Street Legal

by William Deverell

  “The street,” Cristal said. “In prison they call it freeside. It is good to be in freeside.”

  “I don’t have my car.”

  “It is better to walk, yes? I t’ink you like to walk, I can see it in your legs, if you will forgive me for saying.”

  He was looking directly at her, the sun flashing off his teeth. Carrie decided to forgive him. Hard not for him to see her legs, since she was brazenly showing them under a short skirt.

  “I like to walk,” she said. “Come on, Toronto the Good by foot with Carrington Barr.”

  He took off his suit jacket and flung it over his shoulder, inhaled deeply of the freeside air and followed her across Nathan Phillips Square, past the two great curved arms of the City Hall.

  Oddly nervous in his company, she talked non-stop, told him about her meetings with Humphries and Deeley and Speeder Cacciati. Cristal asked few questions and listened mostly in silence, following her toward Dundas, into Chinatown — his tour guide would take him to Kensington Market, that little concentration of busy ethnicity in the heart of the city.

  He drew her into a sporting-goods store on the way, and bought a pair of Adidas and shorts. He paid with American Express.

  On Dundas, they passed by the Sunrise Bar and Grill. “That’s where I met Normie the Nose this morning, and that’s where he’s supposed to be at three this afternoon.”

  “The tester?”

  “Yes, he was in that loft, André. For a price he’ll say he didn’t see you there.”

  This caused Cristal literally to stop in his tracks. He turned to her, his eyes glinting fiercely. “And if his price is not met?”

  “He may say something else.”

  “Maudit,” he said softly.

  “He may say he saw you shoot Schlizik.”

  She had never seen him display anger before, but now his facial muscles were taut and his voice was hard and tight. “Bastard! He is a liar!”

  “Let me worry about him, André.”

  They continued to walk, and Carrie replayed for him her conversation with Normie.

  “Will you pay him?”

  “Not what he wants.”

  “Inspector Mitchell will pay him more.”

  “Oh, I’ll dare the Crown to call him as a witness. I intend to record everything this time.”

  At Kensington Market, people were milling about, lots of activity in front of all the little shops and restaurants. Cristal picked out two rosy apples, and gave the vendor five dollars and told him to keep the change.

  He extended an apple to Carrie, and as they walked, they munched. North through the suburban forest, the elms and maples that guarded Toronto’s old imposing homes, past lawns yellowing in the heat. On Bloor, she turned east.

  “My office is just down the street. I’d like you to come up after you’ve had a chance to get your bearings. Maybe tomorrow?”

  Cristal didn’t respond. He seemed lost in melancholic thought.

  “André, I can’t understand. You’re an educated man, an architect, you had a future. How did you ever get into this? Dope. Gangsters.”

  He didn’t reply for a while. She became uncomfortable with his silence.

  Finally: “Okay. There was a . . . car accident. I was behind the wheel. A lady . . . well, my friend, my very good friend — she was killed.”

  “You haven’t told me this.”

  “No, I . . . It’s difficult.”

  “Okay, but I’d like to know.”

  “I went kind of crazy for a few years. She . . . she was . . .” He shrugged. “Never mind. Special. I got tied up with drugs, different t’ings, uppers, downers, coke, and at the end, the hard stuff. Heroin — it is an escape, but you cannot always escape from it. I lost my job. Borrowed to keep t’ings going. Street lenders, 10-per-cent-a-month men. Finally, I got clean, but I had to work my way out, selling their dope. That is the story, not a nice one.”

  “Okay.” Carrie was the one now who was lost in her silence. This was a man who had loved too hard, and grieved with too much pain. She was moved by this brief history, so difficult in the telling, and she touched his arm, a gentle message.

  “Yes,” he said, “it is good to talk to someone. Maybe we can talk more soon, yes? But not now. Now I have the urge to run.”

  “Don’t run too far. The bail restriction says you have to stay in Toronto.”

  “Don’t worry, they won’t let me out of their sight.”

  “Who?”

