Law and Disorder

by Mary Jane Maffini

  I said, “The bottom of your kid’s aquarium?”

  “Close,” she said, giving me a booming laugh in return.

  If there’s one thing Mombourquette hates, it’s other people’s banter. “Spit it out, Wentzell.”

  Wentzell’s grin slipped. She glanced at Mombourquette, possibly thinking about snapping him in two.

  I nodded encouragement. “Can’t wait to hear it.”

  I thought I heard Mombourquette mutter, “Broad really pisses me off.”

  I said, “In our lifetime, Constable Wentzell. Detective Mombourquette has places to go, people to see, possibly even things to do.”

  She deflated slightly. I am such a killjoy. “Word is they found him swimming in the Rideau.”

  “Rollie Thorsten? The consummate defence hack? What was he doing in the river instead of in court?” I bleated, falling into the trap.

  Wentzell shook her head. Her blue eyes were shining.

  Mombourquette said, “What of it?”

  “On the bottom,” Wentzell said, obviously disappointed that she couldn’t drag the story out any further.

  I said, “On the bottom?”

  “You got it.”

  “You mean drowned?”

  She grinned happily. “Just preliminary information, of course.”

  Mombourquette said, “Dead’s good enough.”

  I gave him a dirty look and turned back to Wentzell.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Looks like it.” By this time, her grin was practically tickling her ears.

  Mombourquette brightened. “Best news I’ve heard in months.”

  Wentzell’s voice had carried, and a murmur was sweeping the area. Shocked as they were by the idea of Thorsten’s death, people around us chuckled nervously. The news was spreading like a brush fire through the crowded hallways.

  “Too bad I’m on duty or I’d go celebrate,” Wentzell said.

  “What is the matter with you?” I said. “You just told me the man’s dead.”

  “Where’s your sense of occasion?” Wentzell said.

  Speaking of sense of occasion, at that moment P. J. Lynch, who obviously smelled story, elbowed his way toward us, red hair tousled, determination across his face. People stepped out of his way. At this stage of his career, P. J. needs a big story, something that will catapult him out of the day to day stuff. If Rollie Thorsten had really been found dead at the bottom of the Rideau River, that could be quite a boost for him.

  I guess P. J. had never seen Wentzell before, because he stopped and stared. In a cartoon, he would have fallen flat on his freckled face, and giant red cartoon hearts would have circled his head. In real life, he just stood there, apparently stunned. P. J.’s probably five eleven, but Wentzell managed to look down on him.

  “You should close that mouth of yours before you start to drool,” Mombourquette said helpfully.

  Wentzell smirked, folded her arms, and looked away.

  It takes more than that to keep P. J. down. In fact, he can’t be kept down. I wouldn’t waste my time trying. He deftly moved in front of Wentzell and stuck out his hand. “P. J. Lynch. I’m from the Citizen.”

  “You’ll have to wait for the press briefing,” she said.

  “Hey, not everything’s about work,” P. J. said. “I just thought that I heard you saying something about—”

  “No comment.”

  Wentzell swaggered off down the hallway, substantial blue backside swaying. P. J. waited only a second before he followed as if in a trance.

  “He’s absolutely smitten,” I said to Mombourquette. “I guess there’s something to be said for combining business and pleasure.”

  “Truly pathetic,” Mombourquette said.

  “For sure, she’ll chew him up and spit him out. She is one tough cookie.”

  Mombourquette’s nose twitched. “That might be fun to watch.”

  As Wentzell elbowed her way through a group, one bystander turned away, avoiding her neatly. There was something familiar about him. I spotted a pair of hazel eyes and a stray lock of soft sandy hair falling over them. Sure enough, there it was: a crooked little-boy smile as the hazel eyes met mine. My all-time favourite client and the most talented burglar Ottawa had ever seen, Bunny Mayhew, the only man in the world who could ever look fetching in a flame-orange jumpsuit with the words Regional Detention Centre written on it.

  Damn. Why was he at the courthouse? It would be a shame if Bunny were pulled back into the criminal life he’d worked so hard to escape in the past few years.

