“And how did you find it?”
“In perfect condition. I mean, it was an older house, but the frame was fine, no rot.”
“Did you check to see whether the frame was anchored to the basement wall?” Jeff probes.
Dasilva holds up the report. “What do you mean? You can see it sits in the wall very firmly.”
“Did you or Constable Olmec check whether it was anchored to the wall? It’s a simple question, just answer it.”
“I can’t remember precisely—it was a long time ago. But I’m sure we checked.”
“Would it surprise you, Mr. Dasilva, if I told you that a window expert checked that same window and found it was not anchored to the wall? That it could be lifted out by a person and then replaced, with no difficulty?”
Justice Buller gives me a sharp look. At last, after hours of tedious police reports, the hint of something new.
Cy is up. “My Lady, we need to see this report.”
Jeff doesn’t bat an eye. “I would remind my friend that I am entitled to cross-examine the witness without presenting a contrary report. However, it just so happens that I have that report at hand, dated September ninth, this year, and would be pleased to supply it. The author of the report will testify to its accuracy later in this trial.” Jeff hands Naomi a stack of copies. “For the record.”
“Exhibit fifty-four,” she says, and hands out the documents.
“I won’t take you through the report right now,” says Jeff, resuming. “Instead, we’ll skip along to the window in question. Would you still maintain that window twenty-three in your report was secure?”
“I would say that someone loosened the window after our check.”
“I can advise you that a witness in this trial, Mr. Joseph Quentin, has testified that he was in charge of repairs or changes to the house and none were done between the time of Mrs. Stanton’s death and its recent demolition. Knowing that, what do you say?”
Jeff waits as Dasilva shifts in his seat, then he closes in for the kill.
“Mr. Dasilva, answer truthfully. Do you actually recall testing whether window twenty-three was anchored to the wall?”
The answer takes a long time to come. “No.”
“Can you stand here today in this court of law and swear to the jury that you tested whether window twenty-three was anchored to the wall?”
“I cannot so swear,” Tony Dasilva breathes.
“Thank you, witness.”
Jeff sits down. Another brick in the fragile edifice of our defence. Nicholas’s motive is in place; now we’ve added opportunity. Motive, opportunity, and execution, the three essentials to prove a crime. We will never prove execution, but motive and opportunity may just be enough. Maybe.
Cy tells the judge he has no questions in re-examination for Mr. Dasilva. Subtext: anything he can ask would only make it worse. Not that Cy is worried. Despite our wisp of a reasonable doubt, Cy knows his case is rock-solid, and a loose window isn’t going to shake it.
CHAPTER 39
SEVEN P.M. FINDS ME BACK at the office. I follow the scent of mozzarella and tomato to the boardroom, where Alicia sits amid a sea of paper and pizza.
“Dig in,” she commands.
I decide to comply and reach into the box.
“How’s it going?” Alicia asks as she swallows a swig of Coke.
“Not great. But as they say, tomorrow is another day. We have Maria Rodriguez, Dr. Menon, and Dr. Pinsky to round out the Crown’s case.”
“Good luck,” she says, returning to her papers.
I need to prepare my cross-examinations—as much as I can, not knowing exactly what the witnesses will say—but first, I decide to polish off my housekeeping. Emails and telephone messages must be checked. Most I will push over to Debbie or defer until the trial is over.
Top of the list is a text from Mike. He’s cancelling our dinner date for Friday; something’s come up and he has to fly to San Francisco for a meeting. Won’t be back until Saturday morning. I think of Ashling, hit the next message with more force than necessary.
Messages first, emails second. I scroll through a long trail of missives on cases I have in inventory, a few requests to take on cases. I punch cryptic replies and forwards to Urgent, push the others off with flags.
Finally, voicemail. A young woman charged with email fraud informing me only I can help her, an invitation to speak at an upcoming legal education event. I will get back when I can. I’m nearing the end when Deborah Moser’s husky tones come through. Give me a call, Jilly. No name, no number. Just the voice she knows I will recognize.
