by Gail Bowen
The realization that there was nothing Cronus could say or do that would sway that jury seemed to hit Zack and me at the same moment. We exchanged glances, then Zack shrugged and began trying to pump life into his stillborn case.
Cronus acquitted himself well. Despite the jury’s aversion to him, he attempted to establish eye contact. Without belittling their choice of sexual activity, he was clear in explaining what rough sex involved, and why he and Arden made the choices they had made. The defence needed to establish that the scratches and contusions found on both Arden and Cronus’s bodies could have been the result of their normal sexual practices, so Zack guided Cronus through a description of rough sex that was graphic but not salacious. Cronus did well, but I could tell from the set of Zack’s shoulders that he knew it wasn’t enough.
When the court broke for lunch, both Zack and Cronus appeared drawn and tense. I went over. “That was a disaster,” Cronus said.
“You only need to get through to one person,” I said.
“You were watching the jury,” Cronus said. “Did I get through to anybody?”
“Maybe that young man in the front row,” I said. “He seemed to really be listening to what you said.”
Zack gave me a quizzical look. “We’ll focus on him after lunch,” he said. “Ms. Shreve, would you mind very much having lunch on your own? There are some things Cronus and I should discuss.”
“Not at all,” I said. “I have some errands to run. I’ll be back at two.”
There was a linen sale at the Bay. Life at the lake was hard on towels, so I laid in a supply, had a chili dog and Orange Julius at the food court, and went back to the courthouse.
The snatches of conversation I overheard as I sat waiting for court to begin were not encouraging. I thought Pierre Trudeau had it right when he said that there was no place for the state in the bedrooms of the nation. Whatever consenting adults did once the bedroom door closed seemed to me to be no one’s business but theirs. However, Cronus’s account of the mechanics of rough sex appeared to have opened a rich and nasty judgmental vein in my fellow citizens. People were licking their chops as they rushed to condemn him.
As the jury filed back in, I hoped that at least one of them had heard the words “Judge not, that ye be not judged.” It was impossible to tell what they were thinking, but when Cronus took the witness stand, they stared at him as if he were a specimen. His speaking voice was an oddly soothing monotone. As he described his relationship with Arden, the very old lady in the second row of the jury box drifted off to sleep.
Cronus’s explanation that he had no motive for killing Arden Raeburn was persuasive, but by the time he offered it, the faces of the jury were closed.
The right to a trial by a jury of one’s peers may be a cornerstone of our justice system, but seemingly, like the Queen in Alice in Wonderland, Cronus’s peers had decided on “Sentence first – verdict afterwards.”
Linda’s job was easy. She sat back and watched through narrowed eyes as Cronus told his tale. When the very old lady in the second row of the jury box awoke with a start, Linda smiled at her forgivingly.
It had been another bad day for the defence, but Zack would have three days to lick his wounds. It was a long weekend, so we did what we had done a hundred times before. We picked up our daughter and headed for Lawyers’ Bay.
My favourite piece of furniture at the lake was an old oak partners’ table that Zack’s decorator had found at a small town auction. It was large and ornate with twenty-four chairs upholstered in cracked maroon leather. Whether there were twenty of us or two of us, we ate there. That Friday night, eighteen of us sat down to dinner. In poker and in family life, Zack liked a full house. As he took in the faces at our table, he looked as content as I’d ever seen him – as always, I was amazed at how he could compartmentalize troubling thoughts and fully focus on enjoying the good times when they happened.
Everyone seemed to be getting along. When Angus came from the airport with his new girlfriend, Zack and I both swallowed hard. Maisie Crawford was six feet tall, with a body that rippled with health and power, an intelligent face, shoulder-length, curly brown hair, and a split lip.
“Lacrosse,” she exclaimed with a grin that quickly turned to a grimace. “Shit,” she said. “I just did it last night. It’s still a little sensitive.”
“Would a beer help?” Angus said.
“Probably not,” she said amiably, “but it’s still a good idea.” She turned to me. “What can I do to help?”
“Thanks, but I think everything’s under control. Get Angus to introduce you to the gang.”
Zack and I watched as Maisie made the rounds. “Has Angus ever been without a spectacular girlfriend?” Zack said.
“Not to my knowledge,” I said. “But even in the rarefied circle of Angus’s girlfriends, Maisie’s a standout. What kind of law does she practise?”
“She’s a trial lawyer,” Zack said. “And Falconer Shreve is lucky to have her. Calgary’s still a ballsy town, and rumour has it that when Maisie walks into a courtroom, shaking the floor with every step, the manly parts of opposing counsels shrivel.”
I laughed. “Tonight, I’m just grateful she’s taking the heat off Riel. Mieka was worried he’d feel a little out of his element.”
“I was looking forward to talking to him.” Zack looked around. “Where is he?”
“He and Peter went to check on the roast. Man’s work.”
“I should be there,” Zack said.
“No, you shouldn’t,” I said. “This is why we have kids. To leave you and me free to enjoy the party.”
“In that case,” Zack said, grinning, “allow me to get you some wine and lead you to a quiet corner.”