  I leaned closer to Mombourquette, something I usually avoid. “Did you just see Bunny Mayhew? What would he be doing here?”

  “Time, I hope,” Mombourquette said. He’s a lot less sentimental than I am. They may deal with the heavy hitters, but there’s no warm and fuzzy spot for burglars among the guys in Major Crimes.

  “Maybe he’s a witness in something,” I said. “That might explain it. He told me he was going straight.”

  Mombourquette snorted, “And you believed him? You’ve really lost your edge, MacPhee.”

  I had believed Bunny. And maybe that was dimwitted of me. Of course, I wanted it to be true, for his sake as well as for his wife and young daughter. Sure he may have been a thief with a weakness for Canadian art, but to do him credit, Bunny never allegedly stole a single item from a person I could imagine liking. In my opinion, Bunny Mayhew represented the best the Canadian criminal classes had to offer.

  Plus, I owed him a lot. Even so, I didn’t want to find myself back in court defending him or even angling to get him a decent legal aid lawyer.

  Seconds later, Bunny appeared at my side. He grabbed my arm. Mombourquette gave him the rattiest look in his repertoire. “Bugger off.”

  Bunny recoiled. “But I need to talk to Camilla.”

  “Here’s the thing, I’m talking to her, and you’re buggering off.”

  Bunny turned to me. “Is that police brutality?”

  “Probably. Give me a call at the office, Bunny. You have my number.”

  Bunny stepped back. “Really? I didn’t think you had an office any more. Did you rent a new space?”

  “Never mind, call me at my cell number. It hasn’t changed. It doesn’t matter if it’s an office or not.”

  “I already called your cellphone. This is urgent.”

  I stared back at the boyish face, the sandy hair, the pleading eyes. “Fine,” I said, “what is it, Bunny?”

  Mombourquette looked as though he might go up in flames, leaving the rest of us to inhale the stench of burnt fur. Deep down I knew part of the reason was that Elaine, Mombourquette’s main squeeze, had once been Bunny’s social worker. She’d known him since he first hit Juvie. She liked Bunny even more than I did. Maybe more than she liked Mombourquette.

  All to say, Mombourquette was immune to Bunny. “That’s it, Mayhew. I don’t like lowlifes interfering in my conversations.”

  I said, “Get a grip, Leonard. What’s the matter with you? Wait for me outside, Bunny.”

  To tell the truth, it was astonishing to see Bunny melt into the throng of people. One minute there, then as if he’d never been. It’s a talent really. I imagined it must have come in handy in his former line of work. I didn’t think much more about it. Mombourquette and I went back to cheerfully speculating about exactly what might have sent Rollie Thorsten to the bottom of the Rideau.

  TWO

  Why should you swerve to avoid hitting a lawyer on a bicycle?

  -Because that bicycle just might be yours.

  After the excitement of the courthouse, I clomped off down Elgin Street, pondering life as I went. For one thing, why were Bunny Mayhew, P. J. Lynch and Leonard Mombourquette so present in my life when the one guy I really cared about wasn’t? Ray Deveau didn’t have Bunny’s movie star looks, or P. J.’s quick wit and drive, or even Mombourquette’s furry familiarity. He was an unflappable cop with a solid sense of humour, a good father, a companion, a shoulder to cry on and a friend.
Best of all, unlike the rest of the world, he liked me just fine the way I was. And I liked him a lot more than anyone I could think of. Of course, he was inconveniently located in Sydney, bound by family and a twenty-year career with the Cape Breton Regional Police. That was the bothersome part. If I’d seen a garbage can, I would have kicked it in frustration just thinking about that.

  But quite apart from the state of my personal life, the day had been just plain bad. The distressing part of having Rollie Thorsten die in his dramatic way was that it would derail the Brugel trial yet again. It was good news for bad guys. So good, in fact, that I stopped to wonder if Lloyd Brugel might not have had something to do with it. Stranger things have happened after all. Laurie Roulay’s death was a result of Brugel’s actions even if it had been by her own hand. As I said, there’s never a garbage can when you really need to kick one. If my sisters had been in town, they would have told me to stop feeling sorry for myself and get a job. Luckily they were far far away on a three-week cruise.

