“What did he say?”
“He told me some lives were in danger, and he said he wanted to meet me at a convenient place late that afternoon or early evening. I recall it was about three o’clock that he phoned. Thereabouts. I was at home. I told him to meet me at a place on Kingsway, Archie’s Steak House, which was fairly near my home. It was a place I used for meeting people, and it had booths there that are fairly private. In fact, I was also in the habit of meeting Jim Fat there, and I had also been there once or twice with Dr. Au.”
“Yes.”
“So anyway, we arranged to meet at six p.m. Actually, I was half an hour late. I remember I had been watching an nfl game on tv, and it took me a while to clean up, and it was about six-thirty that I arrived.”
“Go on.”
“We both ordered a meal, and I would say we were there together for three hours, what with a drink or two, and the meal, coffee afterwards, and we spent a lot of time talking. When we finally got up to go, it was after nine.” He paused, struck a pose of intense thought, and said: “No, gosh, I remember it was almost exactly nine-thirty, because I remember correcting my watch with one of the waitresses there, and it was nine-thirty on the dot. That stuck in my mind because it was the first time I had talked to that particular waitress, and she was kind of pretty. As a matter of fact, I got to know her really good after that.”
Cobb’s writing hand was aching. He wished he had more time to study the witness.
“Please relate the conversation,” Smythe-Baldwin said.
“Dr. Au was scared. He knew by this time that Jimmy Fat was also giving us information, and he was afraid that the Plizit gang were on to both him and Jim Fat. Laszlo Plizit apparently found out that Dr. Au and I had been seen together a couple of days earlier in a restaurant in Chinatown. All this was at a time when I felt we were close to moving in and breaking up a huge ring involving Plizit, Ming, and a number of other known traffickers in Vancouver, and their connections in the U.S. and Hong Kong.”
“Yes.”
“And he was certain that Plizit had sort of fingered Jim Fat, and they were going to do away with him. What he said specifically is that he overheard a conversation between Plizit and Ming which suggested that they were going to torture Jim Fat —”
Cobb jumped to his feet. “My friend and his amazing witness are taking too much licence. This last evidence is a salad of hearsay and self-serving testimony, and in my respectful submission it should not be allowed.”
Horowitz was still not buying Cobb’s arguments: “The defence is entitled to some leniency in matters of this kind. These conversations go to state of mind, not truth of fact. The evidence is allowed. I think we should take the morning break now, gentlemen.”
The judge, Cobb thought, seemed to be in a temper this morning. Cobb filed out of the courtroom with Tann, and they had coffee together in one of the small interview rooms.
“Wow,” she said. “Ouch. He is good. I mean, he seems bloody honest up there.” She looked stunned. “Do you think the jury are believing this guy?”
“He’s a pro,” Cobb said.
“He’s so proper, and polite. And earnest! I mean, talk about your over-age boy scout.”
“Don’t let it fool you.” Cobb was holding a wavering flame to his pipe, and he was shaking.
“I’m not worried about him fooling me. It’s the jury. I mean, they are listening hard, Foster.”
“I’ll tell you something. He’s at the edge of nervous exhaustion. There’s a little catch in his voice. Just a little. Watch him shift his feet. I think he knows he’s in too deep. He’s been drinking, too. I got close to him when he left the stand. Watch how he holds onto the railing so you can’t see his hands shake. Always watch a man’s hands to see if he’s on the bottle. Smitty’s done him up with coffee, talc, mouthwash, and deodorant, but the fumes are still coming through the camouflage. He’s shaky.”
“Yeah, well, he doesn’t look any shakier than you, Mr. Prosecutor. I’ve been watching you. You’re either going to have to relax or relapse. Bad night?”
Cobb let that slide past him. “Also,” he said, “watch his eyes when I have him in cross. When cops give false evidence, they don’t look you in the eyes.”
“How are you feeling, Mr. Fossil Cobb? That cold getting the best of you? Nurse Tann wants to know.” She was sitting on the edge of her chair, perky and nervous, nibbling at the end of a pencil.
