“No palpable hit,” says Jeff as he paces the small room.
Most of what we’ve accomplished is impressionistic fluff—that Vera loved her mother; that Vera repeatedly refused to end her mother’s life, despite her pleas; that Vera is a caring person who would never have killed her mother. But a credible theory of the defence remains elusive. We consider the options.
An improbable insanity defence; the unlikely possibility that Elsie Baxter, Olivia’s Dying with Dignity friend, might have found a way to help her die; and, finally, a suggestion that Nicholas had motive. But here, too, we’re stymied—Vera has forbidden us to raise the idea with the jury.
“Add it up, Jilly,” Jeff is saying. “Do the math. Zilch plus zilch is zilch.”
I rub my eyes. “You know there’s only one thing we can do.”
“I’ve fought you all the way on calling Vera, Jilly. Her denial that she killed her mother is in evidence. The jury doesn’t need her to stand up and repeat it.”
“If we don’t call her, they’ll conclude she won’t testify because she knows her story won’t hold up against Cy’s withering cross-examination. If she’s innocent, why doesn’t she tell us? That’s how the jury will see it.”
We exchange bleak stares across the paper-littered table.
“Jeff, calling Vera is our only hope, the way things stand now. Cy’s case is strong, and we have no viable theory of the defence.”
“Jesus.” Jeff plunks his lanky form dispiritedly into his plastic chair.
“So, come Monday, we call Vera and throw ourselves on the mercy of the jury. Go for sympathy—her big eyes, her tears, the whole spiel. Get them to the point they don’t want to see her in jail. So Cy makes some points in cross, they’ll still be feeling sorry for her. I know it’s thin, but she’s all we’ve got—apart from a few red herrings we can wave just to give the jury some comfort with letting her go. Who knows, Elsie and Riva may yield information that will buttress her innocence when they’re forced to testify under oath.”
A knock, the door opens, and Vera steps in. Jeff gets up and slides out another plastic chair for her.
She looks at Jeff, then me. “It’s bad, isn’t it?” she whispers.
“Yes. Things don’t look good.”
“I somehow thought that if everybody told the truth, my innocence would be revealed,” she muses. “That is what trials are all about, I naively thought—a journey to the truth. But now I know better. The witnesses said what they saw, described what they did. No one lied. Yet at the end of it all, everyone thinks I’m guilty. I see it in the eyes of the press; I see it in the eyes of the jury. I even see it—sometimes I think I see it—in the eyes of my son. Oh, he puts on a loyal face, but I look beneath it and know he thinks I killed my mother.”
“It’s not over yet,” I say. “They haven’t heard your story.”
She raises her face defiantly. “No, it’s not over, Ms. Truitt. Monday morning, I will take the stand and tell the world the truth.”
CHAPTER 44
AS I LEAVE THE COURTHOUSE, the long evening stretches before me. No Mike, no Martha, no one to greet my arrival—just me and my thoughts, as I compulsively review where we stand on Regina v. Quentin.
I take the elevator to the sixteenth floor of my condo, twist the key in the lock, and open the door. I take a deep breath, inhale the scent of disinfectant and perfume. Emily, who comes to collect the dust bunnies and hoover the carpets, has been here today.
I edge in and shut the door behind me. Home sweet home—the reward for long hours of struggle and tension and doing what I’d sometimes rather not do. But it doesn’t feel like a reward. Be happy, I tell myself, relax. Kick off your heels, sink back into your couch, and find a thriller on Netflix. This is payoff time.
The big screen flickers. A boom, a scream. Someone has blown someone else’s head off. I repress a shudder. Too close to real life. I tell myself to focus on the show—good cinematography, interesting casting. A benign broad face comes out of a crowd and I think of Danny, feel a chill. I force myself back to Netflix. I’ve done what can be done, I’ve called in protection, and they’re taking it seriously. The rest is in the hands of the gods.
I hear a knock and peek through the aperture on my door. It’s Benson, my condo’s ever-vigilant concierge.
“Benson,” I say. “Is everything alright?”
