“I understand,” he’d said.
“How is Aaron?” she’d asked.
“He’s pretty shaken up. But we’re all glad he’s safe and that he’s home.”
Norville took her glasses off and peered down at Kreitinger. “Madam Crown, given recent events, is there any need for me to bring in the jury?”
Kreitinger took her time rising from her seat. My fucking back, she thought, resisting the urge to reach behind her and rub it.
Her day had started at seven in the head Crown’s office, where she had met with Albert Fernandez, Jo Summers, and Daniel Kennicott. Kennicott, to his credit, hadn’t gloated and made no mention of his doubt about Greene’s guilt. Summers looked stunned. Her emotions had been whipsawed, from her grief at the murder, to her anger at Greene and her absolute belief in his guilt, to shock at this sudden turn of events. Fernandez was his usual, cool professional self. Together they had worked out the exact wording of what Kreitinger would say in court.
“Thank you, Your Honour. I ask you to wait to bring in the jury until I have made a statement.” She plodded to the lectern with a pad of paper in one hand and a glass of water, which Summers passed to her, in the other. What was about to happen was a show trial for the media and for the court record. She cleared her throat and started to read.
“Your Honour, in the last forty-eight hours information relevant to this case, which was not previously known to the police or the Crown attorney’s office, has come to light. As a result, the Crown has done a thorough review of all of the new evidence now available, all of which, I want to emphasize, was immediately shared with defence counsel.”
She took a long drink. Her throat was dry. Strange to feel nervous at this moment, when the trial was about to end and when all she had to do was read a few more words on a page. But that’s how she felt.
“Last evening, once the Crown had decided how it wished to proceed in this matter, I spoke to defence counsel and conveyed to him what the Crown’s office would do in this court today. I wish to emphasize that there is no question in my mind, and this opinion is shared by senior members of the Crown’s office, that Detective Daniel Kennicott was fully justified in his arrest of the defendant.”
In Fernandez’s office they’d discussed how to refer to Greene in the statement. Summers still wanted to call him the accused, but Kreitinger, to everyone’s surprise, insisted on calling him the defendant.
“As well, I again wish to emphasize that before this new information came to light, the Crown had every reason to prosecute this case in the manner in which it did.”
She paused. Looked at the glass of water, but decided not to drink any more. Next sip was going to be with a pill, or three, she thought.
She looked down at the final paragraph. The power of words always amazed her. How strange it was going to be to have it all come to an end when she read these last two sentences.
“In all of the circumstances,” she said, “the Crown has concluded that there is no reasonable prospect of conviction in this case and it is no longer in the public interest to continue this prosecution. Therefore I ask that the charge of first-degree murder against Detective Ari Greene is withdrawn.”
She’d made one change herself after the meeting this morning. From “the defendant” to “Detective Ari Greene.”
She walked to her seat. No one in the courtroom seemed to breathe. A fresh stab of pain hit her back but she was determined to ignore it.
Ted DiPaulo stood. Beside him Greene sat with his hands over his eyes.
“Your Honour,” DiPaulo said, “I wish to thank my friend. She has acted in the finest tradition of the Crown’s office. On behalf of my client, he is glad his ordeal is over. And he has asked me to convey to the family of Ms. Raglan his most sincere regrets for their terrible loss.”
To Kreitinger, things seemed to move as if everyone was on autopilot. Norville asked Mr. Singh to bring the jury back in. They took their seats, she thanked them for their service to the community and dismissed them. They filed out.
“I want to thank both counsel for the professional way in which they handled a most difficult case,” Norville said, and then was gone.
The courtroom erupted in noise but Kreitinger couldn’t really hear any of it. Jo Summers gave her a hug. Kennicott shook her hand.
Albert Fernandez, who’d been sitting in the front row, came over.
“I hope you haven’t packed up your apartment,” he said, smiling. “I just spoke to the ministry. All your tests are clean. We want you to stay and prosecute Newbridge and Charlton.”
Behind her, people were quickly leaving the courtroom. Soon it would be empty, the way she liked it most. “Can I get the rest of the day off?” she asked.
