“Nonsense. Why would you have been chosen in the first place if you didn’t have special skills and experience with the young?”
A server brought us cappuccinos. Aliana stirred hers with some care, pushing aside the little biscotti that came with it. “Why do they call it biscotti?” she asked. “As though it were plural. Why isn’t it biscotto?”
I had to laugh. “I don’t know Aliana. You have always had the ability to ask me a question or two to which I have no way of ascertaining the answer.”
“And you have always had the ability to talk to me as if I were your student or your client.”
“How should I talk to you?” I said lightly.
“I have no way of ascertaining the answer,” she said with what could only be described as a giggle.
But in a second, she was serious again. “It’s simple, what I want. The young girl’s name is Kezia. As I said, I believe that you have always had a special sensitivity to the needs of young offenders.”
“She’s an offender?”
“Not yet. That’s the thing. As far as I have figured out, her whole family has been involved in one crime or another for a very long time. Her father is serving a long sentence for manslaughter. Her mother, who has a record for minor things like shoplifting and disorderly conduct, doesn’t have time for much crime these days. She works three jobs and is the sole support of Kezia. As for the other family members—her three brothers—they’re the main subject of my articles. It’s their gang activity that I’m interested in.”
“Aliana, that sounds dangerous.”
She laughed a laugh that sounded more like a sigh, one of those laughs that has tears somewhere deep at the bottom of it. “Listen,” she said, “after you spend time in the Middle East, the antics of a few bad brothers in Scarborough isn’t as much to worry about as it might appear.”
I wasn’t sure she was right, but I wasn’t going to argue.
Again I had to ask, “So what does all this have to do with me—aside from my living in the same section of Toronto as the recreants?”
“When you worked with the young offenders—even back when you were a judge the first time—people said you had the touch.”
“The touch?”
“Yes. The ability to get the kids to relax, to open up. I heard that they used to say that you weren’t the tough guy that you appeared to be in court.”
“Aliana, as you well know, that was a long time ago.”
“No. Not only then.” She kept her eyes down as if she didn’t want me looking into them, as though some kind of private dialogue was going on between what she was saying and what she was thinking. “Recently. Since you were reinstated. A lot of people said that living as a vagrant had taught you a thing or two about pride.”
I didn’t know how to take this exactly, but as far as being a bum having knocked me down a few pegs, there was no arguing against that fact.
“So you’re looking for somebody humble? How’s that going to work?”
Now she looked up.
“Don’t mock me, Ellis. What I want is this: I want Kezia to open up, to tell me how she feels about having her entire family being criminals. About how she sees her future and whether she is in any way afraid that she, too, will fall into the pattern that everybody else in her household has fallen into.”
“You expect a twelve-year-old to talk about things like that?”
“She’s a very bright girl. I’d even go so far as to say that she’s ambitious.”
“How do you know so much about her if she fails to ‘open up’ as you put it?
“What I’ve told you is pretty much all there is to tell. The schools she’s gone to have records of her failing to attend, causing disruptions with ‘unacceptable classroom habits,’ as they so quaintly put it, and never passing an exam or handing in an assignment. So there’s no helpful information there. Nothing my editor would be interested in, at any rate.”
The more she talked, the less I could see how I could have a role in this “research”.
“I’ve had one interview with Kezia myself,” Aliana went on. “I liked her. I liked her a great deal. Even though everything about her was different from everything about me, I could see myself in her. The restless curiosity that won’t let you stop until your questions are answered, the persistence, the determination to know the facts…”
I knew from my own experience that it took decades to learn true things about yourself. Not because the true things might be bad, or even exceptionally good, but because the more you knew about yourself, the more you realized just how tightly the good and bad were twisted together. I admired Aliana’s self-knowledge.
“I want you to help this kid, Ellis. I just want you to talk to her. I know from that brief interview—and from my research, too—that a person like her doesn’t respect someone that they see as having sold out to the people in charge. Remember, this is a child raised by people in conflict with the law. It would make sense to think that if you are some sort of officer of the law, like a cop or a judge, that she wouldn’t trust you. But you’re different.”
“Because of my nefarious past? So you think that my being an ex-offender would be a good recommendation? That sounds a little bizarre, Aliana. Besides, how would she even know?
“You would tell her. You would gain her confidence. And besides, you can never discount two important things…”
Now she was acting like the professor.
“Which are?” I asked.
“That intelligent, ambitious people realize the fastest way to success is to obey laws rather than attracting attention to yourself by breaking them.”
“That sounds great, Aliana. If only it were really true! What’s the second thing I can’t ever discount?
“Kindness,” she said. “I’m sure in your long career as a lawyer and a judge and even as a homeless person, you’ve realized how powerful simple kindness, ordinary patience, can be.”
“Aliana,” I said, “Whatever makes you think that I am kind and patient?”
