High Crimes

by William Deverell

  “To yours, sir.”

  “I thought we should have an early chat. Time, trouble, and expenses can usually be saved by a quick clearing of the decks, as it were.”

  Peddigrew nodded. He planned to play it close, wait for the first offer.

  Bishop waved to a florid man at the next table who pushed his chair back and came over.

  “How are you, Jeff?” Bishop said to him. “You fellows still working on that damn provincial resources referral? I thought you’d be back in three minutes after you finished slicing me up in there.”

  “We didn’t want to embarrass the other side by being too easy on you, Knowlton.”

  “Mr. Justice Jeffrey Forrest, James Peddigrew from Toronto. One of our bright up-and-coming young legal lights.”

  Peddigrew stood up and grasped the judge’s hand. “A fantastic pleasure, sir. I read your dissent in the Jacques Sawchuck sedition case. You had me convinced.”

  “Too bad I couldn’t convince those other eight buggers.” He went back to his table.

  “Everyone says that’s where you should be,” Peddigrew said to Bishop. “On the Supreme Court of Canada.”

  “Turned it down. Not going to spend the rest of my life closeted in a smoky room debating constructive trust in impugned wills. I prefer trout fishing.” His laughter was gentle, rolling, and unaffected. “Mr. Peddigrew, I know something about your reputation. I’ve been following the report. I read the newspapers. I’m paid to do so as part of my annual retainer with the federal Justice Department. Advise on possible appointments to the bench, that sort of thing. I don’t know — I suppose I’m just another voice in their busy ear, but sometimes they go along with me.”

  It was all grease, Peddigrew knew, but flattering nonetheless.

  “Let’s see if we can’t cover a little ground before lunch,” Bishop said. “I know you’re not the kind of fellow who likes to waste time. We can parry about for half an hour or so, but we both know what we’re here for. I think we can consider that we are unabashedly plea bargaining in the Renfrew Club.”

  He waved for another round of drinks. Peddigrew’s head was already light from the first one. He wasn’t used to hard alcohol.

  “Now what do you want, Mr. Peddigrew?”

  “What do I want?”

  “Let’s turn our cards face up. We’ve given you all the facts, the best and the worst of them. Tell me what you want. If you’ve got something we can live with, I might even decide to go with it.”

  Peddigrew was thrown slightly off center. The usual opener from the Crown attorney sought at least a token sacrifice of blood.

  “I won’t pussyfoot, Mr. Peddigrew. We’re willing to pay a price. The government is embarrassed about the case. The RCMP staged this operation a little close to the shady line. I’m not saying over the line, but close. And personally I think close is dangerous territory for a police force.”

  Peddigrew figured he might as well stick the knife in hard and early. “If a government hireling commits murder, that’s close to the line? The papers would be nastier than that.”

  Bishop felt his stomach muscles tighten, and this time his laugh was a little forced. “Oh, God, that’s all we need. No, we even sent a man down there to check it out. It’s a drug murder, heart attack, and the Miami police have closed their file. Sad business, though.” He looked intently at Peddigrew. “Actually, there’s a bit of a theory that one of your clients, Miss Larochelle, might be implicated. But that’s not our concern, is it?” It was something to back Peddigrew off.

  “What do you want, Mr. Bishop?” Peddigrew understood that there would be no first names for a while yet.

  “Let’s get down to the bones, Mr. Peddigrew. We have four persons under arrest. They comprise the North American end of one of the biggest drug rings in this hemisphere. Single richest drug cargo I’ve ever seen recorded. That is headline material, too, and not stuff that will afford aid and sympathy to your clients. Perhaps the public at large — from whom we choose our jurors — will understand the need for aggressive police action when dealing with such a sophisticated syndicate.”

  Peddigrew returned Bishop’s smile. “My clients and their sophisticated syndicate were introduced to this record shipment of drugs by a man under contract to the RCMP. If it hadn’t been for the police, my clients would have returned to Canada empty-handed. The newspapers might find that the more interesting news item.”

  “Mr. Peddigrew — is it James or Jim?”

  “James.”

