Kill All the Judges

by William Deverell

  “Maybe…I mean yes, of course. I guess they don’t serve wine here.” A dumb comment, but he couldn’t think what else to say. It wasn’t like his heroic dreams, where he always had the right line. Did she actually ask him over for a glass of wine? Somehow he was going to blow it tonight, he was convinced.

  “My landlord bottles his own Merlot, very pleasant, but potent.”

  That’s how he’ll blow it, he’ll get drunk, throw up on her rug.

  He followed her into a funky small salon, jade plants, a blackboard with chalked Chinese offerings. He listened politely to the sing-song Cantonese of mom and pop and April, but felt out of place, disoriented, as if catapulted into some bizarre fantasy, with possibilities dangerous and erotic, a place beyond imagining, beyond where daydreams dare to go.

  He wasn’t sure what he was ordering, number two, something called ginger noodles. He was tongue-tied, grateful she carried the conversation, listened in a haze as she spoke of her long-held dream of fleeing the crowded East for Canada, where there was air to breathe. How she’d nearly botched this dream. How she was terrified she’d be deported after she spilled the truth to Arthur. How grateful she’d been when forgiven. Grateful to Wentworth, for taking her side.

  That was true, he’d worked at it, entreated Brovak, pitched Arthur hard. Was that was this was about, was she paying off a debt? He worked clumsily with chopsticks, twirling his noodles. Finally, after a long, searching look at her, he asked, “What’s the catch?”

  “What do you mean, Wentworth?”

  “I mean why me? You seem interested in me. I don’t get it.”

  “That’s what I like about you. You don’t get it. You’re not aware of what an attractive man you are. I’ve known many lawyers. I’ve not worked with many I liked. Most are full of themselves. You’re quite the opposite. So I want to celebrate with you. The year of the rat. It’s my birth sign.”

  “The rat. That doesn’t sound awfully auspicious.”

  She explained that the rat was much admired in the Asian zodiac. Those born under it were seekers of new adventures. She seemed delighted to learn Wentworth was born in the year of the dragon–they were profoundly compatible. “The dragon has a powerful spirit and bravely faces challenge.”

  He began talking then, slowly at first, not sure why he was opening up, maybe to dispel her notion he wasn’t full of himself, telling of growing up in a small town, his Pentecostal mom and self-flagellating father, rueful anecdotes of his social awkwardness and failed romances that, to his surprise, brought smiles and gentle laughter. He was entertaining her! He was amusing! He pressed on, confessed to his silly daydreams, his wonky obsession with the law, his fears he’d never rise to the upper tiers of counsel.

  “You will rise. You are a dragon.”

  She held the door for him. “It is small but cozy.”

  If there existed such a condition as erotic panic, Wentworth was its victim, trembling in her doorway, under a wind chime, taking in the feng shui. Clean and uncluttered, framed epigrams in Chinese characters, a squat stone Buddha in the corner. A glimpsed corner of a bed behind a door.

  April caught him staring at it. “We believe the bedroom door must not face the soles of the feet. Please relax, Wentworth, you are making me nervous.”

  For a few minutes, an eternal few, he stood about helplessly as jacket and coat were hung, lights lowered, stereo turned on, something electronic, Philip Glass. Somehow he found himself transported to her kitchenette, where she poured the Merlot. “To the year of the rat,” she said.

  They raised their glasses, and as he sipped from his, she rose on her toes and kissed him lightly on the cheek. A spasm of wine-spill terror, her skirt turning orange, the evening brutally ended. He set his glass down shakily, his cheek tingling with the soft touch of her lips. He felt faint, he was going to blow this, he was going to blow this. No! He was a dragon…

  He took her in his arms, feeling fire if not breathing it, giddy with scent of her, the feel of her slender, supple body, her mouth opening to his, the electrifying sensation of her hot, searching tongue…

  Her phone rang. “I’m not home,” she said huskily, but they waited until it stopped, still clenched, breathless, the moment altered.

  Then silently she led him to the bedroom, and he found himself standing by the foot of the bed that must not face the door. April set down the wine bottle, and they came together again, she on her toes, pulling him to her mouth, pressing against him. Through fogged glasses he made out a white, loose breast, her top askew.