“I think we can handle that,” he said. “See you tomorrow at seven.”
88
ARI GREENE FELT NUMB AND TIRED AND RELIEVED AND ANGRY AND EXPOSED AND ALL HE wanted to do was go back at last to his own house.
Before they had walked into court this morning, DiPaulo and Parish had suggested a complicated way they could sneak out of the building and avoid the media. He’d thanked them, but he wanted to get it over with right away. Otherwise they would hound him for days.
Still, he wasn’t going to hurry. The reporters could wait. He wanted to sit and take this all in.
At the Crown counsel table, he saw Albert Fernandez and a few of his fellow prosecutors huddle around Angela Kreitinger and Jo Summers, shaking their hands and patting them on the back.
Daniel Kennicott stood back from them. He looked over at Greene and smiled. Greene smiled back.
A warm hand wrapped around Greene’s fingers. “Congratulations, Ari,” Parish said.
DiPaulo clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Absolutely. How do you feel?”
“About five hundred emotions at once,” Greene said.
“That’s how it always is with my clients. People win a big case and the world expects them to be ecstatic. But it’s an emotional roller coaster. Relief, of course. But your emotions will be all over the map for the next few days.”
“You’re probably right,” Greene said. “I really don’t know how to thank the two of you.”
“Thank yourself,” DiPaulo said. “You solved the case.”
“Once a detective, always a detective.”
“Even after all this?” Parish asked.
Greene shrugged. “I’ve heard the top brass can’t decide if they want to hold a discipline hearing and suspend me for a year for dereliction of duty or make me the new chief.”
“Which would you prefer?” she asked.
“Tough call.”
Everyone smiled.
Greene looked at Kennicott. He was thinking of going over to talk to him, but now Kennicott was talking to Jo Summers.
“Let’s all go for lunch and celebrate,” DiPaulo said, packing up his briefcase.
Greene pointed to the back of the courtroom, where his father looked like he was having the time of his life talking to Arnold Lindsmore and Fraser Dent, his two new best friends. “I have to take a rain check, Ted. I’ve got a date with those characters.”
“Dinner?”
Greene shook his head. “Last night after I got the final word they were pulling the charge, I booked a flight to London. I’m going to see an old friend. I need to get out of here for a while.”
“Smart move,” DiPaulo said.
He hugged both his lawyers.
The courtroom was emptying out. He saw Awotwe Amankwah, who had been sitting with his fellow reporters, approach.
They shook hands.
“Congratulations,” Amankwah said.
“Not the kind of victory I wanted,” Greene said.
Amankwah looked around, to make sure they were alone. “I’ve killed the Jennifer Raglan story. My editor’s not happy with me, but he understands. I think everyone’s been through enough.”
“Maybe her secret did die with her after all,” Greene said.
“F
eels like how it should be.”
“I’ll give you a quote for the record.”
“I didn’t come to get a quote.”
“I know,” Greene said. “But here it is. ‘May she rest in peace.’ ”
89
NO GOOD DEED GOES UNPUNISHED, DANIEL KENNICOTT THOUGHT. JENNIFER RAGLAN’S HOMICIDE was still his file. Now that the trial of Ari Greene had collapsed, he had to get back to work on the case against Hap Charlton and Clyde Newbridge.
At the other end of the counsel table a group of Crown attorneys had surrounded Angela Kreitinger and Jo Summers.
Kennicott had only brought his trial binder with him to court. He put it in his briefcase. He felt like an outsider at a party. It was time to go.
He took one last look at Summers. She turned her head and broke away from the crowd. He wasn’t sure what to do, so he put out his hand. She took it. It felt strange to shake hands with her, but what else could he do?
“You’re the hero of the day,” she said,
“No one’s counting,” he replied.
“Can we talk outside for a minute?”
“Sure. Then I have to get back to the office.”
“It’s only a few blocks, why don’t I walk with you.”
They left the courtroom through the barristers’ entrance and exited the building through the north door, where there was no press.