“Yes, well, I don’t know. Were you expecting a package, Ms. Truitt?” he asks from a mouth obscured by whiskers.
I think of my barren life—no friends who might send unexpected presents—shake my head. “No parcel expected.”
“A man stopped by and said he had a parcel for you. He wanted to deliver it personally and asked if you were home tonight.” Benson leans closer. “Between you and me, I didn’t like the look of the guy.”
“Whoever he is, he won’t get by you, Benson,” I say.
Benson ignores my attempt at humour. “Problem is, I’m going off at nine, and the night concierge is sick, so the desk will be empty for a few hours. People slip through the doors behind tenants all the time.” He hesitates. “Ms. Truitt, I’ll be honest. I’m worried something bad might happen to you. Ides of whatever.”
“It’s September, Benson,” I smile. “The March Ides are the dangerous ones. But I’ll be careful. Promise.”
“I’m not joking. You’re working a case and it’s not going well—I can tell by the hours you’ve been keeping this week. This parcel could be a ruse to get into your place.” His eyes are wide and unblinking. “You got somewhere else to stay tonight, Ms. Truitt?”
“Not really.” I could go to Martha and Brock’s town house, but they’re away in Naramata, and I haven’t got a key. And then I think of Mike’s. He isn’t there but I know where he used to stash his emergency key. “Yeah, on second thought I do have somewhere to go.”
“Good. I’ll wait while you get your bag, accompany you down to your car.”
My spirits lighten as I edge my Mercedes into the leafy streets of Shaughnessy. I should have done this long ago. I glance in the rearview mirror; no one following. As I move onto the Cambie Bridge, a black car pulls up the ramp behind the truck that’s following me. I allow myself a sigh of relief. My escort’s still with me.
I pull into Mike’s curved driveway and park, find the key—still in the same old crack, thank god—and let myself in. The house is cold and dark. I throw on the lights, take my bag upstairs, and wander back down and into the kitchen.
CHAPTER 45
I’M SITTING AT THE KITCHEN island twirling the stem of a glass of passable Merlot I found open in Mike’s fridge. The mingled scent of tomato and onion melded with Parmigiano-Reggiano wafts from Mike’s old commercial oven—scrounging in Mike’s freezer, I picked out a pizza that passes for gourmet.
I hear a thud—the front door—and freeze. I consider diving behind the island, but then Mike walks in. My heart leaps back into place.
“Jilly?” His face breaks into a smile and he rounds the island to hug me. “This is a great surprise. You—here—it’s lovely. I haven’t come home to someone since—since my mother died.”
Standing in the circle of his arms, I laugh softly with relief. My repressed imaginings that he was staying over in San Fran to spend the night with Ashling were just that—silly imaginings. Mike is here, with me, and all is well.
“I thought you were coming back Saturday?”
“I skipped dinner, caught the last flight out. Here I am. And you?”
I focus on the pizza cooking in the oven. “Benson, our concierge, you know how protective he is of me. Apparently someone wanted to bring me a parcel, and Benson got to worrying. He came up to my condo and told me I should find someplace else to stay tonight.”
Mike frowns. “I worry, too. The police are still doing surveillance on that guy who’s after you?”
“Yeah, I still glimpse unmarked cars every so often. On the way here, in fact.”
“Good.”
We settle into our me
al of pizza and Merlot. Mike tells me about his meetings—great—and I tell him about Vera Quentin’s trial—not so great. The worries of the day fall away and I feel myself slipping into a mellow space.
“Mike, would you play something for me?” I ask, as we rinse the last plate.
“I haven’t played much lately. Not after you left,” he says, but he slips onto the piano bench and his fingers tentatively pick out a scale.
I lean back in the new chair, as the scales mount and descend, sliding here and there into snatches of melody that drift back into arpeggios, finally a bit of Debussy. He gives me a soft smile—my old favourite, “La Fille aux Cheveux de Lin.”
Later, we retreat upstairs and I lie in Mike’s arms, content. Outside, a storm is blowing up, the harbinger of autumn. I hear the pelt of rain against the window. I stir, fall back into slumber.
A dull noise from somewhere in the house wakes me and I pull Mike’s hand closer.
