CHAPTER 50
WE SIT OUT THE LUNCH break in our windowless witness room. We don’t want to show ourselves in the grand hall, don’t want to go to the lawyers’ restaurant. Like injured animals, we want only one thing—a place where we can lick our wounds in solitude. Cy’s cross-examination of Vera has left us bruised and shaken. The plan was to start the afternoon with Elsie Baxter, but now, I’m having second thoughts.
“Don’t call Elsie; it’s too dangerous,” I tell Jeff, my hand toying with a tuna sandwich I don’t want to eat.
“How so?”
“She believes Vera did it, and given the chance, she’ll say so. That will hammer home Cy’s devastating claim that Vera killed her mother and is just in denial. We’ll never get out from under the double whammy of Vera’s testimony and Elsie’s affirmation of guilt.”
“But we need Elsie to tell the jury that Olivia mentioned the size of the bequest to the society. It’s about our reasonable doubt, Jilly. Vera can’t complain because it’s part of our strategy to suggest that Elsie is a suspect. She discussed assisted dying with her best friend, and her friend agreed to help her end her life.” He takes a bite of his sandwich, swallows. “I know the how is problematic, but we have to pose the suggestion.”
“We talked about this,” I protest. “If she were going to help Olivia die, Elsie would have waited until the new will was signed and sealed.”
“Maybe whoever Elsie talked into the deed got his dates mixed up.”
I roll my eyes at the ceiling. “Jeff, really.”
“Okay, okay. I know I’m sounding desperate, maybe irrational. But there are so many threads in this case that I can’t weave together. Elsie was there the day Olivia died. She talked to her. And she supports medically assisted dying. Whatever we do, we have to put that perspective out there for the jury to think about.”
“The jury already knows Elsie was an advocate of assisted dying.”
“If we float the idea that Elsie might be responsible for Olivia’s death without calling her, there’s not a chance the jury will buy it,” Jeff persists. “Right now, Elsie is just a name on a piece of paper. They need to see her in the flesh. And Vera will let us cast these aspersions. Elsie is nothing to her.”
Another day I would argue. Today I’m too tired. The jury’s mind is probably already made up, and not in our favour. No harm in throwing more fodder out there.
“Whatever you want, Jeff. As you say, today you’re in charge.”
Jeff gives me a level look. I know what he’s seeing—his partner, wounded and in shock, battering on a broken wing. “Some day—soon—you need to tell me what happened with Mike. Everything.”
CHAPTER 51
TODAY ELSIE IS SWATHED IN scarves of pale blue. In the end, she agreed to come without the prod of a subpoena, but the scowl on her face as she surveys Jeff from the witness stand says, Just try me.
“Miss Baxter, you were a good friend of the late Olivia Stanton?”
“I was her best friend,” Elsie clarifies.
“How long had you been her best friend?”
“Since the sixties. We studied arts at UBC together. She got married, and I became a math teacher, but we kept in touch.”
“You saw her a number of times in the months before she died, Miss Baxter?”
“Yes, I would visit her for tea every couple of weeks. And when she was well enough, would take her out in the evening.”
“What sort of events would you take her to?”
“Sometimes we went to a play or the symphony.”
“Did you take her to events sponsored by the Society for Dying with Dignity?”
“I did. On two occasions.”
“Did you discuss the subject of dying with assistance with Mrs. Stanton?” Jeff asks.
“Often. I was a supporter of the organization, on the board. I had seen too many friends lingering on in suffering or dementia long after they would have wanted to end their life.”
“Did Mrs. Stanton share your views?”
“She did. In fact, she wanted to avail herself of MAID—medical assistance in dying. But her doctor refused because she wasn’t near death yet.”
“Personally, did you think Mrs. Stanton should be able to get assistance in dying?”
“I did. I think the law adopted by Parliament, and particularly the idea a person must prove she is at death’s door, is too narrow. I, along with others, have been fighting to get the law changed.”
