Sign of the Cross

by Anne Emery

  “Monty, my dear fellow. You sound all in.”

  “I am, Rowan. How about you? Did you spend the whole night fielding press inquiries?”

  “I’m sending someone over there, Monty. Wants to see you.”

  “The real killer perhaps?”

  “No. But primed to be the next killer by the sound of things. I shouldn’t be flippant. Brennan’s father just called me. From the Lord Nelson.”

  “He’s here?”

  “He is here, yes. At the hotel. I’ve never met the man. I should like to, of course. But that will be your privilege today. I told him I’d ring him back once I determined whether you were in the office. Sit tight.”

  I sighed. “The door’s open. Tell him to take the elevator up.”

  I clicked off and sank my head into my hands. All I needed was old man Burke on my case. It wasn’t long before I heard the elevator. Next thing I knew, the stocky and imperious form of Declan Burke was at the threshold of my office. I got up and made a face that was meant to express delighted surprise at his arrival. I opened my mouth to say something insincere but he spoke first.

  “Mr. Collins. What the hell is going on with my son?” Anyone who found Brennan a little brusque should meet the original. “I want to see him.”

  “I’ll be happy to take you out there,” I lied. “When did you get into town?”

  “I have a son in jail for a murder he didn’t commit. If I haven’t seen him yet, that can only mean I’ve just arrived.”

  “Right.” If there had been a trap door to hell under my desk, I would gladly have pulled the plug and consigned myself to the flames.

  A few minutes later I was crossing the MacKay Bridge on my way to Lower Sackville, with a glowering Burke Senior as my passenger.

  “What the hell went wrong, Monty?”

  “Whoever did this came out of left field. Brennan has no idea who it is.

  “But how could a jury possibly think he’s a killer? A priest, for Christ’s sake.”

  “They couldn’t get out from under the forensic evidence that was planted to make it look as if Brennan had been with the victim.”

  “He called and told us it would all work out in the end, that he’d be acquitted.”

  “He likely assumed that, once people got to hear him, they’d know he was innocent.”

  “Then all hell broke loose. What the fuck happened to him on the stand?”

  “He testified in his own defence, we put his character in issue, and this opened up his whole life for the Crown to attack.”

  “So why the hell did you let him testify?”

  “It wasn’t my idea.”

  “You’re his lawyer, for the love of Christ. Why didn’t you stop him?”

  “Think about it.” I looked at him. “Would I be able to stop you from climbing up into the dock if you were of a mind to do it?”

  There was a hint of amusement in his eyes as we exchanged glances. “He insisted, against your advice, is what you’re telling me. I can well believe it. He was always hard-headed.”

  “Declan, what kind of a person would do this to your son? Has he ever confided in you about anyone who had a grudge against him, or someone you can think of who might have been provoked to this extent?”

  “If Brennan had a problem with anyone, he kept it to himself.”

  Of course.

  Fifteen minutes later we were seated in front of a partition, waiting for Brennan to appear on the other side. When his son walked in, Declan gasped at the sight of him. Brennan tried to give his father a smile, but it barely registered on his face.

  “Jesus Christ, Brennan! What have they done to you, drained your blood?”

  “No, Da. It’s these colours. Green doesn’t do a thing for me.” “Is that a black eye you have there?” his father asked, his voice growing more agitated. “What the hell happened?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? When did I ever believe you when you came home with a black eye and told me ‘nothing’? Now what the hell happened to you?”

  “A fellow gave voice to a misconception about the priests of the Holy Roman Church. I started to give him a snap course in theology, and he drew off and hit me. I shoved him away from me. That was it.” He turned to me. “I know better than to get into any shit with a bail hearing coming up, as hopeless as it might be. Now, a lot of the other fellows are fine. I know quite a few of them from the times I used to come here dressed in black.”

  “Be careful, Brennan, for Christ’s sake,” I warned.

  “How long are you here for, Da?”

  “Just till tomorrow. I have to get back to head off a visit by your mother. I had a hell of a time persuading her to sit tight. It goes without saying that she sends her love, but I’ve said it anyway.”

  “Don’t let her come up, whatever you do. I don’t want her here.”

  “I know. Now. What are we going to do about all this? Who hates you enough to take your life away from you? I’d certainly know who was out to get me.”

  Brennan looked amused. “Think so?”

  “And don’t sit there and tell me you have no idea. Go over everyone you ever met and come up with a few possibilities by the time I come out here again tomorrow.”

  “What are you going to do then, Da?”

  “I’ll make a few inquiries in New York, if you think somebody was studying a picture of that crucifix of yours. That is, if you still insist nobody has seen it. I don’t get it, Brennan. That mark isn’t between your legs, or on your arse; it’s on your chest. That kind of opens up the field a bit, doesn’t it? Hell, maybe you’ve been swanning around in a see-through silk shirt.”

  “No swanning, no silk. The only one who’s ever been able to see that mark when I was fully dressed was Monty’s daughter.” Declan turned to me and glared. “She’s only seven, Da. She has the sight.”