  A different ring, chimes, his cellphone. From his jacket, the other room. He tensed, but she still clasped him hard. The phone sounded twice, thrice, four times. April looked shocked as he pulled away.

  “Oh, God, I have to answer!” Because it would be Arthur getting back to him. At a royally horribly inopportune time. He raced for his phone.

  Not Arthur. Dr. Oswald Schlegg from Hollyburn Hall. “Sorry to be a bother, Mr. Chance, but Ms. Wu wasn’t by her phone.”

  “What’s the damn problem?” His voice cracking with frustration.

  “We have a little spot of worry here. It seems Mr. Pomeroy tried to hang himself with a bathrobe cord.”

  The cab curled along the causeway that slices like a scimitar through Stanley Park, its lone passenger slumped in the back in torment–not because of Pomeroy, who had apparently botched the job, not because of acute pre-coitus interruptus, though that was bad enough, but because of fate’s cruelty, his own bad chi.

  Wentworth had not only entertained the woman of his dreams with anecdotes of his romantic fuck-ups, he’d brought the show live to her bedroom. After assuring Schlegg he was on his way, he’d thought of ignoring Pomeroy’s plight for, say, the next half hour. But how could he and expect to live with himself?

  He’d found himself stammering. But she’d smiled, even laughed at the absurdity of their fate, and kissed him again as she straightened her garments. “It’s okay, Wentworth. As my grandmother used to say, find happiness once, and the next time is always better.” She’d offered to come with him, but he dissuaded her, he might have to stay the night there.

  As for Pomeroy, his neck got stretched a bit, Schlegg said, that was all. He’d got his foot tangled in the chair he was standing on, and a steward heard the racket. Wentworth guessed the poorly executed effort had been triggered by Caroline’s visit. He was wired to her, despite his history of marital negligence.

  The skies had begun to open as they pulled off the highway, into the rain shadow of Hollyburn Mountain. Schlegg hurried out to greet him with one of the custodians. “Bertram here was right on the job, fortunately. We’re always checking–the doors have no locks, we try to anticipate this sort of thing. I hadn’t realized he was that depressed.” He led the way into a foyer, speaking softly: “We don’t like to bruit these things about, Mr. Chance. It gets some of our guests upset. Some are hardly coping as it is.”

  Wentworth couldn’t believe that was proper practice, suicide attempts must be reported. The Facilitator. Wentworth could see why he repulsed Brian.

  “Brian’s okay?”

  “Little the worse. He was gagging, some neck bruising, strain to the muscles. A bathrobe cord wouldn’t have been my choice for this kind of folly, too loose. One doubts whether he expected to succeed at it.”

  “You shot him up?”

  “He’s about ready for another.” Checking his watch. “Lately, he had been unusually quiet in relating to me–a quite fractious fellow normally. We observed nothing untoward about his wife’s visit, no outbursts or screaming fits, but I overheard her talking about a year’s sabbatical in Ireland. He seemed rather flattened afterwards.”

  “You should have anticipated this,” Wentworth said, peeved.

  Schlegg sourly led them past tables of drug-deadened patients playing cards or backgammon, past a fireplace and conversation pit, up the stairs.

  Brian was in his pyjamas, prone, snoring lightly. He wasn’t strapped down or anything, b
ut a muscular warder was in a chair beside him.

  Wentworth put a hand to his brow, warm, slightly damp. Then he moved to a couch, kicked off his shoes. “Okay, everyone please leave, I can handle him. I’ll be staying the night.” In his view, it would be healthier for Brian to open his eyes on someone he could trust.

  “He’ll need his medication…”

  “Just leave him be.”

  “One every two hours.” Schlegg left a zip-lock bag with four big ugly tablets and led his crew out. Behind the couch were shelves, cluttered with floppies and CDs, crime novels, reference books, psychiatric texts. Several bound transcripts of the Gilbert Gilbert trial, all the schizophrenia evidence Wentworth had slaved over. He opened an Inspector Grodgins mystery, marked up, red-lined, pages marred by doodles and crude critiques. Crap. Bullshit. Learn to fucking write. He felt a bulge under his cushion, pulled out a pack of Craven A.