  There was no sign of Bunny anywhere. But with all this stuff on my mind, I didn’t give him another thought.

  At two in the afternoon, I was back in Court, curious to see what the judge would make of all this. The jury was in place, the prisoner in his bulletproof box. Brugel turned to face the jury and even in profile, his usual alpha dog sneer was evident. I could only see the back of the Crown’s head, but his shoulders were slumped.

  As everyone rose and I caught a glimpse of Madame Justice Lafontaine’s face, I knew I wouldn’t like the news. Or she might have just bitten into a bad clam.

  The judge said, “As a result of the death of Mr. Brugel’s counsel, Mr. Thorsten, and the withdrawal from the case of Mr. Thorsten’s junior, Mr. Kilpatrick, the Court has no choice but to recess to allow Mr. Brugel time to find new legal representation in this case.”

  Brugel smirked.

  The judge fixed him with a warning look. She is known for having little time for alpha dogs and their packs. She does, however, adhere to the rules.

  The judge swept from the room, robe flowing. As the door closed behind her, we began to trudge out of courtroom 23. Mombourquette hadn’t been there to witness this part. It would have ruined his day.

  After all those months of doing the work while Rollie took the credit, young Jamie Kilpatrick had a chance to be in charge. This could have been the case that made his name, no matter what the outcome. So why the hell had he withdrawn?

  “What difference does it make?” Alvin Ferguson, my ever-present former office assistant said after I’d stomped around the house for ten minutes, swearing. I’d topped off the stomping with a major rant. Alvin watched from the kitchen door, resplendent in the Cape Breton tartan apron that someone had given me years ago. He must have found that at the bottom of my kitchen drawer. As there is almost nothing in the house left unpainted, he has turned his hand to collecting and testing heritage recipes. Luckily he wasn’t testing any of them in this weather.

  I said, “It makes a big difference.”

  “This Brugel is still on trial anyway. They’ve got him, right?”

  “They have him now. But if he keeps on finding ways to stall, the world can change, and they may not have him forever.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “He’s fired lawyers before.” I leaned against the crumbling faux stone wall that Alvin had thoughtfully painted as part of his Tuscan decorating theme. The walls were somewhat at odds with the sleek stainless appliances in the modern kitchen, but congruity has never been Alvin’s strength.

  “He has?”

  “Sure. Why do you think this case has been dragging on for so long?”

  “I really don’t know. Can you fire your lawyer?”

  “Happens all the time.”

  “But why does that hold up the case?”

  “Because you are entitled to representation.”

  “Yeah but…”

  “And you are also entitled to be represented by someone you believe has your best interests at heart.”

  “You think that’s a good thing?” Alvin magically produced a glass of ice tea. “There’s mint in this. Give it a try.”

  “Some accused misuse this right. They fire perfectly competent counsel, just to stall.”

  “But what does it get them?”

  “It gets them a delay. In Brugel’s case, it has gotten him two delays before this latest setback.”

  “Why would anybody want a delay? Don’t they want to get the whole thing over with?”

  “Not if they know they’re guilty and they’re pretty sure they’re going to be convicted and be stuck behind bars for a damn long time. There are two solid reasons for delaying, Alvin. The first one is that if the person has been in custody during the trial, they might get two for one credit for that time served.”

  “What does that mean anyway?”

  “Two days taken off his sentence for every one served.”

  “Really? Do you think that’s—”

  “It’s the way it is in our system, Alvin. Although the current government is trying to change that. And the other point is, and this is much more important, the longer the trial drags on, the harder it will be for the Crown to control or even locate key witnesses.”

  “What do you mean, control? You mean the Crown tries to control witnesses? That’s just plain wrong.”

  “I mean they encourage them to stick to their stories. And remember them. They get them to show up. They get them to stay clean and sober if they can.”