“I know for certain that you are,” she said with a small smile. “Because if you weren’t, how could you have put up with me bothering you all these years?
I needed time to think. To diffuse the intensity of our conversation, I suggested that we go to dinner. We actually found an Italian restaurant in the old neighborhood. As we dipped bread into the herbed olive oil that the waiter presented, I noted again the wedding ring on Aliana’s right hand.
“So you are a widow now.”
“Yes. Which is one of the reasons that I know what you must be going through right now.”
I didn’t want to talk about death. I didn’t want to talk to anybody about Queenie. I wanted to keep her all to myself—just for a little while longer, just until I could get used to how I felt every time somebody mentioned her name or even suggested a thought that brought back thoughts of her. So I changed the subject. Sort of.
“Aliana, if I agree to see this child, there is no way I can ever be with her alone. There will always have to be another adult present in the room.”
“Yes.”
“And who would that person be?”
“Me. Do you have a problem with that?”
“No. I guess not,” I answered, not at all certain I was telling the truth. “But I do have a problem with the whole picture. What’s to protect you or me or the child herself from violent repercussions if we get close to what’s going on in her life?”
“Nothing,” Aliana answered. “Nothing at all.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
As we ate, Aliana talked about her work. “I turned down a big story to work on this gang thing,” she said between tiny bites of her lasagna. It always seemed to me that Italian women had to fight especially hard to remain thin as they aged. Aliana was doing a good job of it.
“What story is that?”
“The upcoming Global Partners summit. There hasn’t been anything like it in Toronto since the G20 conference.”
; I remembered the police brutality that had accompanied that affair. The official report on the security issues surrounding the coming to Toronto of top world officials showed unprecedented violence against rabble-rousers but also against ordinary citizens who were just conducting their legitimate, private affairs. Diabetics held without charge and denied insulin. People held in facilities without washrooms…
“I don’t know how you can pass up a story like that. If things happened like they did the last time.”
“There’ll be plenty of reporters covering the summit,” Aliana said. “They don’t need me. And besides, the police have promised to behave this time.” Her tone was sarcastic, but not bitter. She couldn’t afford to be negative about the Toronto police. I was sure they were one of her most valuable sources.
“How did you find out that I was looking into matters concerning the police?” I asked her, surprising myself. It should have been the first question I had asked her.
“Oh,” she replied nonchalantly, “I had a couple of conversations with Matt West.”
“And he told you that he had talked to me?” I was incensed. Not only had Matt not respected my confidentiality but he had freely given Aliana information when he had been reluctant to tell me a single thing that would have been of any help.
“Not exactly,” she replied, and she smiled. “I pumped him. He didn’t even know he was talking about you.”
“But you did?”
“Of course. So what do you say? Do we have a deal?”
“What do you mean—what deal?”
“You help me with Kezia and I help you get info about the cops.”
I thought about this for one more minute. Considering that right then I had no information and no contacts, the answer seemed pretty clear.
“Okay.”
“Great. This calls for a toast.”
Before I could even open my mouth to remind Aliana that I’m a “recovered” alcoholic, she had summoned the waiter and ordered a bottle of San Pellegrino mineral water.
CHAPTER TWELVE
We agreed to meet in my office in two days’ time. Which was a good thing because I would need a couple of days to clean the place up. It was a small space above a store on College Street. Cozy and private and close to the street and the people, which I could not have been had I taken an office in some glass tower closer to the center of the downtown business district.
It was a mess because I had neglected the small legal practice I had conducted since my retirement. Queenie’s needs had overtaken all other considerations for months before her death, and not only did I not have time for anything else, I didn’t care about anything else.
Apparently, that was now about to change, and I knew from a lifetime’s experience that a change of direction always means cleaning up the detritus left in the wake of the old direction.
As I began to dig into the boxes of files with the aim of throwing everything out, I came upon the files of my last big court case: Regina vs. Supreme Court Justice John Stoughton-Melville. Though I’d successfully defended Stow against a charge of murder, our mutual and long-standing animosity had in no way lessened. We hadn’t spoken in years. I consigned the papers concerning him to the “to be shredded” pile.
The next pile I attacked were boxes of papers that belonged to Jeffrey and that pertained to the operation of the Village in the Valley. I glanced at a couple of files in this box. They were quite recent and I knew that I wasn’t breaching my son’s confidentiality by examining the files, since legally, we operated the village together.
Among the papers, I found financial documents that seemed to show that in addition to the usual donations for the running of the operation, there had recently been several very large amounts attributed only to “Anonymous”.
I’d neglected Jeffrey lately, the way I had neglected everything except Queenie. I was aware that there were several new huts in the village, not wooden shacks but actual little houses made of some sort of sturdy plastic-type material. Now that I thought of it, Jeffrey had recently refurbished the washroom building and the kitchen. I also recalled that the last time I’d been down there, several of the inhabitants had joked about the food getting to be like that in a “fancy restaurant”. Had Jeffrey hired a new cook? I made a mental note to ask him who these generous donors were and to remind him of our position on private funders.
