I can’t change that. But I can change what happens next. I’m determined to do everything in my power to make Cy choke back his words. The trial is not over. I will put my grief on hold and prove Cy wrong. And along the way, I will get Vera off.
Joseph occupies his usual place on the first bench of the spectator section, Nicholas beside him. Joseph was there when the House of May was raided; the police took his name. But does he know he’s been photographed exiting a house where underaged girls are trafficked for sex? If he does, he gives no sign. He’s this side of the law—just—and on this side there can be no reckoning. I look at Vera. Does she know what her husband does of an evening when he tells her he is at work? No, I decide. She is his loyal spouse, a victim of his deceit. Maybe other deceits. She does not deserve this.
I turn to Riva Johnson, the solicitor from Black and Conway. She stands stiffly erect as she places her hand on the Bible and swears to tell the truth. Not just the truth, I think, the whole truth, the last piece of the truth. I have served her with a special subpoena, a subpoena duces tecum—ancient legal Latin for bring the documents.
As I walk into the well of the court, she meets my eye. Clutching at straws, I tell myself that this is a good sign and commence my examination. We go through the preliminaries of who she is, and she obliges to answer, and then I take her to August 10, 2019. We are in new territory, but after a moment, she speaks.
“Mr. Conway called me around eleven, with a request that I go to see a client who wanted to change her will, a Mrs. Olivia Stanton.” She consults her notes to make sure she has it exact. “Yes, he called at nine minutes past eleven.”
“And what did you do as a result of that call, Ms. Johnson?”
“I rang the number Mr. Conway gave me and spoke with a woman who identified herself as Mrs. Stanton. She said she had a friend coming at two thirty. We arranged for an appointment at four p.m.”
“So you went to Mrs. Stanton’s house at four. What happened then?”
“When I arrived, the caregiver showed me to Mrs. Stanton who was in what I took to be the den. I introduced myself, and she said, I’m glad you are here. Sit down. She looked very frail. I remember telling her that I had a cold. She only laughed and said I could touch anything I wanted because her health could not be worse. Still, I was worried about making her ill and was careful not to touch anything.” She looks at the jury. “I’m a bit neurotic about germs.”
Ah, I think. That explains the absence of her fingerprints.
“How did you find Mrs. Stanton?”
“She seemed tired, to be frank. Like talking was an effort. I asked if she wanted me to come another time, but she said it was urgent that she change her will then.’ ”
This is more than we’ve ever heard. I press on, anxious to capitalize on Riva’s forthrightness. “What happened next?”
“She told me to get her will from a drawer under the wall of books. I took a tissue and opened the drawer and found a will. Signed and duly executed by Olivia Stanton.”
“Do you have a copy of that will, Ms. Johnson?”
“I do.”
Cy’s forehead creases in puzzlement. “If it please the court,” he says, pushing himself up. “We all know what was in Mrs. Stanton’s will. It has been marked as an exhibit in these proceedings.”
“Patience, Mr. Kenge,” I say. “I am asking that this particular copy of the deceased’s will be produced.”
Riva Johnson takes a document from the file she has brought. “This is the original of Olivia Johnson’s will, signed and executed on November 10, 2016.”
“Anything else, Ms. Johnson?”
Her voice falters, but she forces herself to speak. “Attached to the will is a handwritten codicil dated August 10, 2019, signed by Olivia Stanton.”
My heart takes a leap. “And will you tell the court who witnessed this codicil?”
“I witnessed it. And a woman called Elsie Baxter.”
A codicil, a change to the will. From the back of the courtroom a rustle rises. At the press table, a sudden clicking of computer keys erupts.
Cy’s face darkens. “We haven’t seen this supposed—supposed codicil, my Lady.”
“The defence is not obliged to give notice of evidence it may tender,” I say smartly, giving Cy a look. “In any case, the Crown, had it conducted a proper investigation, would have discovered this change to the will. If Mr. Kenge is taken by surprise, it is because of the prosecution’s incompetence.” I glance at the jury. They’re watching attentively, riveted by this last-minute twist. “I ask that this copy of the will and codicil be marked as an exhibit in this trial.”