  “Quite bluntly, all four of them are dead on the facts. This fellow Pike is found sitting on nearly fifty tons of drugs. Kerrivan and Nighthawk imported it. The girl conspired to bring it in. All the headlines in the world aren’t going to change those facts. Let’s think about time. Kerrivan, as the leader, will get fifteen years. Nighthawk, with his terrible record, will get no less. Pike, well, he’s getting on, and I suppose we’d settle for the statutory minimum of seven.”

  “What is your offer, Knowlton?”

  “I know that in an all-out war we will take our scars. But I do not intend that the government take any of them on its backside. We’ll fight if we have to, like a damn tiger. Four convictions are certain. Five when they find Billy Lee Tinker. And I will be prosecuting at the trial.”

  “What about Marianne Larochelle? What do you see her getting?” Peddigrew realized it was a flub as soon as he’d spoken. He should not have expressed an interest in her so early.

  “Why should she get less?” The old lawyer narrowed his eyes. There seemed to be a softness here, an opening that he could breach. “She made a confession to a policeman, then made a fool of him by slipping away.”

  Peddigrew studied his hands, then looked up. “I’ll have to check that out,” he said. “It sounds as if that episode — or that relationship — might yield a few nuggets of gold along the way.”

  Bishop was unhappy that Peddigrew seemed to guess too easily where his own areas of weakness were. Peddigrew would have to be kept away from O’Doull at all costs.

  “What is your offer?” Peddigrew asked again. “Your down-to-the-bones offer.”

  “I’ve been wasting time, haven’t I?” Bishop said. “Too much talk. It’s a bad habit of tired trial lawyers.” He was silent for a moment. He had been planning to suggest letting the girl off easier, but he decided to include her with the others. “We’ll take seven years each.”

  He rose and led Peddigrew into the dining room. “We can meet with the judge in his chambers before sentencing and let him know we are of one mind,” he said, as the waiter put menus before them. “I see no purpose in stating our positions in open court, in front of the world.” Bishop looked at Peddigrew with a straight face, but there was a twinkle in his eye. “We’ll let the editorial writers blame the court for its excessive leniency.”

  Peddigrew was quietly exulting. He knew there was more meat yet to be carved from the generous ham bone the government was offering.

  “That’s a deal you’ll never see again,” Bishop said. “And I mean that literally. The deadline is tomorrow. At two p.m. In front of the provincial court judge in St. John’s. We’ll have a quick burial.”

  “That’s rushing things a little.”

  “A quick burial, before the rot sets in.”

  Peddigrew studied the menu, thinking furiously.

  “I don’t like to rush you, James, but it seems appropriate to have your reaction.”

  “Let’s order first. We can chew on it. As it were.”

  “As it were.”

  The waiter interrupted and took Bishop to the phone at the desk.

  “Knowlton, it’s Milt Edwards. I thought I should bring you up to date. This is the story on Billy Lee Tinker. He got lucky while he was hitching a ride, got picked up by one of Kerrivan’s boys in an old restored Packard. We checked out the plates: a Dave Doncaster. I assume
he was down on that part of the coast as part of Kerrivan’s landing crew. Doncaster took him all the way to Gander, to the airport.”

  “Yes, I have that so far,” Bishop said.

  “He managed to get a flight to Sydney with a connection to Fredericton, and we found out he has reserved a charter to Houlton, Maine. That’s at the New Brunswick border.”

  “Is there any chance the U.S. officials will detain him?”

  “No, we contacted Flaherty, and she says she has nothing on him. There’s a desertion charge, but she’s going to ignore it. It’s our show, she says. Unless we get an extradition warrant.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it, Milt. There’s no danger our immigration people will do anything?”

  “They’ve been instructed to let him through. I have a feeling he’ll lay low in Alabama for a while. The thought that we may be looking for him will be enough to keep him from surfacing, and if he stays out of sight, that’s one headache out of the way. How are things going at the legal level?”

  “Peddigrew hasn’t said no to anything yet. I think he wants to make a deal.”

  ***

  Following food, coffee, Courvoisier, and the obligatory conversation about the future of Canada’s constitution, Peddigrew leaned forward and said, “Let’s work out the minor clauses first, then we can get to wages and hours of work.”