It was a good weekend. There was no shortage of powerboats at Lawyers’ Bay, so the big kids got in some serious waterskiing, and the little ones, including our granddaughters and Delia and Noah’s year-old grandson, Jacob, had some spectacular boat rides. Zack and I swam, took the dogs for walks, came home, and ate ice cream.
Saturday night, when the sun smouldered against the horizon, the members of the Winners’ Circle went down to sit by a campfire on the beach and the rest of us cracked open beers and caught the sun’s last rays.
Maisie looked towards the beach. “Kevin has mentioned the Winners’ Circle a couple of times. I thought it was a joke.”
“Not to them,” Noah Wainberg said. “And not to anybody who knew them then. I was in their year in law school – I was never in their league, but they were magic.” He handed Jacob to me. “But one picture is worth a thousand words. I’ll be back in a second.” He loped off towards their cottage and came back with a large framed black-and-white photo. “That was the way they looked that first summer.”
All the members of the Winners’ Circle were there. Delia, Kevin, Chris, Blake, and, in the middle, Zack. They were up to their waists in water – Zack too. He’d wheeled out so far that the lower part of his chair was submerged. Squinting into the sun, their faces suffused with joy, they were incredibly appealing. Maisie studied the photo and pointed to Chris Altieri. “Who’s this? Isn’t everybody supposed to show up?”
“Chris Altieri committed suicide three years ago,” Noah said.
“What happened?”
Noah shrugged. “He couldn’t forgive himself for being human.”
After dinner, we regrouped, and I got some time to catch up with Angus.
Pantera had followed Zack down to the beach, but Willie, ever loyal, had stayed with me. Angus dropped to the grass and began rubbing Willie’s stomach. “I don’t want to dim your glow, Mum, but did you find out anything about that file Pat Hawley found?”
“No. You know, with everything that’s been going on, I forgot all about it. But I showed it to Debbie Haczkewicz just after you brought it to me. She was polite, but after she found out that the file had just turned up randomly, she didn’t seem particularly interested. It was pretty much the same story with Norine. She pointed out t
hat the most recent clippings in that file were fifteen years old and that in fifteen years a lot of employees had come and gone at Falconer Shreve. The clippings could have belonged to any of them.”
“So the file is weird but not significant,” Angus said.
“That seems to be the consensus,” I said. I gazed towards the point. “No sign of Peter and Maisie,” I said with just a small question mark in my voice.
Angus shrugged. “Pete’s probably still figuring out when to make his move.”
“Really,” I said. “And you’re okay with that?”
“There’s nothing between Maisie and me. She didn’t have any plans for the long weekend, so I invited her to come to Lawyers’ Bay.”
“I’m glad you did,” I said. “We all like Maisie.”
Angus’s grin was rakish. “But Peter likes her most of all.”
On the night he died, Zack’s partner Chris Altieri taught Taylor a riddle that she never tired of. What three words make you sad when you’re happy and happy when you’re sad? The answer was, Nothing lasts forever. As we drove back to the city Monday afternoon I remembered that riddle. The past three days had been free of care, now it was time to return to the real world. Zack was preoccupied, and as we approached the city, I could see the tension gathering in his body.
I tried to distract him. “Did you notice that there was some interesting chemistry between Peter and Maisie?”
“I did,” Zack said. “Angus seemed cool with it.” He shrugged. “It’s a different world. When I was Angus’s age I would have knee-capped the other guy, brother or no brother.”
“Angus might have been into knee-capping mode if he and Maisie had been more than just buddies,” I said.
“It’s hard to imagine being ‘just buddies’ with a woman who has legs like Maisie’s,” Zack said. “But as long as everybody’s happy …”
“They appear to be,” I said. “Speaking of … how did your meeting on the beach with the Winners’ Circle go?”
“Truthfully, it was a little sad,” Zack said. “But it was also long overdue. We all agreed that everything is changing. Margot’s reaction was a slap in the face, but she was right. We have to acknowledge that the Winners’ Circle doesn’t mean anything to the new people. Kevin says that, for the sake of the firm, it’s time to stop worshipping those early years as if we were bugs stuck in amber.”
“Last night Maisie asked about the Winners’ Circle,” I said. “Noah brought out that black-and-white photo of the five of you in the lake that first summer. You really did have something special. You still do. You’re all at a good place in your life.”
“Well, except Chris,” Zack said.
“True. But you know, I’ve been thinking of that old riddle Chris told Taylor.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because the answer isn’t true. Some things do last forever.”
Zack reached over and squeezed my leg. “And thank God for that,” he said.
CHAPTER
15
Tuesday morning when I came back from my run with Leland, Zack was making a hungry-man’s breakfast for us both: scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast. I poured juice. “You must be planning to do some heavy lifting,” I said.
Zack’s lip curled. “I think it’s more a case of ‘the condemned man ate a hearty meal.’ ”
Mindful of my grandmother’s adage “Never trouble trouble till trouble troubles you,” we hadn’t discussed the Cronus case at all over the long weekend. Nor had we brought up what we had recently learned about Riel’s past. Zack and I were in desperate need of a problem-free weekend and we had taken it. Now the weekend was over. “Is it that bad?” I asked.