“The situation is particularly difficult for people facing dementia, isn’t it, Miss Baxter?” I see what Jeff is doing—offering sympathy, bringing Elsie onside. Trust me, I’m your friend.
“It is. That’s the other problem with the law—it doesn’t allow a person to make a living will while they’re still competent, a will that will be respected after they lose their faculties.”
“Did you know that Olivia Stanton was facing dementia?”
“Not until she told me, on our last visit, the day she died.” Elsie’s mask slips momentarily. “It was so sad. We cried a little together that afternoon. Olivia said it was all the more important now that she resolve the issue of her death. She hated being dependent on others, and the idea that she would be dependent in a state of dementia for perhaps a long time appalled her.”
“Did you and Olivia also discuss changing her will?”
“Yes, briefly.”
Elsie doesn’t want to talk about the will. Doesn’t want to talk about how she pressed Olivia to change it to make a big bequest to Elsie’s favourite charity.
“Be frank, Miss Baxter. You asked Olivia Stanton to change her will to include a bequest to the Society for Dying with Dignity, didn’t you?”
Elsie gives him a dark look, but she answers. “We had discussed that on the phone the day before and she had an appointment with a lawyer later that afternoon to make the changes. I regret that it appears that those changes were not made effective before she died.”
“And can you tell us the amount of the bequest you were suggesting?”
“What does it matter? It was never made.”
“Answer the question, Miss Baxter. I’m suggesting to you that it was in the six figures.”
I see Cy standing—Irrelevant he’s about to shout, but before he can object, Elsie blurts out the answer. “Yes.”
“Thank you, Miss Baxter.”
Jeff takes his seat at the defence table. He’s done a good job in a delicate situation. He has established enough to plant the seed of an alternative theory, all the while taking care not to directly take on the possibility that Elsie might have done something to help her friend die, which would only have provoked a vehement denial.
Cy swivels into place before the witness box. “Miss Baxter, would I be correct to infer that much as you loved your friend Olivia Stanton, you were not happy that she was killed?”
“I was content that Olivia’s suffering was behind her. But I was not happy with the way it was done. My organization’s entire goal is to provide assistance to allow people to die with dignity, if death is their wish. Olivia’s death was not death with dignity. I told Vera that, to her face.”
I wince. The jury has been told, in so many words that Elsie thinks Vera is guilty as charged. We can ask the judge to tell the jury to disregard the inference, but that would only highlight it.
Cy inclines his head. “No further questions.”
CHAPTER 52
IT’S LATE MONDAY AFTERNOON, BUT I ask the court’s indulgence for a final witness of the day. Justice Buller looks at the clock. “Provided we do not go beyond five p.m.”
After the afternoon recess, I announced to Jeff that I would take the next witness. Maybe the combination of Cy’s cross-examination of Vera and Elsie’s stubborn responses have got to me. Maybe the shock of Mike’s death is abating. Maybe I want to give Jeff a break. Or maybe I just feel the need to immerse myself in the task of the moment.
“You sure?” Jeff asked dubiously.
“Sure,”
I replied. “Don’t worry, what harm can I do with a window worker?” Jeff had the grace to chuckle.
“I call Reginald Pierce,” I say now.
Reginald Pierce, Richard’s window guy, shifts his bulk into the witness box and bobs his head to settle his ponytail. He folds his calloused hands and beams a smile over the assembly.
“Mr. Pierce, will you tell us where you work?” I ask.
“I work for Matlock Windows and Glazing.”
“And can you tell the jury about a request you received to inspect windows at 1231 West Thirty-Ninth Avenue on September ninth of this year?”
We work through the details—how Richard called him, picked him up, and took him to Olivia’s house. How, with Richard alongside, he checked all the windows in the house and found them secure. Except one, a basement window on the northeast corner of the house, which was not secured to the wall. “A casement window, three vertical panes.”
“That’s fine, Mr. Pierce. Carry on.”