  He sighed. This is how it will be, a night on a couch in a junkie wellness centre instead of a bed with good feng shui, and meanwhile there’s Cud Brown to deal with, who insists on taking the stand in an act of self-immolation. And Chekoff with his DEA witness. And, mostly, Arthur, the boss, who knows nothing of any of this. He drew out his phone.

  Success, finally. “Ah, Wentworth, I’ve been meaning to return your calls.”

  He was in a B & B in some village called Tumwat, near a First Nations reserve where he’d spent the day hashing over old times with the chief. He had to tell Wentworth all this, his enjoyable time. “Charley Jumping Deer, an old AA comrade from the less-than-halcyon days of yore. He’s a respected elder, he’ll bring in 90 per cent of the vote around here.”

  Arthur’s manner turned far more sober when Wentworth described his own less-than-halcyon day. “Carlos was in Los Angeles?”

  “Yeah. Jeez, I’m sorry.”

  A very long pause. “Well, we’ll just have to work around it.”

  “What about Cudworth?”

  “He will hang himself with his own tongue.”

  “What if he insists?”

  “Then I walk out!” A beat. “Forgive me. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  Oh, boy, he was pissed. Wentworth hadn’t mentioned Pomeroy, and a powerful sense told him not to. “Right. Tomorrow. Um, well, have a good night.” He clicked off, sunk into himself, depressed, the bearer of bad news.

  “You lost Carlos, eh?”

  Wentworth jumped.

  “You should’ve stocked up with more suspects, they have dwindled to a precious few.” Brian rose a little, had trouble clearing his throat, winced as he touched his neck.

  Wentworth got up, poured him a glass of water. Weird how he just woke up like that. As if he hadn’t really been sleeping. “How was your day?”

  Pomeroy drank, coughed, cleared his airway. “In your traditional parlour room mystery, Miss Marple picks out the stableboy from a host of household staff. Your suspects, however, have sneaked off like thieves in the night before you even got started on the last chapter. You’ve done it all backwards.”

  “Are you aware you tried to hang yourself a little while ago?”

  “I changed my mind. This is your lesson for the day. ‘When you have excluded the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’”

  “Widgeon?”

  “He’s been written out of the script. Get with it. Conan Doyle’s most famous line.” A coughing fit. “Get me a cigarette.”

  Wentworth arrived at the courts bleary, bedraggled, still bugged by his romantic megaflop, and in a total funk. He’d slept badly, waking when he sensed Brian wandering to the balcony for a smoke, then turning the television on, a dumb movie, followed by a cooking show and the 6:00 a.m. news. Headline item: film industry prominents swept up in drug conspiracy.

  Whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth…Cudworth remains. He was at his usual station in the great hall, but with a smaller corps of the usual clinging groupies–there’d been desertions, telling proof of Florenza’s persuasiveness. Cud was ignoring Felicity, staring dully at nothing, looking not a little hung over. Wentworth had called him last night to pass on the boss’s confirmation: Cud would not be starring in his own show.

  He hurried to the barristers’ quarters. On top of everything, he was late, his taxi had got trapped in the Lions Gate squeeze. No sign of Arthur in the commotion of lawyers in the gowning room. One of them called out to him: “A twenty-spot for manslaughter must be sounding pretty good right now, hey, Chance?” He didn’t parry, wasn’t in a mood to try.

  On tier six, the usual milling crowd, the daytime soap fans now outnumbering Cud’s diminishing army. Shawn and Ebbe eyeing each other warily, at pistol-duelling distance. Loobie avoiding him; maybe he’d run out of blind alleys to send them down. Wentworth played with the thought of confronting him, accusing him. Sure, right, make an utter fool of himself.

  The court was locked, but a deputy let him in, and there was Arthur, conferring with Abigail, Chekoff, and a suit, presumably the DEA guy. Arthur didn’t look happy but didn’t look down. Didn’t look anything. He had to be masking pain.

  He finally took his seat, told Wentworth the defence had no option but to admit as a fact that on the evening October 13, 2007, Carlos Espinoza was closing a deal on a quarter kilo of coke in a Hollywood restaurant–otherwise the U.S. agent would be called, and more made of the matter than necessary.