“It’s something downstairs,” he murmurs. “Probably the wind. I’ll check the door.”
I feel his hand slip away. “Don’t be long.”
I hear an unfamiliar voice, loud, angry, then Mike’s rising in return.
“She’s not here,” he’s saying, his voice rough. “You should leave.”
Something is wrong. I swing my feet to the floor, grab my robe, run toward the stairs. In the glow of a lamp, my shadow angles grotesquely along the wall.
“Mike?” I call, peering down to the landing.
I strangle a scream—Mike is pointing the metal poker that hangs by the fireplace at a man I don’t recognize. I catch the glint of a gun in the man’s hand.
“Jilly, no!” Mike yells. “Get down!”
I fall in one motion to the floor. A bullet whistles by the place where I had been standing. I hear scuffles, the sound of a thud. Still flattened, I twist my body so I can see.
Mike’s clutching his leg, staggering. The intruder is advancing on him, his right arm stretches out. Another shot explodes and Mike falls.
“No!” I scream. “Mike!”
The man is looking up, black holes where eyes should be scanning, the arc of metal flashing. I pull back in a single panicked roll, cover my head as the bullet whooshes over me.
The sound of nearby sirens pierces the air and the man stops. For a split second, I think he is coming up the stairs for me, but then he looks down at the shape at his feet and runs through the open door.
I crawl down the stairs, righting myself, stumbling down. “No, no, no,” I cry. Mike lies sprawled across the polished parquet, arms akimbo. In the dim light, I see a thin line of blood from a small hole on his left temple to his chin.
I fall on his body, weeping. “Mike, Mike, don’t go. I’m so sorry,” I sob. But Mike is gone.
CHAPTER 46
I WAIT. ALONE. AROUND ME people walk, move, run, shout, and whisper. But I am alone.
They have taken Mike away. Orderlies ran as they pushed his gurney toward the elevator. I wanted to run after, but the policewoman who pulled my clothing on and brought me to the hospital restrained me. She put an arm around my shaking shoulders, led me to this small room, and sat me down on a plastic chair by a plastic table, then left.
I squeeze my eyes shut, feel the tears squish out and run down my face. “Dear Lord, let him live,” I whisper.
Time passes. Against my will, my brain is putting the pieces together. Danny Mah’s men were watching, saw me leave my condo, and followed me to Mike’s house. Stupid me, blithely assuming I’d be safe, never considering who else I might be endangering. When all was dark and quiet, Danny’s hitman came—my car in the driveway proof I was there. He didn’t come for Mike, but Mike got in the way.
The policewoman—Prue, she said her name was—returns and slides her bulk into the chair opposite. She has curly grey hair and pale eyes, set very close together.
“He’s in surgery,” she tells me. “You’re probably wondering how we got there so fast. It was the random patrol they put on you. They were parked up the street when it happened. It’s all over the news,” she adds as if I care.
Mike’s life is in the balance and she’s talking about the news.
Her phone beeps. “Sorry, ma’am, I have to leave you now. You’ll be alright?”
I nod. I don’t need her cheerful chatter. Not now. Not in this moment.
I sit and wait alone. Prue has left the door ajar, and I watch uniformed people wander in and out of my line of vision. The initial shock of what happened is wearing off, dull dread in its place. Our timing is terrible, Mike’s and mine. Just when we figure out how to be together, our world falls apart. Send in the clowns.
I look up. A man in a white coat is standing before me. How long has he been there? I stumble to my feet. He’s young, my age maybe, with a darkly handsome face.
“Mrs. St. John?” he asks.
I start to say no, then stop. Once I would have laughed at the appellation. Now, in every way that counts, it fits.
The doctor leans across the little table that divides us and touches my hand. “We did everything we could. We couldn’t save him. I’m so sorry.”
I listen to his words through a blur of tears.
“Is there someone you can call?” he asks. “Someone to take care of you?”
I shake my head. Martha, maybe, but she’s not here.
The doctor’s eyes are soft and brown. “No relatives? No friend you could call?”
“I’ll cab it home,” I say.