“I pulled it right out of the frame. Yup, she slid out like butter. I slipped through the opening and found myself in the basement. There was even a little stool there. I stepped on it and pulled myself out again. Then I took the window and placed it back in the basement wall opening. Left it just like it was when I found it. I took photos of the whole thing; they’re in my report.”
I show him a plastic-bound book. “Is this your report and are these the photos you took?”
He takes his time, examining each page. Then he lifts his head. “Yes, this here is my report, my photos.”
“Thank you, Mr. Pierce.” I turn it over to Cy.
He zeros in on the only thing he can in cross-examination. “Mr. Pierce, you told us that the date of your visit to the premises was September ninth of this year?”
“Yes, that’s correct.”
“Less than three weeks ago?”
“Yes.”
“And are you aware that the events we are concerned with in this case—the death of Olivia Stanton—took place on August 10, 2019?”
“I don’t know nothin’ about that.”
Cy smiles. “No, of course not. Just answer me this. When it comes to windows and how easy they are to get in and out of their frames, a lot can change in two years, do you agree?”
“Oh yeah, a lot. They can be tightened or loosened or—”
“That’s fine, Mr. Pierce.” Cy sits down.
“Re-examination,” I announce, and stand.
“Mr. Pierce, I ask you to examine the photos of the window in question. Can you tell us from those photos or your memory, whether there was any indication that the window had been tampered with recently?”
Once again Reginald studies his report and the photos. “Nope. It was an old window in an old house, all’s I can say. The paint was old and flaking.”
“Did you see any signs that it had been pried or jimmied out of its frame?” I press.
“Nope. Nobody did anything to that window frame for fifty years; I’d bet my last dollar.”
Cy is on his feet. “This witness has not been qualified as an expert,” he shouts.
Justice Buller looks at him wearily. “The jury will disregard the witness’s last answer,” she intones.
“Thank you, Mr. Pierce. No further questions.” I address Justice Buller. “Might I ask that we adjourn for today, my Lady? The final witness for the defence will be here tomorrow morning.”
Jeff and I stow our laptops and head for the door. Our case may be tanking, but I have made it through the day in one piece. Oh yeah, and there’s always tomorrow.
CHAPTER 53
THEY SAY THAT THE FIRST stage of grieving is denial—a word I am learning to loathe. I accept condolences from colleagues in the Barristers’ Lounge, stop to chat with friends about Mike in the great hall. Liked him so much. He’ll be missed. So sorry, Jilly. My head accepts that Mike is gone; my heart cannot.
I’m on my way to my condo—tonight, I have decided to go straight home—when my phone rings. I pull over, fish it out of my bag, put it on speaker. Deborah Moser’s husky voice fills my car. “We’re going in tonight on May’s file. I thought you might like to come along.”
My heart picks up a beat. So, they’re finally moving in. I think of an evening in my condo, empty and alone with nothing but my sick heart for company. “Where? When?”
“Tell me where you are, I’ll pick you up. You can come along with me in the cruiser. Eight thirty?”
“Great.” I give her my address.
Deborah’s cruiser turns out to be a black van. A uniformed woman is driving. I slide into an empty rear seat; Deborah’s solid form occupies its twin. The cruiser is equipped—radios, mics, the lot. Between the front seats is a screen, so we can watch the action as events unfold.
“Wow, I feel empowered,” I joke weakly, amazed that I am able to make the attempt.
“I feel wired, and not just because of all this,” says Deborah, waving her hand at the infrastructure. “I hope to hell we can pull this one off.” A phone rings; Deborah picks it up. “Code one down,” I hear her say. She puts the receiver in its cradle and looks at me. “They just arrested Danny Mah—precise charges pending.”
“Good,” I say. The ball of tension in my chest releases, just a bit. They’ll never pin Mike’s murder on Danny, but with this charge he will be back behind bars. For a long time, I hope.
“I am sorry for your loss,” Deborah says. “I heard about Mike. I’m sorry we weren’t able to move quicker.”
“I’m just grateful you got Danny for this. Thank you.”
