by Gail Bowen
I arrived a little before noon and went over to stand by Mieka. She was on edge but happy. “I thought about bringing the girls, it’s such a big moment for Riel and for the city, but I know how these announcements can drag on, so I decided not to.”
“Good call,” I said. “A couple of times when your dad was announcing some major initiative, I took you and your brothers to the press conference. You always got bored and started kicking each other.”
For a hastily assembled press conference, the event went off smoothly. The mayor and the appropriate city councillors were there, as were local crews from each of the networks and a photographer and a reporter from our city’s paper. Shelley, Leland, and Riel were all wearing jeans and T-shirts, and as they began the formal part of the announcement, they stood behind a worktable that held a mock-up of the latest multipurpose centre that Shelley had designed. In many respects that structure met the criteria for the proposed Village/North Central facility, so the model was a useful and appealing focus for their presentation.
Riel and Leland flanked Shelley at the table. That placement, too, was good optics. The men appeared cautious, cordial, and, most importantly, equal. Riel spoke first. He listed the benefits to the city of the proposed facility and, specifically, to North Central, whose community members would be part of the process from the beginning. Leland announced that he shared Riel’s vision for the project and that while there were many details to work out, he and Riel would work them out publicly with the aid of a mediator. Peyben hoped to break ground at the beginning of September and open the doors a year later. Shelley Gregg gave a moving speech in which she said that a city grows from its heart. Her words were few, but the image was powerful and as the media people asked more questions and scrambled for more footage, I knew the press conference had been a success. Mieka and I hugged each other spontaneously for the first time since Riel had protested Leland’s honorary doctorate.
“I’m glad you came, Mum,” Mieka said. “I was nervous, but it went well, didn’t it?”
“Very well,” I said. “I liked Shelley’s line about a city growing from its heart, and Riel and Leland said all the right things. It was a good start.”
“There are so many reasons why this has to work,” Mieka said.
I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know,” I said. “And it will work.”
Zack called when I was in the liquor store choosing a bottle of Reisling for dinner.
“What are you up to?” he said.
“Buying booze,” I said.
“Get lots,” he said. “I’m being drawn and quartered and the jury is trying not to look pleased.”
“It can’t be that bad,” I said.
“It is,” Zack said. “Get the biggest bottle of gin you can find and two straws.”
I’d just turned north on Winnipeg Street on my way back to the condo when I noticed the red car behind me. My pulse quickened. At some level, I’d been waiting for the red Trans-Am to appear from the moment I’d knelt beside April Stonechild and the member of Red Rage flexed his bicep and pointed at his tattoo.
“We’ll find you,” he’d said, and now they had. My cell began to ring, I checked call display – “Number Withheld,” it read. The ringing stopped. There was an underpass ahead. As I turned left onto 8th Avenue, the ringing began again. I could feel sweat breaking out along my hairline. I stopped for the light and looked in the rear-view mirror. The driver appeared to have his cell to his ear. The light changed and I gunned it.
I started up 8th and the Trans-Am fell behind, but I hit another red and he caught up with me. When my kids began driving, I’d passed along the tips I’d heard for dealing with a driver who seemed menacing. I couldn’t remember any of them. Panic had made my brain porous. And then I saw Nicky’s Restaurant, famous for its lentil soup and slow service, and I remembered: pull into a space as close as possible to the door of a public building.
Adrenalin pumping, I screeched into a space reserved for the handicapped. I opened my door, jumped out, and started for the restaurant. I heard a car door slam behind me.
“Wait,” yelled a voice. “I’ve got your wallet.”
I spun around. The man facing me was a reed-thin Aboriginal man with a brush-cut and a pleasant face. He was wearing a white T-shirt and blue jeans. No tattoos. The red car behind him was a Mustang, not a Trans-Am.
He held out my wallet on the palm of his hand. “You dropped this when you came out of the liquor store. I thought I could catch you in the parking lot, but you took off, so I followed you.” His eyes scanned my face. “Obviously it was a stupid move,” he said. “I’ve frightened you.”
Deeply ashamed, I took the wallet. “Thank you,” I said. “I’m very sorry. I’m a little crazy right now.”