  “Oh, that’s all right. I guess.”

  “And they don’t want them recanting their testimony either. It goes without saying.”

  “They do that?”

  “Sure. Often, in criminal cases, some of the witnesses are going to be criminals too. Or they’re going to be connected with the accused in some way—relatives, neighbours. But the most important thing is to keep them from leaving town or worse, disappearing.”

  Alvin’s eyes bugged out. “Disappearing?”

  “Sure. Some of them will just drift away. A couple will get arrested here or somewhere else. Some might be discredited. Others will die from disease or even lifestyle. And a few will take off in the hope that they won’t have to testify.”

  “Why?”

  “Lots of reasons, Alvin. But the main one is that they’re scared. A guy like Brugel needs time to make the kind of threats that can drive a witness away. The longer he waits, the more time his associates have to intimidate key witnesses. Or worse.”

  “You don’t think they’d actually kill anyone, would they?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Alvin! We’re discussing Lloyd Brugel. He’s on trial for murder. This is the first time they’ve actually had a chance at getting a conviction. And as far as killing someone, remember Laurie Roulay—she died because of the incredible stress she faced from this. She had threats from people. She knew they were watching her. It was bad enough that she’d lost her husband and one of her children, but she knew they could still get into her apartment. She knew they watched the schools where her remaining children went. She got notes too. That’s the kind of thing the notes hinted at.”

  “That must have been a nightmare.”

  I nodded. “No one should have to go through anything like that. Even behind bars, Brugel is very dangerous.”

  “But didn’t this Rollie Thorsten have a chance of getting him off?”

  “Rollie’s strategies were working well. Even so, I have to ask myself if Rollie wasn’t worth more dead than alive, in terms of delaying Brugel’s trial that little bit more.”

  The blanket of humidity actually seemed to lift when the thunderstorm broke at around ten that evening. Lightning lit up the sky, rain slashed down in sheets, thunder boomed. I counted, one two three seconds. Not so very far away. It finally occurred to me that some of the booms were coming from the front door.

  Gussie, the purely temporary dog in my household, lay snoring on the sofa. He managed to continue
sleeping through thunderstorm and banging.

  When I whipped open the door, preparing to snarl, Bunny Mayhew stood there, shivering. Tonight the golden burglar boy had lost his lustre. His sandy hair was dark and stringy.

  He glanced over his shoulder, then turned those puppy dog eyes on me. “Aren’t you going to let me in, Camilla? It’s horrible out here.”

  I stood back. “I thought you were going to wait for me outside the courthouse. How did you find out where I live?”

  A look of hurt flickered across his movie star features. Even rivulets of rain and hair hanging in damp strands can’t take anything away from our Bunny. “I’m a burglar, not an idiot.”

  “In that case, there’s no keeping you out, I suppose.” I gestured for him to follow me.

  “It’s a terrible thing,” he said, as he stood and shook in the hallway. “I don’t know what to do. Or what to think. It’s like a nightmare.”

  I rubbed my temple. “I’m beginning to get the nightmare part.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Forget that. Just tell me what exactly the terrible thing is, and we can all get on with our lives.”

  “That’s why I’m here.”

  “You’re dripping wet and you’re shivering. Let me get you a cup of tea.” I always end up feeling sorry for Bunny, even though it took me a while to let him come in out of the pouring rain. “While I’m getting it, just tell me what the problem is. Succinctly.”

  Alvin took that moment to stick his beaky nose around the corner. “What’s going on? Oh, hello, Bunny. Do you need a towel?”

  “Hey, Alvin.” Bunny’s smile, the one that Elaine refers to as “the beatific burglar”, spread across his face.

  Damn. I hoped they wouldn’t get into a long chinwag. Between Bunny and Alvin, the world could grind to a halt.

  Alvin was already halfway up the stairs.. There was no point in hanging around waiting for him to come down. He could get distracted in an infinite number of ways. I headed toward the kitchen. Bunny followed, dripping water in small well-formed puddles.