  “Ah. Rocky road ahead of her then.”

  So that’s what Maura had observed at Strattons’ party; that’s what Normie had been trying to imprint on her hand. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  Brennan asked for news about the family and Declan obliged, but it was clear he was just going through the motions. “It breaks my heart to see you like this, Bren. As soon as they spring you —” he turned to me and raised an inquiring eyebrow, then turned back to his son “— get to work finding out who did it. Turn over some tables, raise hell. Don’t repeat the mistake of thinking the courts are going to solve this for you. If they can’t find any errors on appeal, you’re fucked. I’ll be out to see you tomorrow. For Christ’s sake, take care of yourself.”

  Declan didn’t speak until we were halfway to Halifax. “Thank God he’s not the same little hothead he was at fifteen. He’d be scrapping with them all. And who could tell what would happen? You know what these arseholes are like. Look at them the wrong way, or throw them a punch, and they’ll hold a grudge till they’re clomping around in walkers out at Whispering Geezers Villa. How many children do you have, Monty? Just the little girl?”

  “No, I have a teenage son, Tom.”

  “Nothing like it, is there? Being a father. You see a client in that jail. And a friend, a man a few years older than yourself. To me, that’s my little son in there.”

  We made arrangements to meet at my office the next day, and head out for another visit before Declan returned to New York. I went back to my preparations for the bail hearing.

  III

  Sunday was bright and cold. Declan called just before noon to say he was on his way to the office. I made a quick call to Dresden Row and reached Tommy Douglas. “Tell Mum I’m heading out to the Correctional Centre if she’d like to come with me. I�
�ll be here for half an hour or so.”

  As soon as I got Declan settled in a chair with a cup of coffee, I heard someone get off the elevator and assumed it was Maura. I went out to meet her. Her cheeks were as red as her scarlet coat sweater. I tried to head her off outside the office so I could apologize for the remark I’d made the day before. But she started in before I could part my lips.

  “I simply cannot believe what you said to me yesterday, about that little scene with Giacomo and Brennan. You know perfectly well that Brennan’s heart is in the right place.” We were in the office by this time, her marching ahead, throwing her voice to make sure I got every word. “He thinks, for some unfathomable reason, that you and I should be back together. He may not look it, but, underneath it all, he must be a hopeless, a terminal romantic. But I can tell you, you’ll be riding a Zamboni in hell before you’ll ever get in my bed again.”

  An amused Irish voice rang out from a dark corner of the room. “My son told me you’ve a tongue on you that could slit the hull of a freighter. His observation has been confirmed.” Maura stood stock still. She stared as Declan rose and came towards her, blue eyes sparkling with delight. “I can see he was right about your other qualities as well. I’m Declan Burke. And I cannot possibly say how it pleases me to meet you.” He put out his hand, and she took it.

  “Mr. Burke. It’s not the way I’d have chosen to present myself to you. I’m sorry you had to hear all that. But clearly you’re not.” A smile made its way to her eyes.

  “Bren spoke to Teresa and me about the two of you, when he was home in the spring. His good friend Montague and Monty’s lovely wife, Maura. He neglected to say you were on the outs with each other.”

  “That’s all there is to know about us really,” Maura was kind enough to say. “As for you, I can’t quite take in the fact that I’m finally meeting the patriarch. Brennan looms so large in our lives these days I tend to think we’ve got the whole Burkean universe here. Now there’s you.”

  “A parallel universe. I went to Brennan’s church, by the way. There was no choir at the early Mass. Just as well. Wouldn’t want to see them without Bren directing.”

  “Who said Mass?” I asked.

  “An old fellow. Another Harp. Said a nice Mass.” O’Flaherty, several years younger than Declan.

  “That’s Father O’Flaherty. Were you talking to him?”

  “No, I wasn’t.”

  “Too bad,” I said. “He’d love the chance to talk the ear off you. He’s very keen on his Irish heritage. Organizes trips to the old country. Have you been back there once in a while to visit?”

  “No.”

  “I see. Well then, let’s get moving.”

  When we arrived at the Correctional Centre, I suggested that Declan go in ahead for a private visit; Maura and I would join him in a few minutes. Hoping to avoid a return to our earlier argument, I asked her what she thought of our companion.

  “Formidable. Merits further study.”

  “Doesn’t give much away, does he?”

  “The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree,” she agreed. “I remember you telling me about Brennan when you first met him. Said you could barely get a word out of him.”

  I shook my head, remembering our first few meetings. “What a prick.”

  “Halcyon days,” Maura quipped, with a hint of a smile.

  When we entered the visitors’ area, I couldn’t reconcile the commanding figure I had been remembering with the sallow, black-eyed wraith behind the partition. Brennan and his father were regarding each other morosely, not saying a word. They both looked relieved to see us come in.