I put the phone down, feel my stomach twist. “May,” I whisper to Alicia, who sits up.
I dial Deborah’s protected number. When she answers, she dives right in. “Glad you called. I wanted to tell you that we’re closing in on the people who kidnapped your May.”
“Too late for May,” I say.
“Yes, Jilly, we did try to rescue her, but it was too risky. Good news is we know where she is now and we’re nearly ready to go in.”
I want to ask her where May is but don’t dare. “Sure,” I say cynically.
“We’re cautiously hopeful. Your boy Damon has been great on this file. Trolls the dark web like he was born to it. Brilliant, actually. Thank you for recommending him. He’s really pulled this case together.”
“When?” I ask. Deborah knows what I mean—when will the operation take place that will end this all and get the men who did this behind bars?
“That’s the not-so-great news, Jilly. There’s a snag in the execution.”
“How long?” I ask tersely.
“I expect it to be resolved within a week or so, but for now we can’t act.”
I try to imagine what could prevent the police from immediately rounding up evil men who traffic in little girls.
“And May?” I ask. “Out there. Constant fear. Other girls, too, other young women—”
Deborah’s voice comes back. “I feel the pain. I do. I just wanted to let you know we’re on track. If she contacts you or Alicia, hang up. This line is secure, but you never know. We’re doing our best to keep you out of this.”
I remember my conversation with Damon at Bauhaus. How he wouldn’t answer my questions about May—or Danny Mah. He’s not the petty criminal you think. My mind is racing, working out how I’m connected to this case, and a cold thought settles over me.
Across the table, Alicia studies me, a look of concern on her face, and I rise and move out of the boardroom. It’s just a hunch, but I put it to Deborah.
“But I am in this,” I whisper. “I’ve represented one of the criminals involved, haven’t I?”
There’s a beat of silence, then a sigh.
“We’ve suspected Danny might be involved in human trafficking for some time—long before he was arrested for the drug smuggling charge. So we had Damon monitoring his trial. You may not have realized it, but your unwitting argument about bodies being live people was right on the money. Damon figured it out. And he figured out that Danny, in his paranoid mind, connected your cross-examination with your helping May, and decided you were fingering him for a new crime—trafficking in young women.”
The confirmation does little to assuage my fears. I silently curse myself for stumbling into this mess in the first place.
“Jilly?”
I swallow. “Yes, I’m here.”
“Listen, I know about the threats. I know Stan put a patrol on you. I’m sorry, but my hands are tied at the moment. I don’t need to tell you, this operation is as important as it is delicate. Christ, I’ve been working it for nearly three years now. We want the charges to stick. We can’t move until we have all the pieces in place.”
The police aren’t content with bringing in one operative. They want to bring in the entire organization behind the trafficking ring, and it’s the right decision, as much as it pains me to admit.
“I understand. Thanks, Deborah, for the heads-up.”
She puts in a cod
a. “This call never happened.”
I hang up and return to the boardroom where Alicia sits, her forehead creased. “The good news is they’re closing in. The bad news is that they have to wait a week or so.”
Alicia’s face falls. “Wait? A week or two? Have they no idea of the danger May is in? How scared she must be?”
“They know,” I say. “It must be something very important to make them wait.”
I think of May, sitting in terror wherever she is, not knowing if or when help will come. I think of Danny Mah, biding his time before he sends his enforcers out to get me. Only now I’ve got protection: the unmarked cars still pass by my condo at random hours, still lurk in the alley behind the office.
Small comfort, I think, wishing Mike were here.
CHAPTER 40
DAY FIVE OF THE TRIAL, and we’re all in our places. The judge, jury, clerk, Jeff, and me. Across the aisle, Cy, Jonathan at his side. Joseph and—for the first time in days—Nicholas on the first bench. Vera in the prisoner’s box, stronger every day than the day before.
I wish I could say the same for myself. Late last night, I dropped Alicia off at the SkyTrain station and headed home to a sleep disturbed by images of May’s tears and Danny’s menacing face.
