by Anne Emery
III
As I watched Normie playing happily in the next room, I thought of the Crystal Green case, when I had, for better or for worse, taken apart a mother’s life on the witness stand, in front of her family, friends, and all the courthouse busybodies. I started to tell Maura about it, leaving out only the names.
As usual, she interrupted, but this time she was on my side: “She goddamned well deserved it! Picture for yourself what I would have done to someone, anyone, who hurt or abused Normie or Tom in any way. I would tear the guy limb from limb from limb —”
“I get the picture.”
“Any woman would. Except that one. And she’s the child’s mother no less. The one person on this earth who should be protecting the child with her own life. But she not only lets the abuse go on, she stays with the child molester, and sends her own daughter away!”
“That’s the way I felt. I couldn’t stop myself when I had her on the stand.”
“It’s just like little Janeece,” Maura said, “and the failure of the stepmother to protect her. I suppose the wretched woman didn’t deserve to be murdered for it, though somebody obviously thought so.” Flushed with anger, Maura reached for her wine glass and drained it. “Same with the other one when you think of it,” she continued. “The only woman in the room except for the poor victim, who was what, fifteen? What kind of woman would pander to her boyfriend by encouraging him and his little band of losers to gang-rape another girl? Couldn’t she feel the terror every woman feels at the idea of rape? How could she not have put herself in the victim’s place and gone for help? Instead of cheering them on —”
“I’m sorry, but who is this you’re talking about, Maura?”
“That other one who was murdered. The gang rape one.”
I felt time slow down. I knew I was hearing something of enormous significance but I could not work it out in my mind. “You don’t mean Leeza Rae?”
“Of course I mean Leeza Rae. What did I just say?”
“Well, what’s this about her being part of the rape?” Every cell in my post-prandial brain was on alert. “Where did you get this?”
“Collins. If you had been listening to me over the past six months —”
“I’m listening now.”
“I am working on a Charter of Rights case. We lost at trial. We are going before the Court of Appeal in January. We have two fairly new judges on the court, Vitelli and MacLeish. I’m not familiar with them, so I’m reading every one of their decisions as it comes out.” She paused and I waited in tense silence.
“So. Justice MacLeish wrote the decision of the Court of Appeal in that goddamned rape case. Vic Stillman. Leeza Rae’s boyfriend. It was a jury trial. The lead rapist, the alpha rapist I suppose he’d want to be called, this Stillman creature, got seven years. His sidekicks got less time, and one guy got off. Stillman appealed his conviction and sentence. Appeal dismissed. Unanimous decision, written for the court by MacLeish. The appeal judges made a lot of references to the transcript and that’s where all the details are about the rapist’s girlfriend Leeza — who has since been taken out by our unknown killer — Leeza encouraging these clowns to rape and humiliate this little girl. Leeza Rae not only encouraged them but laughed at the victim while it was happening, paraded around with the girl’s clothing on. She wasn’t charged with anything. It was horrible, just terrible.” Maura’s voice broke and there were tears in her eyes. She looked at Normie, who was singing to her dolls in the next room without a care in the world.
When Maura had recovered, she said: “And you didn’t know any of this?” I didn’t. I had read the newspaper reports of the rape trial; the reporters had concentrated on the chief villain and his sidekicks. If there had been a reference to the girlfriend, I had missed it. And Leeza Rae had not become important to me until long after the boyfriend’s trial. Before her death, everyone had thought of Leeza as a victim of her brutal boyfriend. Now, I wondered whether a friend or family member of the rape victim might have acted on a grudge against Leeza. Suddenly the case opened up in a way I had not anticipated.
“When was the Court of Appeal decision reported? I’ll look it up.”
“Last November or December. MacLeish’s first decision.”
I decided to read it the next morning. And I would have, if I had not been distracted by another development in the case.
Chapter 17
Whatever you wanted, what could it be?
Did somebody tell you that you could get it from me?
Is it something that comes natural? Is it easy to say?
Why do you want it? Who are you anyway?
— Bob Dylan, “What Was It You Wanted?”
I
When I got to the office in the morning, a message was waiting for me from my private investigator. I called and he filled me in on one Trevor Myers, twenty-nine years old, originally from Amherst, Nova Scotia, up near the border with New Brunswick. He had a violent criminal record dating from the late 1970s, and had served time in Springhill, Dorchester, and the Correctional Centre in Lower Sackville. Myers’s favourite hangout, when he was not incarcerated, was the Miller’s Tale, a bar in Dartmouth. That afternoon I gave the place a call.
“Lemme talk to Trevor.”
“Who?”
“Trevor. Put him on.”
“Trevor who?”
“Like you never heard of him. Trevor Myers. Is he in there or not? Stop jerking me around.”
“Back off, man. Myers isn’t here. I haven’t seen him all day. Try again.” Click.
I did not look forward to asking Brennan whether he had had any contact with Myers during his ministry at the Correctional Centre.