“Feeling fine,” he mumbled.
“Look me in the eye, witness, and tell me the truth.”
His eyes were red. Hers were dark and discerning, and seemed to see inside his paltering soul. “Sort of shitty, actually,” he said with a grim, tight smile. He shifted the conversation to an easier track. “The judge wants to recess for the weekend at half-past twelve today. I might get started on him before then. I think the strategy will be to pin him down, and save the cannon fire for Monday.”
Tann put the pencil down, then started fidgeting with the tassel of her barrister’s gown. Finally she cleared a slightly husky throat.
“Are we working tonight?” she said.
“It’s Friday. Don’t you want a break?”
“I’m sort of free tonight. If you need any help. With the law, or anything else.” He looked at her for a long moment, with a frown of puzzlement. “Hello,” she said. “Are you there? Is anyone home? Can Fossil come out and play?”
Finally he shook his head, as if freeing it from cobwebs. He said: “Maybe I am a little old-fashioned. Are you asking this stodgy old married guy out for a date?”
“Yes, goddamnit. Jesus, what does a lonely spinster have to do — kidnap the man at gunpoint? I’m beautiful, sincere, and lots of fun, and from everything I can see, your marriage is hung up — if it’s not already breaking up on the rocks. I tried playing hard-to-get. I now quit that. You’re too slow on your feet.” She was blushing prettily, and he had to smile. “I make a great Moo Goo Gai Pan, just like the Chinese,” she said.
“I’ll bring the wine.”
“Seven o’clock? Je-sus, what a hassle!”
“Witness,” said the clerk, “you are still under oath.” Cudlipp nodded.
“Now, corporal,” Smythe-Baldwin said, “you were about to relate a conversation which the accused had overheard between Plizit and Ming.”
“He said he feared for his life, and even more for the life of Jim Fat. He said Plizit was talking about torturing Jim Fat to make him talk. That’s what he overheard. Then, what happened later that afternoon, after he phoned me and before we met in the steak house, was that Plizit and Ming came by Dr. Au’s house, and then they went to Jimmy’s house to pick him up, too. Apparently they wanted Dr. Au to go along with them and discuss some sort of business they weren’t clear about. Dr. Au figured the worst, that they were going to take him and Jim Fat for a ride, and you know what that expression means. Somehow, Dr. Au persuaded them to drop him off at Kingsway, at the steak house, Archie’s, where he would be meeting me.”
“What was your reaction to all of this?” asked the lawyer.
“Well, to be honest, and here maybe I wasn’t thinking too clearly, but I guess I didn’t take all this too seriously, or I would have taken more decisive action. But I guess by now we all know that I should have been much more concerned about it all.” He looked sorrowful.
“Now, corporal,” said the lawyer, “we heard evidence earlier this week from Dr. Coombs, the pathologist, that the deceased died almost instantly after the wounds were inflicted upon him. His best estimate of the time of death was between eight-fifteen p.m. and eight-forty-five p.m. on December the third. Where were you at that time?”
“In Archie’s Steak House, having dinner,” the witness replied. “Maybe coffee by that time, and a brandy.”
“Where was the accused, Dr. Au?”
“With me, sir.”
“There
is no mistaking that?”
“There could not be, sir.”
“And why are you giving evidence here today in court?”
Cudlipp’s chest puffed an inch or two larger, and he sucked his paunch in.
“I have been a police officer for seventeen years, but I have never and could never be a party to the conviction of an innocent man. I could not live with myself if I were to remain silent and allow Dr. Au to be convicted of a crime I know he did not commit.”
“Thank you, corporal,” Smythe-Baldwin said solemnly. “Please answer my learned friend’s questions.” As he sat, he scanned the jury and was satisfied.
“Do you wish to start now?” Horowitz asked. “It’s nearly a quarter to the half-hour.”
“I would like to start.” He would have to give the jury something to keep their minds open over the weekend, some hint that there was much more to come.