I shake the thoughts from my head, glance over at Cy. He’s been behaving just like a prosecutor should behave for the last few days. It scares me. Cy has methodically laid in place all the planks of his case. With the doctors he will call today, the edifice will be complete. Sympathetic to Vera or not, in the end the jury will be obliged to convict her. I’m prepared for all that. It’s what I don’t know that worries me.
Maria Rodriguez places her hand on the Bible and in a faltering voice swears to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.
Cy walks Maria through who she is and what she did. Yes, she was Mrs. Stanton’s helper for many years. Yes, it had been difficult in the months since Mrs. Stanton started her cancer treatments, so much pain, so many pills. Poor Mrs. Stanton. Maria tugs a tissue from the sleeve of her dress and wipes the corner of her eye.
Cy moves on to the day of the murder. Obediently, Maria tells the jury how she asked Mr. Quentin when he stopped by that morning if she could leave early because her husband was sick, how Mr. Quentin said yes.
“What else do you recall about that day?” Cy asks.
“Lots of calls,” Maria obliges. “Mrs. Quentin called two or three times in the morning to see how her mother was. Mr. Quentin came over late in the morning. And in the afternoon Mrs. Stanton’s friend Miss Baxter visited around two thirty. And then, just as Miss Baxter was leaving a lady who said she was a lawyer came.”
Having set the backdrop, Cy narrows on his target—Vera’s behaviour. He is careful not to lead, but he and Jonathan have gone over this with Maria. She dabs at her face rhythmically now, distress evident as she navigates the conflicting demands to tell the jury what Mr. Kenge wants her to tell and loyalty to the family she served so long.
She looks at Vera in the prisoner’s box. Vera gives her a soft smile that speaks of affection, appreciation; you are family. Maria straightens her shoulders and turns to Cy.
“Mrs. Quentin was so good to me. She loved her mother very much, too much sometimes. She worried about her medications, everything she needed. Yes, she telephoned many times a day, and yes, of course, I sometimes wished that she would not call so often. But I understand, Mrs. Quentin loved her mother, wanted to help her, make sure she was looked after and safe.”
Cy makes a few more attempts. “Did this seem normal to you, to call up to ten times a day asking about whether her mother had taken her medicine, how much she ate for lunch, on and on and on?”
“Objection,” I call. “Counsel is not only leading, he is giving evidence.”
Justice Buller gives Cy a disapproving look. “You know better, Mr. Kenge.”
But Maria is going on, oblivious to our lawyerly bickering. “At first I thought Mrs. Quentin was a bit—how shall I say it?—a bit cuckoo. But then when my husband became sick, I understood. I was the same; I was calling him all times of the day, checking on him.”
Bravo, Maria, I say silently.
Cy switches tacks. “Maria, can you tell the jury about how Mrs. Stanton’s health was in the days before her death?”
“She was sick, in a lot of pain. Just lying on her bed with her head to the wall. She called me if the pain got too bad, or rang her little bell, and I would try to help. Some days were better than others, and even on bad days, she still had the strength to rouse herself if she wanted. When people came—her grandson, Miss Baxter—they never saw how sick she was. She used to tell me to sit her in the chair to wait there until they came. And then when the doorbell would ring she said, Don’t let them stay too long, Maria.”
“Did you ever hear Mrs. Stanton talk about wanting to die, Maria?”
Maria bows her head, looks up. “Yes, a few times she said, Maria, I want to die, something like that.”
Cy decides to leave it there. “No further questions.”
It’s my turn. There’s no way cross-examination can improve on the answers Maria has given. However, one matter remains outstanding. Behind me, I’m aware of Joseph and Nicholas, sitting side by side. I haven’t spoken to either of them since the tense moments when I cross-examined Joseph on Olivia’s plan to change her will to leave Nicholas a small inheritance.
“You have told the jury that Mr. Quentin visited Mrs. Stanton the day she died, shortly before noon.”
“Yes.”
“Did he say why he was coming to see Mrs. Stanton?”
“He said she called him about business.”