My client and I could not get together that day so I invited him over for a meal on Saturday evening. We had wine, whiskey, and stout, and were well-oiled by the time we moved from the kitchen to the living room, and the conversation switched from pleasure to business.
I took a deep breath and plunged in. “Have you ever seen Trevor Myers out at the Correctional Centre, or anywhere else in the last eight years?”
I could see him shutting down on me. There was so little expression in his face that he could have been sitting alone in a bus terminal. Then he unfolded himself from the chair and left the room. I jumped up to head him off.
“Brennan, where the hell do you think you’re going?”
He turned and shot me a look that added sixteen centuries to my time in purgatory.
“I’m just getting a smoke. I am not leaving. Because, one, I might kill someone if I drive in this condition and, two, the subject you just brought up will not be mentioned again. You are my lawyer. I am your client. I am instructing you not to pursue that line of inquiry. It is not connected with the murders. Now let’s sit down again and be civil.” He got his smokes, returned to his chair and made himself comfortable.
“Burke, I can’t fucking help you if you won’t let me track down other possible suspects. Including this clown who may bear a grudge out of all proportion to what happened between you.” He shook his head, and I sighed.
“Move on, my dear Montague. Let’s find more promising suspects.”
“All right. This DeSouza woman in Brazil. What’s her nationality?”
He looked dumbstruck. “You’re having me on, aren’t you?”
“No. A woman you’ve admitted having an affair with. Unlike the woman or women you won’t admit to —”
“You, Monty, have women on the brain. I live in a world of men, not women, for better or for worse. You’re putting me in mind of Karl Schenk, trying to portray me as some kind of womanizer. Which I am not. I resent that.”
I started to laugh, in spite of myself. How many poor schmucks
in this world would give their last dime to be branded as a womanizer, by anyone, anywhere? And this guy, who from what I gathered was memorable for his abilities in that regard, found it oh so tedious to be questioned about it.
“What have I said to amuse you now?”
“Don’t ask.”
“But I do know this much.” He leaned forward in his chair and gestured to me with his glass. Some of the liquid spilled onto his pants but he ignored it. He locked his black eyes onto mine and said: “You’re going to wind up a big fucking loser if you don’t smarten up about your wife.”
I shot forward in my seat. “Just what the hell are you trying to get at?”
“You’re throwing it all away, Collins.”
“What do you mean, I’m throwing it away? It takes two to wreck a marriage. And, for your information, she was the one who insisted on the separation.”
“And why was that?”
“How is this any of your business?”
“You’ve been asking me about my affairs, so now I have a few words for you.”
“I ask about your affairs because I’m trying to defend you on a murder charge.”
“Well, I’m trying to defend you on a charge of shooting yourself in the metatarsals. Now, what’s your problem with Maura?”
“What’s my problem? You’ve met her.”
“She’s a bit fierce, to be sure. But you’re up to the task. Wise up, or you’re going to lose her to someone else.”
“That sounds like a threat.”
I saw a flash of anger in his eyes, then he looked away, shaking his head. “It’s plain to see you’re not indifferent to her. So, make a move. Don’t waste any more time. Yours or hers. Stop being such a fucking bonehead.”
“You act as if it’s all me. She’s the one who runs up one side of me and down the other as soon as we’ve been in the same room for five minutes. If you think that’s love, Burke, you move in with her.”
Burke sat back in his chair and smiled. “Have it your way then, you stubborn gobshite. Maybe in time, you and I can take turns paying her visits. You the forlorn ex-husband, me the kindly parish priest, invited to Sunday dinner with her and Giacomo and his two adorable stepchildren.”
“Fuck you!” I had one hand wrapped around my glass; the other was clenched in a fist. I’m not a violent man. But I had the urge to beat the crap out of Brennan Burke. It was all I could do to remain seated and keep myself wrapped in the mantle of a civilized human being.
He got up from his chair and wove unsteadily from side to side, raising a warning hand in my direction. “We’ve had a skinful, Montague. And we’d better not say another drunken word. Let’s find something to sober us up. Coffee? Tomato juice? Ambulance?”
I let a minute pass without speaking, willing myself to cool down. “There’s tomato juice out in the cupboard, but you’ll never make it. You can’t even walk.”
“Well, get up off your arse and find it for me. I’ll get the Water-ford crystal.”
I poured two tumblers full of what I hoped would be the cure. We sat down heavily at the kitchen table and drained the juice. I put my head down on my arms.
I do not know how much time passed, perhaps an hour or so, but when I returned to awareness I saw that Brennan, too, had conked out at the table. It was a few more minutes before he stirred.
“This was supposed to be a working dinner,” I said, the clarity of my speech having been restored somewhat by my little nap. Perhaps we had lost more time than I thought.
“So we worked each other over.” He sounded a bit more sober too.
“Without solving anything. Like the case.” By that time I felt able to give a little speech. “And to think that I had unkind thoughts, every working day, about my clients at Legal Aid. They wouldn’t help themselves. They wouldn’t help me. I lost patience with them. Failed to appreciate them. Till now. Because now, I have to put up with you. “
“You’re finding this client a bit too rich for your blood. Ever think of going back to Legal Aid?”