“You have Damon to thank,” she reminds me.
“Yeah,” I say, wondering if he’ll take my call now. I brush the thought aside. “Where are we headed?”
“To the house.”
“The house?”
“The House of May,” Deborah says sardonically. “That’s what we’ve been calling it.”
We move through the bright lights of downtown and edge into the narrow streets of the West End. The van pulls up in a street flanked by tall houses. A century ago, these were the mansions of the privileged in a town of hopes and pretentions clinging precariously to existence at the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Today they are faded edifices, cut up into multiple dwellings. Only a few of the houses remain as they once were.
Our screen focuses on one of the houses that remains intact. The central entrance glows with a candelabra, lamps gleam from gracious reception rooms to either side; some cop must be angling a camera with the finesse of an expert from Architectural Digest. Upstairs, dim lights shine from the narrow windows of rooms to which inhabitants and their guests may repair, when the mood and moment strikes.
I peer through the window of the cruiser and scan to the third floor. The windows are small, set in dormers. I imagine May’s days here, in a tiny room beneath a sloped attic ceiling, watching English soaps on a small TV with a bit of mandatory porn thrown in for good measure. Grooming, they call it. One day you will be allowed into the lovely parlours downstairs, her keepers would have promised her. If you are very good and do as we say. I’ve worked on the other side of a few human trafficking cases; I know how it goes.
We wait. Our vehicle, lights off, is hidden behind the drooping branches of an ancient cypress, but we can see the house through the leaves. See who comes and goes. Except no one does.
“Police work,” grumbles Deborah. “Days of waiting, split seconds of action.”
We wait some more.
Suddenly, our screen crackles to life. Dark figures are running down the walk and up the elegant stone staircase. The door bursts open. The cameras the running men are holding transmit the interior of the salons to our screen. Gentlemen in suits and ties lower their drinks and look up in startled fright, while delicate girls drop champagne flutes and dive for cover.
We watch as the invading officers round the occupants into clusters and begin the methodical process of taking names and issuing papers.
The screen shifts abr
uptly. An entrepreneurial officer has ventured into an upstairs room. A new image floods the screen: a bed, a young body beneath a naked male form. The lens catches her face as it turns to the sudden light of the camera. May. I gasp. Her face is white and a tear trickles from her eye, descends across the bridge of her nose.
I feel sick; I cannot watch. The screen shifts back to events downstairs. The officers have taken the men’s names.
Beside me, Deborah sighs. “If they are tied to the organization, they’ll be charged,” she says. “If they’re just casual users—customers—we’ll terrify them, but we’ll have to let them go. You know the drill.”
I do. They’re just johns, and the law doesn’t target johns.
A camera is scanning the faces of the departing men. Handsome, ugly, most middle-aged. My eye stops. I recognize a mining magnate whose photo I’ve seen in the paper, Horst Riccardo—the man who was willing to be an alibi for Kevin Brandt, my sexual assault client. I wish I was surprised. But then my heart stops.
“Joseph,” I breathe. “Joseph Quentin.”
Memories flood in. How he looked down my legs in the car the day we visited Olivia’s house. How he professed to love his wife. Strange kind of love.
“He was on the list. That’s why we had to wait. We didn’t want to mess up his wife’s trial. One way or the other. A sympathy verdict that she’s married to this monster. Or maybe, you never know, a juror or two who may sympathize with Joseph.”
“But the trial isn’t finished,” I say.
“Really?” Deborah surveys me coolly in the dim light of the cruiser. “Funny. Cy said the trial is over.”
The nerve, I think. I return Deborah’s cool gaze. “This time,” I say, “Cy’s got it wrong.”
CHAPTER 54
CY’S WORDS ARE STILL RINGING in my ears when I take my seat across from him the next morning in court. Cy, with his finger in every pie, his eye on every case. Cy, who knows everything and has always known everything. He didn’t know that Mike would die, I concede, even Cy has his limits, but he underestimated Danny Mah, as did I.
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