  “You’ve done some trade union law, James.”

  “I’ve done a little bargaining in my time, Knowlton.” Peddigrew had gotten over his initial nervousness about Bishop, who was not the shark that they claimed. The man was going to be easy.

  “Money,” he said. “Crass as the subject may be, money is what puts meat and potatotes on the table. Nearly sixty thousand dollars was seized from Kerrivan, another five thousand from Larochelle. I would like those sums released to me in trust.”

  Bishop had forgotten about the money. “No problem, no problem.” He was jolly.

  “Fees, you understand.”

  Sixty-five thousand dollars: a nice fee for a day’s work, Bishop thought.

  “All the equipment aboard the ship,” Peddigrew said. “There is about fifty thousand bucks’ worth of gear.”

  Meyers could take the loss, Bishop thought. Out of his five-hundred-thousand-dollar fee. “You can have everything,” he said. “From the coffee cups to the Mae Wests. Except the Sat-Track and the marijuana, of course.” They laughed. After a few samples had been taken for court, the marijuana was reloaded onto the Alta Mar by a Navy crew and burned at the Halifax city dump that morning. The Alta Mar was now tied up at the Halifax naval yard.

  “All I need is a release from your clients,” Bishop said. “Is there anything else you want?”

  “One more thing. Marianne Larochelle. She was just along for the ride. Drop the charges against her.”

  Bishop couldn’t believe it. The government was getting off cheap. He wondered if he dared push this a little farther. Larochelle was the obvious key.

  “We can’t just drop the charges against the woman,” he said. “It’s still eight months before Christmas. No, I think we’d be prepared to take our lumps before we let her go completely. Of course, if you were to agree to a bit of a stiffer sentence for Kerrivan and Nighthawk, I might be able to give some more thought to the girl’s case.”

  Peddigrew shrugged nonchalantly. “They’re expecting at least fifteen anyway. Well, let’s say fifteen for Kerrivan, fifteen for Nighthawk, and drop against the girl.”

  Bishop was impassive. “Done,” he said. He raised the glass. “To justice, James. May it be done, may it be seen to be done.”

  “To justice.”

  They clinked glasses.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Johnny Nighthawk

  Fifteen years. I can handle it. I can handle it. I am saying that to myself, over and over, as we wait for court. Fifteen years. Do not start thinking about hours or days or months. I can handle it. Keep telling yourself that, Hawk. Keep afloat. The world seems to have imploded. I tell myself: Keep afloat.

  “Otherwise, it’s probably seventeen or eighteen years for both you and Johnny, maybe ten to twelve for the old man.” Peddigrew is explaining it all again to Pete and me. “And you’ve got to think of Marianne. She’ll get at least ten. This way she’s free as a bird.”

  I think of a bird.

  “Johnny’s willing to take fifteen years,” Peddigrew goes on. “He’s an old con, and he knows he’s got a good deal. Fifteen years — it isn’t the end of the world, is it, Johnny?”

  “No.” It is not the end of the world. I think of a bird in the sky.

  “Okay, Pete? We’ve got to see the judge in half an hour. It’s going into court as a package.”

  A package. Sealed and tied. I think of this image.

  “Go back and play some poker,” Pete says.

  Peddigrew’s mouth sags open. He has the look he had when he caught Pete fucking his wife. I am thinking: Why so surprised? He knows Pete.

  “Pete, for God’s sake, I’ve wrung them dry. Come to your senses.” His voice is brittle.

  “Look, James, I’ll take the whole hit,” Pete says. “The whole hit. It’s me they want. Go back and tell this Bishop guy I’ll do the fall, but Uncle Pike and Johnny walk out of this.”

  Pete is lounging on a wooden chair, bruised up but cool. Two bones in my right hand are broken, and it is aching, and this pain helps me deal with the fifteen years.

  “Pete, I know my business,” Peddigrew says.

  “What business is that, James? The law business or the ship-salvage business? You know something about the business of locating old ships in Colombia, I’ll grant you that.”

  Peddigrew looks wildly at Pete and makes large motions with his hands to tell him to lower his voice. He scribbles a note on a writing pad: “This place may be bugged.”