“No, Brennan. I think not. By the time I get finished with you, the way things are going, the billings from your case alone will fund my early retirement. I know this is going to sound insulting —”
“That seems to be a recurring theme here tonight.”
“But where is the money coming from, to pay my fees? I didn’t know you guys made enormous salaries. Spirit of poverty and all that. And Rowan gave me to understand that this is you, not the church.”
“I don’t have a mortgage. I don’t have alimony payments. My sisters insist on buying me clothes. And I take Mike O’Flaherty’s money every Wednesday night at poker. Shit! Mike asked me for something and I forgot all about it. We’re having a Knights of Columbus gathering on the weekend, and I promised to help with the music. I’ll give him a call.”
Burke picked up the phone, punched in the number, and waited. “Mike. I didn’t wake you, did I? Ah. It is rather late, yes. What? Yeah, I’ve been lifting a few. I’m with Collins. Anyway, you wanted some of those old song books. The Irish stuff? They’re on a shelf in my room with a bunch of other music books. Take what you want. It’s open. Yes, I suppose you’re right. It could have waited until tomorrow. I’m legless here, not thinking straight. So, when is this crowd rolling into town? Friday, right. I’ll help you this week. Good, then.” Click.
“What the hell time is it?” he asked me. He peered at his watch in the dim light. “Jesus! It’s well into morning here. Poor Michael. O’Flaherty and his Knights. He’s going to lead them in song. Better him than me. And he’s recycling that variety show for their edification. Did you see it? They have it on video.” Brennan was at the sink, pouring us glasses of water. We went into the living room and he made himself at home in my comfy chair.
“Oh, right. I did see the video, or part of it. I remember being surprised you agreed to take part. You didn’t strike me as a very humorous guy when we first met.”
“I was a little tense. But now, having had a jury of my peers find me guilty of murder, I’m a million laughs. An old Hibernian quirk. Sláinte, “ he said, raising his glass of tap water.
“It was a cute skit, though, with the kids singing. And you were fear-somely Teutonic with that accent and the Beethoven wig,” I observed. Brennan rubbed his head. “Yeah, I remember.”
“It’s your own hair, Brennan. You’re not Ludwig now.”
“No, but I must have lost half my hair when he yanked that wig off my head.” He laughed. “All in a good cause, though. We managed to raise —” He looked at me. “What’s got into you, Collins?”
I reached out blindly and found a spot to rest my glass, never taking my eyes off his face. “Tell me that again.”
“Tell you what?” he asked.
“What did you say about the wig?”
“Just that ham-handed O’Flaherty grabbed a fistful of my own hair when he tore the Beethoven wig off — Jesus Christ!” He held his glass in mid-air as he returned my gaze.
I was no longer aware of anything other than our voices. “Tell me exactly what you remember about it. Don’t leave anything out.”
He recited the story as if in a trance. “The children finished their song. Well, I finished directing it. We took our bows, and walked off the stage. The next performer was somebody from the church, I don’t remember who. The children and I went to the little room where the costumes and props were kept. I sat in the only chair. Eileen and Mike were right behind me, helping the children off with their choristers’ robes. The space was cramped and they were all bumping into each other. I was hunched over reading the program, wondering how much longer it was going to go on. All of a sudden, my hair was being pulled, the wig being yan
ked off my head. And I heard Eileen laughing and saying ‘Easy there, Father O.’ He said something like ‘Why don’t you just call me Daddy-O, we’re not formal around here.’ Some little joke.”
He stopped and took a deep breath.
“What happened to the wig after that?”
“I have no idea. I don’t even know where it came from in the first place.”
“Did you see Mike do anything with it after taking it off your head?”
“No. I wasn’t even looking at him, just rubbing my head and reading the program.” Brennan’s knuckles were white where they gripped his glass. I nodded at the glass, afraid it would shatter. He followed my eyes and absently placed the glass on the floor. “Monty, I can’t believe Mike would —”
“That’s the hair taken care of. And you told me it was possible Mike had come into your room some time when you were getting out of the shower, so he could have seen the scar. Brennan, I’ll have to get moving on this right away. But please, please listen to me.” The words “this time” hung in the air unspoken. I felt instantly sober. “Don’t say a word to Mike or to anyone. Try not to behave any differently. We have to be one hundred percent correct in the way we handle this. There’s no room for error. And don’t let that videotape go astray. It’s evidence.”
II
Brennan slept it off at my place and left early Sunday morning, before I regained consciousness. The instant I awoke, the revelations about O’Flaherty began spinning around in my head. The urge to question him was almost overpowering. But it would be rash to confront O’Flaherty before I had more information. Fortunately there was another adult witness to the scene, Eileen Darragh. I could talk to her first. But not today. It was my week with the children, and I was anxious for them to appear so I could direct my attention to them and away from the case. When Maura dropped them off, she didn’t miss the fact that I was all keyed up.