He’s starting to tell me I shouldn’t be alone when his pager goes off. Another emergency. Another life to save. Or not. He stands, then dips into his pocket and hands me a packet of pills with a fancy medical name and a prescription—for occasional relief of insomnia.
“To help you through the night if you need it,” he says. “Just a few, enough to get you through the next week. Don’t take more than one a day and for god’s sake don’t tell anyone—I’m not allowed to prescribe for you.”
The law, I think, it’s everywhere. But I’m too weak to say no. I just take the pills.
“Good luck,” he says, and disappears out the door.
I wander aimlessly toward the nursing station. Maybe someone can tell me how to get out of this maze, how to find a cab.
Then I see him. Cy is crossing the room, leaning on his metal brace and limping toward me. His usually impassive face is lined with concern.
“I picked it up on the Net. Thought you might be here alone. What’s the verdict, Jilly?”
I look at his sad face, then away. “We ran into each other a couple of weeks ago, got back together,” I say. “The idea was good; the timing was terrible.”
“I never imagined—Jilly, I’m so sorry.”
My eyes fill. “He’s gone, Cy.”
Cy’s arms gather me in. I hear his voice, remote, somewhere over my head, but don’t take in the words. “Jilly, come.”
He leads me back to the little room. I don’t need to tell this man—who has repeatedly skewered me and is in the process of doing it again in Regina v. Quentin—anything. Why then, am I sobbing out the whole story? He sits and listens. I tell him this might have something to do with an investigation into a sex trafficking ring, my involvement with a victim. “Ah,” he says, “a girl called May; something came across my desk the other day.” He doesn’t mention Danny; I decide not to bring it up.
The full realization of what I have done hits me. A wave of nausea overcomes me; I bend my head to my knees until it passes. “I killed him,” I say when I finally lift my head. “In my thoughtless impetuosity, I led my enemies straight to him. I killed him.”
“Make no mistake, Jilly, this was Danny Mah’s doing. He alone is to blame.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
For a moment, Cy does not respond. I look at him. He’s thinking of that day on the sidewalk, when Lois fell into the path of an oncoming bus. He blinks quickly, then clears his throat. “I’ve learned that there’s no point in blaming on
eself for the random accidents of life. You do what you do. Then you live with it.”
A leaden numbness invades me. This is how it is, how it will be for the rest of my life. My own life sentence that I must serve out.
“Yeah,” I say, rising. “I should go.”
“You can’t go back to your condo. Or to Mike’s. I have extra rooms in my barn of a place. It will do me good to know someone else is around.”
It’s not a proposition—it’s never been that way with Cy and me—just an offer born of compassion and loneliness.
“That’s generous, Cy, but I can’t.”
He smiles. “It would give your client yet another worry.”
“No, I just need to be alone.”
“I will see you to your condo, then. On the way here, I did some follow-up. The police have increased your security and they’re looking for the hitman. Good luck with that,” he adds bitterly. “Whoever did this to Mike is in the air on the way to Albania by now. You’re probably safe.”
I think of my little car, once the pride of my life, sitting lifeless in Mike’s driveway and concede. “Thanks,” I say.
I have never been in a car with Cy. He drives awkwardly but well—his good left leg stretched straight, his prosthesis shifting from gas to brakes with a slight judder. He has accepted the pain of loss and learned to cope.
In the dimness at the door of my building, he brings the car to a halt and turns to me. “Jilly, we’ll adjourn this trial. You need time.”
I fight the tears that threaten to come at this magnanimous gesture. “No, I must go on; I must finish it.”
“I understand,” he says.
I stand in the lobby and watch the headlights disappear into the darkness.
CHAPTER 47
IT’S TEN FIFTEEN MONDAY MORNING. I am in courtroom fifty-three, behind the counsel table reserved for the defence. Where I should be, where I’ve been countless times before. To the small part of the world concerned with the proceedings in this room, normality prevails. Everything is exactly as it should be. But my world is utterly changed. I struggle to reconcile the contrary pieces of reality that claim my mind and emotions—what I see and what I feel, the real and the unreal.
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