“You also told the jury that you did not hear what Mr. Quentin and Mrs. Stanton discussed because the door was closed.”
“That is right.”
“Tell us, Mrs. Rodriguez, did you hear the sound of their voices?”
“Yes, passing by I heard Mrs. Stanton’s voice, loud, angry.”
“What did you do then, Mrs. Rodriguez?”
“I was worried. I knocked on the door and opened it.”
“What did you see?”
“Mrs. Stanton sitting in her chair with a paper in her hand. Mr. Quentin standing. They both looked at me. Sorry, we are talking about the will, Mr. Quentin said. Something like that.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Rodriguez.” I turn back to my seat, catch Joseph’s eye. His face is fixed and expressionless. He has never come clean with me, nor has Vera, but I’m battling ahead with one arm tied behind my back.
The clock on the wall says 11:36 a.m.—too early to adjourn for lunch, but Dr. Menon is scheduled for this afternoon. Cy motions Jonathan to stand up. Maybe he’s tired, maybe he wants Jonathan in the line of judicial fire for wasting the court’s time by not having another witness on hand.
Not that he needs to worry. Justice Buller nods generously as Jonathan asks if the Court might indulge the Crown and rise a few minutes early.
Smooth, I think. Despite a hint of laziness—he’s never been to see Dr. Menon—the boy may have a future. Buller gives her consent, and we stand to pay our respects as she exits.
CHAPTER 41
DR. MENON SITS ERECT IN the witness box. I passed him earlier in the great hall on my way to see Vera in our witness room. He took a step toward me, but I nodded politely and kept walking. Dr. Menon, even at a distance, emits vibes of excitement. I imagine his daily grind—patient after patient, fifteen-minute slot after fifteen-minute slot, day after day after day. Today, he will glimpse another world. Will it be like the dramas on TV? Not likely. Will he find it interesting? Most certainly.
The jurors sit alert and attentive, waiting to learn what the deceased’s doctor has to say. Justice Buller nods, and we’re off.
Cy leads Dr. Menon through the preliminaries.
“You are a medical doctor? A general practitioner?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Sixteen years in the practice?”
&n
bsp; “Sixteen years, three months, and two days.”
General laughter.
Picking up on the mood, Cy smiles. “Let’s talk about Olivia Stanton, who I understand was one of your patients.”
We go through the history. Dr. Menon inherited Olivia Stanton from his predecessor when he began his practice, and she had been with him from then until her death. She had been a healthy, vigorous woman until being diagnosed with bladder cancer four years ago. The treatment—surgery, chemo—had proven painful. He had suggested stronger pain killers, but Mrs. Stanton did not want opioids; she told him she would rather be dead than drugged.
“Did Mrs. Stanton speak to you about assistance in dying?” Cy asks.
“Yes, let me consult my file.” Dr. Menon finds the date. “On February 12, 2019, Olivia Stanton came to see me. I noted she was very pale and had lost weight. She complained of nausea and constant pain. Then, according to my note, she told me she didn’t want to live any longer. She saw nothing but suffering ahead and did not want to be a burden on her family.” Dr. Menon looks up. “Olivia Stanton had always been an independent person. She told me she hated relying on others, and then she asked me if I could arrange for her to die under the new law that was just passed. Quietly, with dignity, she said.”
“What did you tell her, Dr. Menon?”
“We had a long conversation, as I recall. From a health point of view, I wanted to explore why she felt she no longer wanted to live, see if I could dissuade her. I told her that the treatment was almost over, that things in all likelihood would improve.”
“Were you successful in dissuading her?”
“No, I was not. She told me that she had given it a great deal of thought, but she’d made up her mind. I’ve had a good life, she said. Now I want to go.”
“What did you say to that?” Cy asks.
“Well, I worked around it a bit, but in the end, I told her that in my opinion the new law would not allow a physician to assist her in ending her life. The law stipulated, as I understood it, that the person must be facing death. If the treatments she was undergoing proved successful, which I felt they probably would, she had many years left to live.”
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