“It’s bad,” Zack said. “But I’ll survive. Hey, the other day when you mentioned that juror number six in the front row might be open to persuasion, did you really pick up on something or were you just blowing smoke?”
“Cronus seemed pretty down. I was trying to be encouraging.”
Zack sighed. “I was afraid of that. But just for the hell of it, I’m going to pretend juror number six is wavering.”
Despite the fact that the courtroom was packed, I was able to get the seat with the unimpeded sightline to the jury that I’d had before the weekend. When the jurors entered, I noticed that the very old lady looked well rested, and for no reason whatsoever, I took that as a good sign.
Zack’s closing statement was tight. He thanked the jury for their diligence. He also thanked them for their forbearance in remaining tolerant and restrained when they were confronted with graphic and unsettling testimony. He cited the same evidence the Crown had presented, but he said, as judges of the facts, the jurors were compelled to separate the facts from their reaction to the defendant and how he earned his living.
“I know how difficult that is,” Zack said with a small smile. “I’m a lawyer. I’ve heard the jokes. Nobody even bothers to make jokes about slumlords. My client owns and rents houses in North Central. These are houses that, as he testified, serve the needs of a very specific population. You and I might not like Cronus’s choice of occupation, and we may not share his choice of sexual practices. All of that is irrelevant. As judges of the facts, all you are being asked to do is decide whether the facts in this case are sufficient to declare my client guilty of murder.
“They are not. As the Crown counsel pointed out, this is a curious version of he said/she said. But this equation is more complex than the Crown would have you believe.
“You are asked to find this defendant guilty of murder. You have seen the autopsy photographs and you’ve heard the pathology reports. Arden Raeburn died from gunshot wounds. The bullets that killed her were fired from her own Glock pistol. There is not one iota of evidence connecting Cronus to that pistol. No fingerprints. No witnesses testifying that Cronus was in Arden Raeburn’s apartment at the time the pistol was fired. Nothing. And none of Cronus’s actions on the night of April 24, 2010, are those of a man guilty of murder.
“You heard his testimony. On that Saturday evening, he and Arden engaged in the same acts that they had indulged in for more than three years. At the ending of the evening, he and Arden had a drink together. Then, as he did every Saturday night, Cronus drove home, played with his cat, and went to bed. He made no attempt to dispose of the clothing he was wearing that night. As usual, he put what he’d been wearing in the laundry hamper where the cleaning lady who came every Tuesday would find it and wash it. He slept well, and when the police arrived to question him Sunday afternoon, he was sitting in his living room having a beer and watching a basketball game.
“These are not the actions of a guilty man, and I ask you to remember that when you determine Cronus’s future.”
As Linda Fritz rose to deliver her closing statement, every eye in the courtroom was on her. With her auburn hair smoothed into a French twist as carefully composed as she was, Linda was a commanding figure. She began by thanking the jury for their attention throughout the trial and commending them for the gravity with which they had accepted their responsibility as “judges of the facts.” She then gave a careful précis of the evidence.
There was no dispute between the Crown and the defence about physical evidence. Both agreed that Arden Raeburn’s regulation Glock pistol was the murder weapon and that it had been wiped clean of prints. There was no dispute about the ballistics reports that measured the distance and angle from which the shots were fired. The physical evidence on Arden’s body and beneath her fingernails could have suggested either that she fought off her assailant or that she had been a willing partner in a session of rough sex. The blood, bodily fluids, and fibre remnants taken from Arden’s body matched samples from Cronus, just as the blood, bodily fluids, and fibre remnants on Cronus matched samples taken from Arden. The defence had conceded that on Saturday nights, “date nights” for Arden and Cronus, the couple in the neighbouring apartment had often heard signs of struggle, but Zack had established that the couple had never approached Arden with an offer
of assistance, nor had she requested help.
Only once did Linda falter. When she touched on what might have motivated Cronus to murder Arden Raeburn, Linda could only suggest that the only two people who knew what happened that night were Arden and Cronus, and Arden was dead. At that point I glanced over at Zack. He wrote something on his legal pad and drew his associate Chad Kichula’s attention to the notation. Without seeing the legal pad I knew that Zack had written the number 3 on the page. For him, the fact that there had been three people in Arden’s apartment the night of the murder had become an article of faith. One of the three was dead, one was unjustly accused, and the third, the real murderer, was still at large.
Madam Justice Rebecca Cann began her charge to the jury by giving the standard instructions about the credibility of witnesses, the weight of circumstantial evidence, and the concept of reasonable doubt. She delivered her charge on the law slowly and precisely. “As defined by the Criminal Code of Canada,” she said, “murder is a culpable homicide with specific intentions. To be found guilty of murder, the person who causes the death of a human being either meant to cause that death, meant to cause the human being bodily harm that he knew was likely to cause death, or was reckless about whether death would ensue or not.” Justice Cann gave further directions on first and second degree murder. She then instructed the jury that they could find the defendant guilty only if the Crown had established all the necessary elements, including intent.