  “Are you two just going to sit there? Talk to each other, for Christ’s sake,” Maura chided them. “Now. Declan.” She looked at the older man but addressed her remarks to the younger. “Did your lad here give you any ideas you can pass along to us about where to start looking for the real perp? Murderous bishops? Frustrated nuns? Envious choirmasters? Temperamental sopranos? Sore losers at the poker table? Jilted lovers? Jealous husbands?” Surely that wasn’t a dig at me.

  “Maura, how the hell can you laugh about this?” Brennan looked pained as he ran his fingers through his hair.

  Declan turned to her. “You’re not doing a bad job there, darlin’. I’ve been pegging the same questions at him, word for word in some cases. He just sits there.”

  “Look, he’s exhausted and run down,” I cut in. “Let’s ease up, all right?”

  “I hear you,” said his father. “But it’s so frustrating just sitting here, not being able to help him. I asked him how it’s been for him in here. Do you know what he said to me? He doesn’t like the soap! Typical. He’s encircled by psychopaths and his nose is out of joint because he smells like disinfectant. He was always a fastidious little Christer.”

  “Da. We’ll talk when I get out, all right? MacNeil, tell me something funny, without me as the butt of the joke.”

  “All right. Speaking of butts, did you know I am distantly related to the Proud Arse MacNeils? So named because they were the first family in their community to have an indoor toilet. Can you claim any comparable distinction? I doubt it. No offence, Declan.” She brought out some more classic Nova Scotia nicknames and kept up a line of inconsequential patter till it was time to get Mr. Burke to the airport.

  “Declan. Maura. Could I just have a word with Brennan?”

  They said their goodbyes with promises of phone calls in the days ahead. When the prisoner and I were alone, I wasted no time. I had been struck by something his father had said the day before, about throwing a punch and being the object of a long-lasting grudge. “What’s the name of that greaseball you punched out at Mount A?”

  He rocked forward in his chair and rebuked me with some of his old fire: “I told you I never wanted to hear about that again.”

  “It’s worth looking into.”

  “No, it isn’t.”

  I persisted. “I’m sure you remember everything about him, so give me his name.” Silence. What had Moody Walker told me? A souvenir. “The way I heard it, this guy took something from you. Yanked it off your neck.”

  “He did what?” I had his full attention.

  “Was it a medal?” He stared at me but didn’t answer.

  His eyes slid away from me and he focused on something in the middle distance. Replaying the scene in his mind? Had I finally broken through? He parted his lips and was about to speak. But by the time he did, he had recovered himself.

  “There’s nothing there. Get it out of your head.” Then he rose, walked over to a guard, and was escorted from the room without looking back.

  “Jesus. What happened?” Declan asked when he saw my face. “Is everything all right?”

  We began walking to the car. “Clients, Declan. They’re all the same. Their own worst enemy.” I unlocked the car, we got in, and I wrenched the key in the ignition, then spun out of the lot like a jail-house regular.

  “Well, what is it?” Maura wanted to know.

  “It’s just some information I wanted from him. He won’t tell me. That’s all.”

  “Do you think it’s something he would tell me?” Maura asked.

  “Definitely not,” I answered, which provoked a stare and a spate of unasked questions.

  We got Declan on the plane and promised to keep him posted. Then we drove to the city in silence.

  The first thing I did the next morning was call a private investigator. I told him what I had heard from Sergeant Moody Walker about the fight at Mount Allison University in 1982. I wanted the guy’s name. I intended to track him down.

  Part Three

  Chapter 16

  Ah, well I rolled in late last night
.

  Would you believe I would like to die now?

  There was my lady lying with a man. Not another one, oh no.

  Would you believe that it happens more often than not?

  Here’s to all the ladies that fell for me tonight, whoever they were.

  — David Wiffen, “More Often than Not”

  I

  The days went by, and Brennan’s physical and psychological health deteriorated with every hour he lost behind bars. My efforts to keep his spirits up were seen as the empty gestures they were. He fretted about where he would be sent to do his time, but when I tried to discuss it he tuned me out. His state of mind was not enhanced by the results of the sentence hearing: the judge told him he would have to serve eighteen years of his life sentence before he could apply for parole.

  Then it was time to move ahead with the application for release. Susan and I prepared our submissions to the Appeal Division of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court. A country-wide search had netted me very few cases in which a person convicted of murder had been released pending appeal. Karl Schenk had a trunkful of cases to support the Crown’s position that Burke should stay in jail.

  Decision day finally dawned. We would be facing Justice Dennis McTiernan. This could be bad or it could be good; there was no way to predict, because he was notoriously unpredictable. The only predictable thing about him was his nickname, Dennis the Dissenter, so named for his willingness to buck his fellow appellate judges and write dissenting opinions. He didn’t always dissent in the same direction; sometimes he was for the Crown, sometimes for the defence; sometimes for the little guy, sometimes for the powerful. He had done very little criminal work before being appointed to the bench. Expecting the worst, Susan and I prepared not only for this hearing, but for an application to the Chief Justice of Nova Scotia for a review of McTiernan’s decision if things went against us, as they likely would. I decided not to share this bit of the planning with Brennan, whose mood had been alternating between depressed and belligerent in the days leading up to the hearing.