  Pete ignores that, and goes on in a conversational tone. “I want you to go back to that guy, and I want you to save my friends’ necks.” He takes Peddigrew’s pen and scribbles this: “And your own neck, too.”

  Peddigrew is flushed and looks ready to storm out — or throw a tantrum. “Pete, goddamnit, I squeezed the last corpuscle of blood from them. Come on!”

  “They’re scared, boy, and you know it. They know you thrive on those big newspaper headlines. Now I’ll tell you what I’m going to do, old son. If you don’t save John and the captain, I’m going to fire you, and I’m not going to sign this release.” Referring to the paper in his hand. “And you won’t get the money and the stuff from the ship. And I won’t be copping a plea. I’ll be handling my own defense.”

  Pete lowers his voice a little.

  “I could say a lot of interesting things in that courtroom, James. The prosecutor is going to ask me to name names. And I’d be in contempt of court if I refused to give those names. Wouldn’t I?”

  Peddigrew is like a cornered raccoon.

  “Go back,” Pete says. “Talk to that dumb old lawyer you think you conned so bad, and really take him to the cleaners this time. Wring him dry. You claim to be the best tongue in the business. Strut your stuff.”

  ***

  Bishop knew it had been too good to be true. He had been so pleased with himself. The fifteen years for Kerrivan was just enough to mollify Mitchell. Freedom for Marianne Larochelle was enough to satisfy O’Doull, to buy his silence. No trial and no publicity: that would satisfy the minister.

  But here was this unethical excuse for a lawyer telling him the deal was off. Kerrivan had vetoed it. Was it a ruse by Peddigrew to bang out a better bargain for his clients on the courthouse steps? Probably not, he decided. Peddigrew had seemed too pleased yesterday over lunch.

  ”What does he want?” Bishop asked, calm but with a hard edge to his voice. “Does he want less time?”

  Peddigrew’s brain had been working feverishly in the fifteen mi
nutes between his leaving Kerrivan and meeting with Bishop.

  “You have to understand that he’s a Newfie, Knowlton. He doesn’t reason things out the same way you or I would. He says he doesn’t care about his own time. All he wants is the charges dropped against Pike and Nighthawk.”

  Bishop realized it wasn’t a catastrophe after all. He could live with it.

  “Look,” Peddigrew continued, “the old man is like a father to him. Kind of adopted him after his own father died. Pete just won’t see reason about him. Doesn’t want the old man to live his dying years behind a prison wall. I mean, if you look at these things with a little compassion. . . . Hell, I’ll even tell the court Kerrivan used the old guy, so that will seem to justify your dropping the charges against him.”

  “You’ll say that to the judge.”

  “Sure, Pete says he’ll do the whole rap. And Nighthawk — hell, he’s just a stooge, a dumb Indian that Kerrivan has literally got hypnotized into believing Pete’s some kind of saint to be worshipped. I don’t think he has an IQ higher than a goldfish.” Peddigrew was talking rapidly, urgently, in one of the hardest submissions he had made in his career. “I’ll say Kerrivan used him, too. I’ll say Nighthawk was only going to get a few bucks out of this, and all he’d do is spend it on booze.”

  “He has a couple of previous traffickings, already got seven years on one. I can’t conceivably drop the charges against this man. I’d be laughed out of the profession. The old fellow, okay, although I always thought leniency was the prerogative of the courts, not the prosecutors.”

  “No, it has to be Nighthawk, too.”

  “He’s dangerous. You heard what he did to those sailors. How can I let him loose on the streets?”

  “For God’s sake, Knowlton, he’s charged with marijuana, not attempted murder.”

  “I thought we had a deal, James. The judge is waiting to see us. This is very awkward.” Don’t push it too far, Bishop told himself.

  Peddigrew moved to Plan Two.

  “Well, God, I don’t know what we’re going to do.” His face had the expression of one lost in thought; then it brightened. “All right, here’s an idea — let’s assume you can’t just drop the charges against Nighthawk. Let me run this by you.” He hesitated as if unsure how to put it. “Let’s assume I make a bail application for him. So he can be released on his own recognizance, without sureties. Let’s assume that you, on behalf of the Crown, consent.”