“It’s none of my business,” he said. “But you should probably try to calm down before you drive again. You were speeding in a school zone back there.”
I remembered my relief when the red car slowed on 8th. Unlike me, the driver was obeying the law. My knees were shaky. “I won’t go anywhere till I know I’m ready to drive again,” I said.
He nodded and walked away.
I sat in my car for five minutes cursing my hysteria and gulping air. Finally, when I’d had my fill of self-castigation and my breathing was even, I put the keys in the ignition.
At four o’clock, I picked Taylor up from the rec centre. She was wearing her painting clothes: a man’s white shirt from Value Village, jeans, and sneakers. When she hopped into the car, she was paint-smeared and beaming.
“I don’t need to ask you how your day went,” I said.
Her words came in a torrent. “It was great. My first two days were terrible. I wasn’t going to tell you that, but now that it’s over I will. The kids in the program are pretty cynical, and when I tried to talk they made comments.”
“What kind of comments?”
Taylor arched an eyebrow. “You don’t want to know, but I didn’t cry or explode or run away, so I guess that’s something. Anyway, Lisa suggested that today we should begin with a group meeting. This time, when I started talking about how making art stretches you and allows you to really look at life and put what you see on canvas, a few kids began to listen.
“There was one boy who hasn’t talked in weeks. The staff can’t tell us specifics about people’s histories, but this boy, Neil, is my age. Lisa said he’d been through something traumatic and he hadn’t said a word since. For most of the morning, he just looked at the canvas, and then, finally he made this great bold red stroke. He stood there for about fifteen minutes staring at what he’d done. And then his brush began to fly. It was if the art he was making had been in him all along. Jo, it was so great.” Taylor took a breath and gave me her self-mocking Sally smile. “And how was your day?”
“It was fine,” I said.
“Good,” she said. “Now I’ve been wondering whether art might give Neil a way to break through the things that are walling him in. I know it’s not going to happen tomorrow or even soon, but if he keeps painting maybe one day he’ll realize he’s been talking through his art all along, and he’ll start using words.”
Taylor sighed with contentment, slipped out her iPod, slumped into her seat, and we drove the rest of the way without talking – two women absorbed in their own worlds.
When Zack came home, I met him at the door with his swim trunks. He scowled. “You were supposed to be holding a bottle of gin with two straws.”
“The Bombay Sapphire’s in the refrigerator and we have very nice Reisling to go with the pickerel we’re having for dinner,” I said. “All that’s standing between you and pleasure is twenty minutes doing laps in the pool.”
Zack was still grumbling when we stepped into the elevator, but later when he was towelling off in our bedroom and I handed him his martini, he was sanguine. “This was worth waiting for,” he said.
“Let’s hear it for delayed gratification,” I said.
“You bet. So how was your day
?”
“Fine. I lost my wallet and a Good Samaritan returned it.” I was becoming expert at editing the truth.
“A story with a happy ending,” Zack said.
“Yes, and we’re going to have a pleasant evening,” I said. “Taylor’s third day as a volunteer was beyond wonderful. You’ll get a contact high just by sitting next to her.”
Zack was thoughtful. “I’m glad Taylor’s volunteering at the rec centre. She has a lot to offer – not just her talent, but her sweetness. The kids she’ll be working with can use a reminder that life isn’t always brutal.”
I kissed the top of his head. “You’re a good guy,” I said.
“Not always,” Zack said. “But thanks. Hey, Leland tells me you were at the press conference to announce the new shared facility today.”
“News travels fast.”
“Leland and I arrived in the parking garage at the same time.”
“Ah. Then he told you the conference went smoothly.”
“He seemed pleased.”
“He should be. It was a great first step.”
“Let’s hope it’s just the first of many,” Zack said. He pivoted his wheelchair towards the door. “Come on. Time to hear the latest news from Willy Hodgson.”
That night, when I poured the massage oil onto my hands and began to knead Zack’s shoulders, I felt as if my fingers had hit rock. “How can your muscles be this tight after a swim, a martini, and two glasses of Reisling?” I said.