He stood up and strolled to a point beside the jury box where he could watch Cudlipp’s eyes, and he leaned against the railing. He held no notes. His cross-examination was in his head.
“Why did you not come forward until now?”
Cudlipp frowned. “I spoke to Mr. Smythe-Baldwin several weeks ago,” he said.
“Why did you not speak to the Vancouver police? Do you not trust them?”
“My word to Dr. Au was my bond,” Cudlipp said, his voice earnest. “A police officer must never reveal his informants. I think you know that, Mr. Cobb. You’re a pretty experienced prosecutor.” Ingratiating.
“And if the accused had not released you from that bond, you would ultimately have gone to your grave carrying the secret of his innocence, while the accused spent his remaining years in a jail cell. Is that what you are suggesting?”
“The problem never arose. I wouldn’t want to deal in hypothetical situations.”
“I suggest to you that you deal very well in hypothetical situations,” Cobb said sharply. “It is true, is it not, that the whole of your evidence about meeting with Au on December third is a pure, imaginary hypothesis?”
Smythe-Baldwin called to him: “That is argumentative.”
“We shall see,” said Cobb. “What do you earn, corporal?”
“About twenty-seven, twenty-eight thousand a year.”
“That is your sole source of income?”
“Yes, sir. RCMP pay.”
“And you have received no money from other sources?”
“You mean, have I won a lottery?” He smiled. “No, sir. I wish I had.”
“But you have met the accused socially from time to time?”
“No, sir, only for business.”
“You have met in restaurants and cocktail bars?”
“Sure, but only in the line of duty.”
“You have paid your own bills, then?”
“Sometimes. Sometimes Dr. Au would pick up a bill. I don’t sell myself for a cup of coffee, Mr. Cobb.” Again, a smile.
“Well, how much do you sell yourself for?” Cobb’s face was bland.
“Don’t answer that,” Smythe-Baldwin ordered. “Most unfair.”
“I agree,” Horowitz said, glaring at Cobb.
“Where do you claim you were before you went to the restaurant to meet the accused?” Cobb asked.
“I was at home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes, sir. I live by myself.”
“And you cannot tell us the name of anyone who saw you there with the accused?”
“I have no idea. The waitress, Alice, for sure. Maybe the manager, Giulente.”
“You went there a lot?”
“I used to meet Jim Fat there. He was a friend of Joey Giulente.”
“Tell us what you ordered.”
“A steak, a T-bone. Maybe a beer before salad. A coffee and brandy.”
“Who served you?” said Cobb.
“The waitress. Alice was working that night. Why don’t you ask her? She might remember. I didn’t make a note of it.”
“What did the accused eat?”
“I don’t know, sir. I was more interested in what he had to say.”
“Come. You are a trained police officer.”
“It was a few months ago, Mr. Cobb.” Cudlipp’s expression suggested the questions were silly.
“You considered his information that night to be important?”
“Certainly,” said Cudlipp. “Although I see now I should have acted on it.” A theme repeated.
“Yes,” Cobb said. “Dr. Au thought Jim Fat was in danger, and Jim Fat was an informer at the time, is that so?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And as a trained, experienced police officer, you recognized the importance of the information?”
“I never thought Jim Fat was going to be killed.” The witness shook his head, as if blaming himself. “But I intended later on to follow the matter up and determine whether there had been a leak, whether it had been discovered that he was an informer.”
“And as a trained, experienced police officer, you make notes of important matters?”
“Often. Yes, sir.”
“No doubt you made a note afterwards in your police notebook about this conversation with Au?”
“I can’t recall. Sometimes I made notes.”
“Where are your notes for December third last year?”
“I haven’t got them with me. I didn’t think they would be necessary.”
“Well, I want to see your notes for the week ending December third. You have them somewhere?”
“At home, I guess.”
“Please bring them on Monday. Please bring any notes you have referring to conversations with Jim Fat or the accused.”
