others betray their enthusiasm for the chance to participate—we read it in the way they march to the front, smile at the judge. We end up with the usual mix, seven women and five men, occupations ranging from beautician to librarian to college professor to nurse.

  The jury empanelled, Justice Buller instructs them to choose a foreperson and sends them out. We take the morning break.

  Jeff is not happy. “I did what I could, but we didn’t get the jury list in time,” he says, as we pace beneath the hanging plants of the atrium. He’
s working the search engine on his phone overtime. Most of the jurors are too obscure to have Wikipedia profiles and don’t show up. Jeff finds the accountant, whose presence had given us faint hope of a sympathetic ear. “He’s a lay Pentecostal preacher,” he hisses. “Just our luck.”

  “Bound to be right to life and live until God takes you,” I say. “If you’re hoping for jury nullification because they believe in the right to die, you’re out to lunch, Jeff.”

  “I’ll settle for a reasonable doubt,” says Jeff. “He did tell the judge he had no preconceived views.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  I scroll through my own emails. “The sheriffs have served the subpoenas on Riva Johnson and Elsie Baxter, just to be sure.”

  “ ‘Sufficient unto the day is the evil thereof,’ ” Jeff mutters.

  I shoot him a look. “As in don’t worry about tomorrow because we have enough problems today? The Sermon on the Mount?”

  “Exactly. I keep underestimating you, Jilly. I forgot your first foster parents were United Church clerics.”

  We collect our things and file back in for Cy’s opening statement.

  CHAPTER 28

  THE BEST OPENINGS PAINT A picture. They colour the victim in strokes of virtue, paint the accused as evil and weak. They fill in the canvas to create a scene of vice conquering virtue. Bright highlights and dark shadows combine to create a mood of bleakness. When the picture is all but complete, the jurors—who have just advised us that they have chosen the accountant cum preacher as their foreperson—are told it will be their task at the end of the trial to add the final stroke and find the accused guilty.

  Cy is a master of the opening. And on this occasion, he does not disappoint.

  “This is a simple case, ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” Cy begins. “The basic facts are clear. In the dying hours of August 10, 2019, an innocent woman was murdered as she lay sleeping in her own bed in her own home, killed by a lethal dose of morphine. The only question is who killed her. The evidence you will hear is clear and will lead you to conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that the person who killed her—the only person who could have killed her—is the woman you see in the prisoner’s box: the deceased’s daughter, Vera Stanton Quentin.”