He squinted into the early December sun, low and strong against the sky.
They walked in silence up Centre Street. A block north of Dundas, she directed him down an alley beside the Dentistry Faculty and they sat on a deserted wood bench. No one was around. She looked at him.
“I’m moving to Vancouver,” she said.
“Oh,” he said. Thinking how dumb that sounded.
“I got a Crown’s job. Three-year contract. They love that I speak Chinese.”
“I’m sure they do.”
“I’m not going alone, Daniel. There’s a lawyer from the firm where I used to work. We’ve been friends for years and, well, about a month ago it just happened. He’s getting a transfer. Going to be heading up the Vancouver firm’s litigation department.”
Kennicott didn’t know where to look. He thought back to the night last week when he’d offered her a place to stay in his spare room if she missed her ferry. He felt like an idiot all over again. “I’m happy for you,” he said.
“You met him once. Remember a few years ago, when I ran into you at that Chinese restaurant on Spadina? The Valentine’s Day Singles Night? His name is Roger Humphries.”
“There were a lot of people there.” He shrugged.
“You sat beside him at dinner.”
He remembered Humphries now. A fat guy. Friendly as hell.
“That’s right,” she said, reading his eyes. “The fat guy. Everyone is a bit shocked. Roger said he’d go on a diet and I said don’t bother.”
He was desperately trying to think of something to say that didn’t sound trite or foolish. “Your father’s going to miss you.”
“I know. But the sailing out there is amazing. He’s already talking about coming in the spring. Someone at the club has a contact who will rent him a great boat.”
“When do you leave?”
“Now that this case is over, next week.”
She was sitting close to him. Their shoulders touching. The park bench was in the shade, and his hands were cold.
“You selling your place on the island?” he asked.
She reached behind her head and took out the hair clip that she always wore. Her hair tumbled across her face. She looked straight at him.
Had he ever noticed that hint of green at the edge of her blue eyes?
“I’m renting it out.”
It felt like slow motion. She brought her head closer, her hair cascading around his face. Her lips to his ear. “I had to do this, Daniel,” she whispered. “I was drowning.”
He was about to speak, but she put her finger to his lips. “Don’t say a word and don’t you dare be sad. We both know there’ll be someone else for you. Cherchez la femme, mon amour.”
She took her finger from his lips, and kissed him.
90
GREENE GAVE HIS DAD A HUG AND TOLD HIM AND FRASER DENT AND ARNOLD LINDSMORE that he’d meet them in the front foyer in few minutes. There was one person Greene wanted to talk to, and he was still sitting in the courtroom.
Greene walked over and sat beside Howard Darnell.
Darnell didn’t move.
“How’s Aaron?” Greene asked.
“Home,” Darnell said. “I think he’s going to stay this time.”
“Good,” Greene said.
“You saved his life on Saturday,” Darnell said.
“That was only one day,” Greene said. “You and Jennie are the ones who saved him.”
They sat in silence. The journalists had all left the court. Greene had seen Daniel Kennicott and Jo Summers leave a few minutes earlier, and now he watched Kreitinger shake hands with Ted DiPaulo. Then all the lawyers from both sides filed out together.
“Are they going to arrest Aaron for the graffiti?” Darnell asked when they were by themselves.
“No. I took care of that last night.”
“Small mercies.”
“He’s going to have to testify at Charlton’s trial,” Greene said. “It won’t be easy for him.”
“I know. Angela Kreitinger has recommended a new drug counsellor. The fellow sounds smart and down-to-earth. Who knows, maybe it will work.”
“Hope so.”
After another long silence, Darnell said, “I have to tell you something. I did steal that thirty thousand dollars from my firm.”
“I know,” Greene said.
“You do?”
“In the early days of the investigation, when you were still a suspect, I had Kennicott pull all of your financial records. Jennie’s too. I saw thirty thousand go in and out of your account in the middle of June. I checked the fees of that place in New Mexico where you sent Aaron. They require a nonrefundable thirty-thousand-dollar deposit ninety days in advance.”