Clerk Naomi marks the will and hands it back to the witness.
“Did you write this codicil, Ms. Johnson?” I ask.
“I did. It’s in my handwriting. It reflects the changes that Mrs. Stanton wished to make in her will.”
“Can you tell the jury the steps that led to the making and signing of the codicil?”
“Mrs. Stanton told me she wanted to change her will to include a bequest to the Society for Dying with Dignity, in the sum of”—she bends her head to peer at the last page of the document—“one hundred thousand dollars. As a lawyer, it was my duty to inform her of the consequences of this change. I told her that making this change would decrease by the same amount the bequest to the residual beneficiary—one Nicholas Quentin.”
I repress the urge to look back to see how Nicholas is taking this. “What did she say to that?”
“She said that Nicholas was an able young man and had less need of the money than the society.”
“So, having taken Mrs. Stanton’s instructions and explained the consequences, what did you do, Ms. Johnson?”
“I told Mrs. Stanton that I would go back to the office and return with a new will in a few days. But she said it must be done that day. I told her that these things should not be done hastily, but she insisted. In fact, she became angry and asked what use was I as a lawyer if I couldn’t make a simple change like this immediately. I told her it was impossible to do it immediately even if I wanted to because it would have to be written out and there would have to be another witness.” Riva Johnson turns to the jury. “There must be two witnesses for a change to a will to be valid.”
“What did Mrs. Stanton say when you told her that?”
“She said, You can write, I presume, Ms. Johnson? I said, Yes, I know how to write. She said she had paper and I had a pen and her friend could be there in fifteen minutes to witness the change. I counselled her against this, but she insisted. In the end, I gave in. I told her that if we could find another witness, I would write out the change she wanted in the form of a codicil, on condition that it was a stopgap; I would bring her a proper new will to sign in a couple of days.” Riva pauses, as if considering how much to say. “Mrs. Stanton had led me to believe that Miss Baxter was on the board of the Society for Dying with Dignity and I was worried that the codicil might not be valid if she witnessed it. I shared my worry with Mrs. Stanton, but she just waved me off, Nicholas will never contest it, she said. By then I just wanted to get Mrs. Stanton off my back, so I told her I would go ahead, with a note in the file that I had instructed her that the codicil might fail if challenged.”
“What happened next, Ms. Johnson?”
“Mrs. Stanton texted someone. By the time I had the codicil written, Miss Baxter had arrived. Mrs. Stanton signed the codicil, and Miss Baxter and I witnessed it.”
“You took the will and codicil away with you?”
“Yes.”
“And kept it until today?”
“Yes.”
When it comes to this witness, I’ve been running on empty, diluted with hope. But my hunch that Riva had something important in her secret file has proved right. So, incidentally, has Jeff’s hunch that Elsie may have thought the will had been changed, and thus helped Olivia end her life. I recall Elsie’s words in that first interview, It’s too bad Olivia didn’t live long enough to co
mplete the new will.
“Ms. Johnson, as you know, Mrs. Stanton died that very night. Why did you not bring this codicil to the attention of her executors?”
Riva flushes. “Well, that is—that is a good question. The truth is, I was very busy. I put off drafting the revised will for a few days. I figured we had the codicil in place, such as it was. I was so immersed in my work that I wasn’t aware Mrs. Stanton had died. And then one day Mr. Conway said, Remember that Mrs. Stanton I sent you to see that afternoon? Turns out she was murdered. Whatever did she want anyway? I was petrified that if I told the truth, that I had drafted a codicil that probably wasn’t valid and then delayed getting it out all without ever telling him, he would be furious with me. You need to understand, Ms. Truitt. I had to keep this job. I’d been let go by other firms twice before.”
“So, what did you do?”