Cudlipp turned to the bench. “My lord, am I required to do so?” He sounded hurt, unsure why all the bother was necessary.
“Under the circumstances,” said Horowitz, “I think Mr. Cobb has a right to examine any matters relevant to your evidence.”
“We will meet here again Monday, corporal,” said Cobb.
“We will adjourn until then,” the judge said. “Corporal Cudlipp, you are a trained witness, and you know you must not speak to anyone about your evidence until you resume the stand.”
“Of course, my lord.”
Packing papers into Smythe-Baldwin’s briefcase, one of his juniors whispered to him: “Thank God. Looks like the guy is going to hold up.”
But Smythe-Baldwin sadly shook his head. “He is lying, my young friend. Watch his eyes.”
Friday, the Seventeenth Day of March,
at Half-past Six O’Clock in the Evening
Detective Harrison found Archie’s out on south Kingsway on the motel strip. It was a brassy place, finished inside with new brick intended to look old and with plastic intended to look like wood. In the front: a quick-food dining area, brightly lit, with blown-up photographs of an earlier Vancouver. In the back: a dim and quiet place with candles and better service, with booths along the walls. There was also a bar, where most of the customers were. Harrison recognized some of them: small-time bookies and cheap fiddlers. No one big.
He found a book in the back and waited for a waitress, hopefully this Alice Carson girl. He also wanted to speak to the manager, Giulente, an ex-con.
Harrison was tired. He had spent two sleepless nights on the track of Jean-Louis Leclerc. Harrison knew Leclerc was an habitué of two or three gay bars and discos, but it was as if the man had never existed. Prowling through those swish jungles, he felt absurdly straight, a heavy old draft horse under the scrutiny of many eyes. Some guessed he was a cop — not hard to tell — and there had been a lot of giggling and whispering. (“Look at the buns on that baby,” he had heard someone say.) Nobody had heard of Leclerc, of course, not even the managers of the gay bars, who knew all their customers. Trusted sources of
information had dried up: it was dangerous business to get involved in a manhunt that featured Honcho Harrison on the one side and, on the other, a lieutenant of Dr. Au’s loyal corps of irregulars.
Tonight there was other business to do, an alibi to be checked out. He wondered just how cozy Cudlipp and Alice Carson were.
He sat watching as two or three waitresses bustled about, chatting up the customers, selling a little come-on with the food and drinks. They wore frilly skirts that left exposed generous expanses of soft white thigh. Unbuttoned blouses offered a small thrill to a customer if the angle of vision were just right.
One of them came his way. “Hello, I’m Donna. I’m your waitress tonight. Can I get you something from the —”
“Get me Alice Carson.”
“Alice? Hey, what’s she got I don’t?”
“Just send her over. Please.”
Donna gave him a look, then a weary shrug, and went away to fetch Carson. When she came to his booth, Harrison gave her a quick scan. Good-looking, but hard-looking. High, sharp cheekbones. Mouth full and red. Eyes wide-set, heavy with mascara. Low-keeled. Bouncy. It didn’t take Harrison long to learn that the woman used sex appeal like a weapon.
“Am I supposed to know you?” she asked.
“You’re about to.” Harrison showed his badge.
“Darling, I’m innocent. I didn’t do it.”
“Sit down.”
“Look, I’m busy. My other customers will get jealous, and the boss will get on my case. So unless I’m under arrest, I got to work. Also, fella, I’m tired, a little hung, and very grumpy. If you want to talk business, why don’t you come back at quitting time? It’s about the Au trial, I suppose.” She gave him a little pouty smile.
“It will take five minutes. Where’s the manager? Giulente.”
“Joey!” she called. Giulente, a slight and nervous person, dressed very disco-hip, came treading up to them on shoes with three-inch heels.
“Joey Giulente? My name is Harrison, city police.” He fished out a sheet of blue-colored paper. “It’s a subpoena. You’re going to appear Monday in Supreme Court assize, ten o’clock. Now, I want you to give this lady her coffee break, and I want to talk to you later.”
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