  Wentworth still hadn’t mentioned Pomeroy’s clumsy suicide effort, it could throw the boss off balance in his most important hour. The deputy opened the room, and as it filled, the jury came in. They didn’t look ready to decide anything, seemed restless, unsatisfied, itching to hear the other side. That’s how Wentworth read them, but maybe they’d had bad Mondays.

  The chief justice, however, was in rare high spirits, more bounce to his entry now that he was on the country’s highest honour roll, straighter of back, chin up, a smiling nod of recognition to his underlings at counsel table.

  Abigail read out the admission of fact about Carlos’s whereabouts on October 13, jurors frowning, digesting this unexpected blow to the defence. We’ll just have to work around it. Wentworth hoped Arthur had a plan for doing that.

  “That is all the evidence for the Crown.”

  “Thank you. Done expeditiously, commendable job. I will hear from Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “Well, milord, given that one could probably drive a tank through the holes in the prosecution’s case, we elect to call no evidence.”

  That didn’t come close to spoiling Kroop’s hearty start to the day. “Save the rhetoric for the final speech, Mr. Beauchamp.” Adding with a puckish smile, “I’m going to have to watch you today. Hmf, hmf.” This didn’t bode well. Whenever Kroop had a good day, Arthur had a bad one.

  “Madam prosecutor, you have the floor.”

  Abigail assembled a few notes, warmed up the jury with a few remarks about their vital, historic role, then reeled off a fluid summary of evidence, concise, organized, straightforward, evenhanded. Wentworth hadn’t expected much less, but she was terrific, especially the way she anticipated the defence.

  “Mr. Beauchamp will urge you to disbelieve Ms. LeGrand, but you will have examined her words and manner closely, and, yes, you will conclude she’s lived a life of too much ease. You may have found her naive, saucy, irreverent, even sinful–shamelessly sinful. But she offered herself to you without disguise. Blunt, forthright, and with unembarrassed honesty. How easily she could have held back the truth, pretended she saw nothing, shielded from harm the man for whom she’d proclaimed her love.”

  As she patched up some of the holes Arthur poked in Flo’s evidence, a few heads nodded in the jury box. Abigail’s hopes to lasso Florenza had been dashed, but she was determined to leave court with at least one scalp. You couldn’t blame her; no barrister worth her salt wouldn’t covet victory over mighty Beauchamp.

  Abigail didn’t waste any time crowing over how the Carlos theory blew up on the defence, and dismissed the poli
tical cover-up angle as remote and fanciful. Despite her learned friend’s valiant attempts, none of his “shadowy suspects” had ever taken form.

  As to Astrid Leich: “You will recall how coherently her evidence flowed until…well, she had difficulty at the end, but who under the demanding gaze of judge and counsel and jury might not have faltered? Think of the pressure that good, decent woman was under in this tense, crowded courtroom.” Leich had made a little slip, a forgivable lapse, soon corrected.

  “Bear closely in mind that the man she first pointed to, Brian Pomeroy, the defendant’s former lawyer, is the very man she saw at 2 Lighthouse Lane only six weeks ago. They are of similar age, and not dissimilar in body proportion, and from fifty metres not vastly dissimilar in features–close enough in hair colour, facial structure, broad foreheads, strong chins.”

  Wentworth felt she was making a lot of hay with this. Their noses, he wanted to shout. Look at their noses. Tom Altieri was studying Cud, maybe buying into this, or wanting to. Strong-chinned Cud was slouched there, hungover, brooding.

  “The telling fact, and it’s beyond contradiction, is that the accused fled the scene in a stolen car. Why? What would possess an innocent man to rush off in such blind haste? Who runs but the guilty? The cowardly, maybe, but Mr. Brown has demonstrated himself to be anything but that.”

  Wentworth didn’t dare another peek at Cud, but this, above all, must have hurt. The thing is, man, I panicked, I turned yellow. Maybe the truth, finally, the unmanly truth. Too late.

  “He was intoxicated but obviously not blind drunk. He found the key to the Aston Martin, he drove it from the garage, he made it halfway down the street. Was he sober enough to form the intent to kill? That is the question. Drunkenness is no excuse for homicide but does permit a verdict of manslaughter. And you may be of a mind to consider that verdict.”