She studies her hands. “I lied to Mr. Conway. I told him Mrs. Stanton just wanted some advice on her will and I had talked her out of it. An impulsive, defensive reaction made without thinking. I didn’t realize until later that my lie left me in a terrible position—it was my duty as a lawyer to reveal the codicil to the executors, but if I did, Mr. Conway would know I had acted unprofessionally and lied to him, and I would be fired for sure. After you came to see me, Ms. Truitt—subpoenaed me—I did some reckoning. I realized it was time to right this situation, even if I would be fired and disbarred. I was exhausted with carrying the burden of half-truths. I’m relieved it’s over. Living with this has been a nightmare.”
Riva Johnson squares her shoulders. She looks at the judge and surveys the jury with equanimity. The foreman’s eyes are glued to her. He believes in sin and even more in redemption. In this moment, he’s with Riva.
“I am sorry, deeply sorry for the shame I have brought on the administration of justice,” Riva finishes.
This is it, I think, this is her evidence. I pause and turn. Nicholas’s face registers shock; Joseph, as ever, stares impassively ahead. And then Riva surprises me.
“And while I’m coming clean, there is something else I must share.” She rummages in her file, pulls out an envelope.
“What’s this?” I ask, nervous that after coming so far without wrecking our case, we’re about to crash on an unexpected shoal.
Riva has her hand on the tiller and is headed for the harbour, come what may. “After the codicil had been signed and I was about to leave, Mrs. Stanton called me back. There is something else I want you to do for me, dearie—now that I had complied with her wishes I was dearie. She said, When I die, I want you to give this envelope and its contents to the police. I hesitated, but again she insisted. So, I took it.”
“What’s written on the envelope, Ms. Johnson?”
“Nicholas, August 9, 2019.”
Olivia was full of secrets, but I can’t leave it there. I take a terrible chance. “Would you tell the court what is in the envelope, Ms. Johnson?”
“Photos,” she says, a look of disgust on her face. “Photos of a man with his arm around a young girl. A very young girl. There’s one of them kissing.”
I feel a nauseous clench in my stomach. “Anything else?”
“A piece of paper with an address, a Vancouver address. Details of what went on there. Here, you look.”
I take the envelope, walk to Cy’s table, withdraw the photos and the piece of paper so we both can see.
The top photo rocks me back. Joseph Quentin, champagne glass in hand and a slender girl on his arm, beams up for the camera. Cy’s breath sucks in audibly. He knew about the human trafficking ring. But Joseph’s connection hits Cy like a knockout punch. I take brief pleasure in the moment—for once I got there before him—I was at this house last night. He offers me a nod—an apology? Too much to hope, I think, as his eyes narrow and his mouth settles into a grim line.
My gloating doesn’t last long. There is too much I still don’t know. How did Oliva get possession of these photos? And what do they have to do with this trial?
Riva Johnson’s voice interrupts us, shrill now. “The man, the man in those photos. He is in this room.” Her finger points to the front row of the gallery. “That man.”
I turn. Joseph Quentin is slowly getting to his feet. Head down, he moves down the aisle and toward the judge.
“If it please the court, I would like to make a statement.”
CHAPTER 55
THE COURTROOM SITS IN STUNNED silence.
“What is this about?” Justice Buller rasps angrily.
“It’s about justice, my Lady,” Joseph says.
“Justice, Mr. Quentin?”
“Please, hear me out, my Lady. And the jury—I ask that they hear me out as well.”
The judge stares at Joseph in disbelief. I know what she’s thinking. Something is about to happen. Something that could jeopardize the entire trial. Judicial caution dictates that she send the jury out while she explores what that thing is. And then Joseph preempts her.
“This is a confession. I insist the jury hear it.”
“Mr. Kenge?” Justice Buller asks. “What does the Crown say about this—this bizarre request?”
All eyes are on Cy. Slowly he rises to his feet as he ponders the situation. He’s going to tell the judge to send Joseph back to his seat—My Lady, this is an aberration, a dangerous turn that threatens a just verdict. Dismiss Mr. Quentin, get on with the trial and see it to its end.