Darnell didn’t move. “She always said you were a good detective. What did Kennicott say?”
“I didn’t tell him. Or anyone else. Why would I?”
“Because I’m a thief?”
“You’re a father. You had to save your son.”
The guards at the back door had left now. The courtroom was empty except for Mr. Singh, who was responsible for locking up. He had his head down, busying himself at his desk. Not wanting to rush them.
Greene stood up.
“I have to ask you one last question,” Darnell said, standing too.
“Of course,” Greene said.
“Why would Jennie bring champagne if this was going to be your last time together?”
“It was my idea,” Greene said. “A final toast.”
Darnell nodded. “Now the bottle’s sitting somewhere in an evidence box. Which I guess will be its final resting place.”
He picked up his overcoat, slung it over his arm, and walked out of the courtroom without looking back.
Greene looked at the chairs behind the Crown’s counsel table, where he’d sat so many times with Jennifer.
He walked to the front of the court.
“What’s on the docket tomorrow, Mr. Singh?” he asked.
“Lots.” He looked up from his well-ordered desk and gave Greene a pleasant smile. “There’s never any shortage of crime, is there, Detective?”
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
When I was an English student at the University of Toronto, I had a special professor named J. Edward Chamberlin (whose new book, Island: How Islands Transform the World, will be out by the time you read this). A quiet, thoughtful man, he was loath to criticize anyone.
In my final year, I dashed off an essay on John Keats the night before it was due. I can still see myself a few days later walking into his book-filled office. He gave me his usual warm smile, then his fac
e turned grave. “Bobby, I’ve given you an A,” he said, “but this is the last time. Writing comes too easily to you. You must work harder.”
There was nothing I could say. I’d been caught out. He was right. They were words that drove me like no others.
After I graduated I didn’t see him again for many years. Then one Halloween night, I was taking my oldest son out trick-or-treating in our new neighbourhood. We knocked on a door and to my amazement Professor Chamberlain answered it. I mumbled an awkward hello then dashed with my son off his front porch. For years I made a point of avoiding his street.
In 2009, when my first novel was published, I worked up the nerve to knock on his door again. Sure enough, he’d moved to Vancouver. I found his e-mail address and wrote:
Professor Chamberlain:
I was a student of yours back in the 1970s and have always looked forward to the time when I could present to you a book that I was able to get published. Fortunately that day arrived and my first novel, Old City Hall, has recently been published in nine languages.
I’d love a chance to meet you again after all these years and give you a copy. It would mean so much to me.
The same day he wrote back:
Dear Bobby (if I remember rightly . . . or maybe you are now a more stately Robert, as befits a distinguished author! If so excuse the old handle),
It is so good to hear from you with such splendid news. Congratulations. This is a real achievement. I’m very much looking forward to reading Old City Hall. Good on you.
Later that year he was in Toronto. We met for coffee and I brought my faded Keats essay with me, his red-marked comments still there on the front page. When I showed it to him and told him how much his words and teaching had meant to me, tears came to both of our eyes.
Now Professor Chamberlin insists that I call him Ted. I’m still getting used to it.
Which leads me to thank those who have helped me with this novel. (Please note: feel free to skip this paragraph as it is filled with names that will mean nothing to you.) Matthew Arbeid, Paul Barker, David Basskin, George Chaker, Alison Clarke, Carey Diamond, Natalka Falcomer, Ash Farrelly, Joseph Frankel, Bonnie Freedman, Elizabeth Fisher, Dr. Marc Gelman, Edward Greenspan, Anneliese Grosfeld, Gary Grill, Kevin Hanson, Angela Hughes, David Israelson, Amy Jacobson, Christina Jennings, Jake Jesin, Nicola Jowett, Justine Keyserlingk, Tom Klatt, Denise Kask, Marvin Kurz, Corinne LaBalme, Julie Lacey, Michael Levine, James Levine, Howard Lichtman, Kathy McDonald, Douglas Preston, Jim Rankin, Michelle Sheppard, Alvin Shidlowski, Victoria Skurnick, Patty Winsa.
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