Among the papers I also found an article—a very positive article—about the village in a magazine that always featured special pieces about the city. There was no byline, which I found strange. I made a second mental note to ask Jeffrey about this.
***
At the appointed time exactly, there was a knock on the door and I invited Aliana in. The freshness of the autumn morning seemed to have added a becoming rosiness to her cheeks. I was surprised, then embarrassed, then made guilty by the thought that she had remained pretty over the years.
She was all business and without even accepting my offer of a coffee, she got down to it.
“Mark Hopequist,” she said, “He’s the one I know most about. I’ve interviewed him a number of times. Thirty-six years old, Toronto born and middle-class bred.” She glanced up from her notes. “In the old sense of the term,” she said, “when we used to have a middle class. His father, John, and his uncle, Paul, are retired old-school Toronto cops.”
She consulted her notes again. “Mark hasn’t been a police officer for long—about ten years—but he says he’s been with the service long enough to feel that it’s changed drastically since the day he gave up his banking career to join. This is some of what he told me.”
She read, ‘In the old days—a brief while ago—a cop could be trusted to at least pay lip service to the idea of maintaining the peace and seeking justice. But in today’s city, that’s not true anymore. I think some men are more in love with the idea of having power than with exercising it for the good of the people. A lot of cops are head-shaved and gun-ready, like on the U.S. TV shows. Sometimes I think they’re the enemies of anybody who’s not one of them.’”
“That’s a pretty strong statement from a cop.”
“Yes. So maybe that’s why some insiders seem to want me to think Hopequist the prime instigator of the attack—if it can be called that—on The Juicer.”
“Retaliation for breaking rank?”
“Something like that.”
“How could they make a case against him? Weren’t all four in it together?”
“Yes. But he admits to being the last person to be with the victim before the poor old guy lost it. Which means he was the first person on the scene during the incident”.
“What are the police saying about this? I assume nothing since PIC is involved.”
“I don’t know if PIC is involved. I do know the chief of police has promised to get to the bottom of ‘things.’ That may be his way of avoiding a full PIC investigation, which would put yet another team of cops in the limelight. I’m sure that’s the last thing the chief wants on the eve of a major international event.”
“If PIC is involved, everybody will clam up. I won’t be able to get any information from anybody.”
She gave me a look I couldn’t quite read. It seemed to imply something between “Leave it to me” and “Don’t give up so easily.”
“Did you say that this Hopequist man was on duty at the Youth Bureau? How come he left? Do you know?”
“I didn’t talk to him about his personal career details,” she answered. “But it’s not at all unusual for a cop to ask to be removed from a particular type of work.”
“Why?”
“For any number of reasons, as far as I know. But working with the kids is really tough, as I’m sure you realize. By all accounts, Mark was a well-liked and highly respected officer.”
“Is that all you have for me?” I tried not to sound disappointed.
“Give me a little time,” Aliana answered. She took a deep breath and did that look-me-straight-in-the-eyes thing.
�
��The time has come,” she said, “to talk about your part of the deal. Let me tell you a bit more about Kezia.”
I nodded and sat back, ready but not one hundred per cent willing to listen.
“Her name comes from the Bible,” Aliana began. “Kezia was one of the daughters of Job. She’s Afro-Canadian, twelve years old and lives with the family I told you about earlier. They occupy a three-bedroom apartment in assisted housing in Scarborough.”
She glanced at her ever-present little notebook. “Not far from where you live, but in a different kind of neighborhood.”
Toronto is a complex city with literally hundreds of different ethnic and economic groups. It’s not unusual to go a couple of blocks in either direction in some neighborhoods, and have the socio-economic scene changed drastically. And as was true of any city, violence and crime could happen in any neighborhood.
“There’s some urgency to all this,” Aliana said, “because there’s reason to believe that the girl’s three brothers are all active in gangs to one degree or another, although when I spoke to her, Kezia insisted that she had a ‘good’ brother who wasn’t like the other two. Be that as it may, two of the brothers are highly-placed members of rival gangs. It wouldn’t be far-fetched to think that they might be ready to kill each other at the slightest provocation.”
“Not a very happy family…”
“It gets worse. The two ‘bad’ brothers only come home once in a while, but when they do, according to Kezia, ‘they mess things up bad.’ I’m not sure exactly what this means, and she laughed when she said it. But I think she’s scared—maybe all the time. Plus, the mother, their only parent, works three jobs. She only comes home to sleep for a few hours every night. You can imagine the tension living like this would cause on an adult, let alone a girl not yet a teenager.”
“It sounds hopeless.”
“No,” Aliana said, “Hopeless is not a word in your vocabulary.”
I shook my head, but I kept listening.
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