The photo of Joseph Quentin smiling as he raises his coupe de champagne with the young girl on his arm lies on the table before him. He draws himself up. “Let the jury hear what Mr. Quentin has to say,” he thunders.
Justice Buller sighs, resigned to the drama. “Very well, be it on your head, Mr. Kenge. Ms. Johnson, you may step down. Madam Clerk, swear the witness.”
Joseph strides to the witness box, takes the Bible in his left hand. He smooths his white hair and takes the oath like he’s been rehearsing for just this moment.
“Tell the court what you know about the circumstances leading to the death of Olivia Stanton,” Justice Buller says icily. “This time, the whole truth.”
“My son, Nicholas, found the photos,” Joseph blurts. “Oh, it’s not that I blame Nicholas; he’s a fine young man.”
I sneak a glance to the back of the room. Nicholas is staring at his father, a mix of anger and satisfaction—this is how it was; this is how it must end. Twenty feet from Joseph, from her place in the prisoner’s box, Vera sits white-faced and motionless, as though sensing that her world is about to implode.
Joseph squares his chin. “Nicholas was looking for photos I had taken on a family vacation to Mexico—I’d downloaded them to an old iPad I had at the house. Sadly, I had also inadvertently downloaded the photos that were in the envelope. There they were—amorous photos of his father with lovely young ladies hidden among the photos of the family taking the sun in Cancun. Nicholas must have been upset when he saw them, must have decided to track me and find out what I was doing.” He halts. “He found out that sometimes, at night, I went to—to a certain house.”
“What house?” Justice Buller interrupts.
“Everyone will soon know. Last night, the police raided a certain mansion in the west end of this city. A place, to put it bluntly, where young women were supplied to service men. I was among the men discovered there. These photos”—he waves vaguely at the exhibit table—“attest to other occasions when I attended that house.” He looks up at Vera. “Yes, my dear, I was a frequent guest—that’s the term used—at this house.”
Vera’s face is crumbling. All those evenings when he told her he was working, all the times she innocently bought his story. After all, that is what good wives do, isn’t it? I feel her shock and humiliation.
“I do not defend what I did, but I do say this: I am not alone.” Joseph clears his throat. “It started some years ago. I was invited by a business friend to a special evening at a special house. I went. I remember being shocked, telling him I was leaving. You don’t h
ave do anything, he said, just stay for a drink and then go. I need not detail what transpired in the end. To make a very long story short, I became addicted to the parties, the company, the young, beautiful, willing flesh. I couldn’t stop, as much as I wanted to. I knew it was wrong. And now I have discovered the truth I should have known all along; there’s no running from it this time.”
Joseph Quentin, a leader of the bar and pillar of the community has admitted to using tender girls stolen and brought from the corners of the world for his own enjoyment. And Vera Quentin is a proud woman now publicly shamed as a trusting dupe.
Justice Buller looks at Joseph with undisguised disgust. “Mr. Quentin, I am presiding over a murder trial. Get to the point. What does your behaviour have to do with the death of Olivia Stanton?”
He reddens, doubly shamed. “Nicholas had been told from the time he was a toddler that what happens in the family stays in the family; you don’t air the family linen in public, to use the common aphorism. He could not bring himself to talk to me. He could not talk to my wife—the photos would have devastated her, and her mental health was precarious at best. So, he went to the only person he could, his grandmother.”
I rock back in my chair. The missing piece that has eluded us lies on the exhibit table, revealed for all to see. The family secret they’ve been hiding is finally out. Nicholas shared the photos with his grandmother—that was the tension in the room the day before her death. August 9, 2019. The date on the envelope.
“I don’t know what Olivia told him. But she called me on the afternoon before her death and told me she needed to see me urgently on a matter of business. As you have heard, I went to see her late the next morning. I found an angry, upset woman. I tried to placate her. I promised her that I would reform, do whatever she wanted me to do to make amends. The only thing I asked was that she not tell Vera.” He coughs, a half sob. “I loved Vera above all else.”
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