Zack moaned. “In a word, Cronus.”
“He’s been on my mind, too,” I said. “Zack, there has to be something you can do.”
“I’ve been over the Crown’s case a dozen times,” Zack said. “And one thing keeps leaping out at me. Motive. As Cronus told you, he had no reason to kill Arden Raeburn. If somehow I can just get the jury to see that, everything else falls away.”
I began moving my hands down Zack’s back. “The Crown must have suggested a motive.”
“That’s their Achilles heel. The first rule of litigation is to tell your story and make it stick. Linda hasn’t told her story. She alluded exactly once to a possible scenario, and she hedged her bets by saying that there were only two people in the room that night, and since one of them was dead, all we had was conjecture. She sketched out a bare bones account of what might have happened. Cronus and Arden were in Arden’s apartment engaged in their Saturday night activity of choice. Things got out of hand. Arden Raeburn’s gun was in the room, and Cronus used it to kill her.”
“Given Cronus’s past and his demeanour, I can see why a jury might buy that.”
“So can I,” Zack said. “But they shouldn’t because it isn’t true. There’s not a shred of evidence connecting Cronus to the gun that killed Arden. And Linda isn’t sure of her theory either. She’s meticulous, and she always builds her case very carefully. Every shred of evidence Linda presented in this case was calculated to make certain that Cronus was convicted. She doesn’t leave loopholes because she doesn’t want to lose on appeal. So I ask myself, Why hasn’t she nailed down motive?”
“And the answer is …?”
“And the answer is because she can’t. Joanne, the forensic evidence is the lynchpin of the Crown’s case. If we can establish Cronus and Arden agreed to rough sex, we remove the lynchpin.”
“And Cronus is the only one who can remove the lynchpin,” I said. “He’d have to testify and he’d have to make the jury believe he was telling the truth.”
“He convinced you,” Zack said. “Do you believe he could convince a jury?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But I think you’re out of options.”
Zack pushed himself up to a sitting position, then used his arms to inch himself back so that the pillows piled against the headboard supported him. “Right,” he said. “Hand over that massage oil, Ms. Shreve. Your turn now and you get to choose the conversational topic.”
Given the tension I could still feel in Zack’s body, I decided against what we both knew was Topic A and moved to something safe: our plans for the Canada Day long weekend at the lake.
The Canada Day weekend had always been special for the members of the Winners’ Circle, the group that had gravitated towards one another in their first year of law school because they sensed they shared a destiny. There had been five of them: Blake Falconer, Zack, Chris Altieri (now dead), Delia Wainberg, and Kevin Hynd. At the end of their first year, the members of the Winners’ Circle brought sleeping bags and tents to Lawyers’ Bay and camped out on the beach. That weekend, they drank beer, ate hot dogs, and as they watched their campfires turn to embers, they dreamed dreams. It was a weekend none of them would ever forget, and they agreed that, in the years ahead, no matter where they were, the members of the Winners’ Circle would always meet at the lake on July 1.
They formed their own law firm, and they kept their promise. No member of the Winners’ Circle had ever missed July 1 at Lawyers’ Bay. Once, Kevin Hynd had been exploring Mount Kailas in Tibet, but he managed to make his way to a phone, call in, and be marked present. As the partnership succeeded and the firm grew, the character of the Canada Day party changed. It was now very much a Falconer Shreve event – the firm’s chance to open the gates at Lawyers’ Bay and give their associates, staff, clients, and rivals a day filled with the hottest, the finest, the freshest, the fastest, and the most succulent that money could buy. The Canada Day party was a hot ticket, but this year, due to the troubling events of the past month, the police had recommended rescheduling the party. This weekend’s event would be family only, but deciding who was family turned out to be a knotty problem.
Big changes had come to Falconer Shreve. Counting Margot, there were seven new partners, and six were in the Calgary office. Zack, who was always in favour of including everybody, wanted to invite all the partners to the party. Delia Wainberg, who was still a true believer in the Winners’ Circle, wanted this Canada Day gathering to be restricted to the original members. Kevin Hynd, who was in charge of the Calgary office, wanted to include his people. Blake Falconer, who like Delia had a reverence for the past, voted with her.
One evening, not long after we moved into Leland’s condo, Zack broke the stalemate by asking Margot what she thought. She heard Zack out, then shook her head. “Did it occur to any of you that we new partners might have plans of our own for the long weekend? Leland and I are going to Chicago, and I somehow doubt that the new Calgary partners are panting at the thought of being invited to a lake forty-five kilometres east of Regina.” Margot had looked approvingly at her very red dagger fingernails. “Here’s a thought. Why don’t you Winners’ Circle guys have yourselves a big time that weekend. You can roast your weenies and sing ‘Auld Lang Syne’ all night long. The rest of us will do what we do and we’ll show up for the command performance at Lawyers’ Bay next year.”
That night when I’d walked Margot to the door, she’d drawn me out into the hall. “Tell me honestly, Joanne. Don’t you ever find all that Winners’ Circle stuff just a tad weird? Every single one of those partners is a millionaire now and they didn’t get that way by being idealistic about the law or anything else.”
“I know,” I said. “But the one thing they can’t buy back is the way they were. That’s what they want to hold on to.”
Margot had given me a long look. “So I should feel sorry for them.”
“Not at all,” I’d said. “Just learn the lesson.”
Since the guest list was settled, Zack and I just conferred on the menu for the weekend. Usually, the affair was catered, but this year because our numbers would be smaller we were going to cook for ourselves. Zack had volunteered to bring the meat and we decided on boned prime rib and whole salmon – both of which Zack fancied himself an expert at barbecuing.
Despite the pleasure of massage and menu planning, Zack had trouble sleeping. After tossing and turning for two hours, he rolled over and mumbled, “I have to put Cronus on the stand.”
“Good,” I said. �
��The decision’s made. Want me to come to court tomorrow?”
“Would you?”
“Of course. I’ll drop Taylor off at Willy Hodgson, then I’ll go straight over.”
“We’re in Courtroom B,” Zack said.
“Got it. Now go to sleep.”
And he did.
As I always did when I entered the courthouse, I spent a few seconds gazing at the mural of the God of Laws in the lobby. Over the years, I had been a parent-helper at many tours of the courthouse, and I knew that mural was a mosaic of 125,000 pieces of Florentine glass and that the female figures flanking the God of Laws were Truth and Justice. That morning, I gave Truth and Justice a few moments of extra attention. “Do your stuff, ladies,” I whispered, then went inside.
The courtroom was crowded. The trial was winding down, so the media and members of the public were hoping for a last burst of fireworks. I found a seat where I had a clear view of the jury and settled in.
Cronus was already sitting in the prisoner’s box, guarded by a provost who looked like she meant business. Zack and his associate, Chad Kichula, were already seated at the defence table, and Linda and her associates were at the table reserved for Crown counsel.
We rose as the clerk announced that Madam Justice Rebecca Cann was entering. Justice Cann lived across the creek from us and she owned a pair of Shih Tzus, so our paths crossed frequently. When we talked dogs, she had an easy smile and a bright enthusiasm. But today, the talk was not of Shih Tzus, and Justice Cann’s expression was stony.
The day was hot, and as he walked from the prisoner’s box to the witness stand, I saw that Cronus had dressed as any successful businessman might for an important meeting: a sleek white suit, a violet shirt, and a striped tie of violet and aubergine. As he raised his hand to be sworn in, I scanned the jury’s faces. They were as representative as any twelve people I’d meet at Safeway on a Saturday afternoon. The majority were Caucasian, but one had the warm copper skin of the Caribbean and two were East Asian. Most were middle aged, but one woman appeared to be very old. I knew that the boy in the front row had to be nineteen to be called for jury duty, but he didn’t appear to have been nineteen for long. The jurors were a disparate group, but as I watched them focus on Cronus, I knew that they were united in one significant way: they all heartily loathed the defendant. Zack was usually able to establish a good relationship with jurors, but as he steered his wheelchair towards the witness box so he could question his client, I saw that the jury’s distaste for Cronus extended to my husband.