  “Les boeufs. The cops. ’Ow are your eyes?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The car that just went past. The man who ’as been a hundred metre behind us all the time.” He shrugged. “It is their game. I am ’appy if they want to play it.”

  Carrie didn’t look around. She assumed he was right. Mitchell would want to know if Cristal tried to make contact with former associates. They were going to a lot of trouble.

  “Well, what are we going to do with you in the meantime?”

  He grinned. “Whatever you like to do with me, I am ’appy to do.”

  Was he flirting? Or was she reading things?

  “Where are you going to stay?”

  They were in front of the Park Plaza Hotel, one of the city’s older, larger hostelries. Cristal stopped at the entrance, and looked into the roomy lobby.

  “Here, close to your office.”

  “You can afford it?”

  “I t’ink so.”

  “Okay, André. Go for your run. Cacciati wants you to meet with Big Leonard. I guess the police are waiting for something like that, so don’t do it. Don’t talk to anyone, okay? Call me tomorrow at the office.”

  He smiled and bowed slightly. He raised her hand and kissed it — gentle, dry, no sparks, just an odd tickling sensation running up her arm. Then he turned and walked into the hotel.

  15

  The three Cool Aiders painted a mean picture for Leon — too many inner-city youngsters fouled up on drugs. Leon explained grants were getting hard to come by in these pinchy times, but he would get on the phone and lobby Metro Council members — a hearing was scheduled that night for Cool Aid’s grant application for their counselling service.

  After they left, Leon moaned to himself — he was a donor bank. He just couldn’t say no. Maybe he should have gone into social work.

  A call from Robert Barnsworth interrupted these sad ruminations. Leon listened to him grumble about the rude treatment he’d received from Carrie. Barnsworth wanted to talk with someone of calmer temper about the overdue loan and rent — would accounts be settled quickly or not?

  “I’m afraid the answer is not,” Leon said. “We’re seeking to extend the loan, Mr. Barnsworth —”

  “There will be no extension of the loan. I shall be serving you with formal demand, sir, and if payment is not received within two days — two days, Mr. Robinovitch — we intend to seize your chattels and commence a suit in damages. I take it that is clearly understood.”

  “Well, give us a break here. We’ve decided to look for cheaper rent somewhere, and we’ll have some start-up costs.”

  “You are on a five-year lease, sir. Your former partner, I gather, has taken all the files of value?”

  Leon made a face, didn’t answer.

  “Frankly, he was the only true businessman in your firm, and I suspect without him you are in shambles. You have all given guarantees, Mr. Robinovitch. We will not hesitate to execute on your personal holdings. Two days.”

  And he rang off. Leon groaned — Carrie, it would seem, had not performed the public-relations coup of the century in her handling of Barnsworth.

  They had something like five thousand dollars in their general account. Leon felt trapped. He half-expected to find Robert Barnsworth standing petulantly by the door tomorrow, surrounded by bailiffs and sheriffs. What was t
o be done with this oppressive landlord? Was there no way to break the lease? Only fools would sublet from them at those usurious rates.

  One new client today. Leon had demeaned himself, begged legal aid to send some business — and what had they sent him? A rape.

  Conscience had always made Leon shun rape trials. If the defence was consent — well, it was always too easy to say the woman agreed. The whole process made Leon a little queasy.

  But legal aid would pay five hundred dollars a day, and maybe one has to bend a few principles to get the banker off one’s back.

  The legal-aid form gave the client’s name as “Blaine Johnson.” He was without bail, in custody somewhere. And the trial was set for the Metro North Court . . . in just a couple of days — how could that be possible?

  He phoned the legal-aid offices to find out why this application had been gathering dust, but was told the request had just come in.

  He phoned the prosecutor’s office. Yes, Mr. Johnson was coming before a jury Thursday morning. All the witnesses had been

  subpoenaed. No, the Crown would not agree to an adjournment — the accused had had plenty of time to get a lawyer. If Leon had problems he should tell them to the judge. This was a very serious rape, the complainant had been beaten. The accused admitted the sexual act but insisted she’d consented.

  Leon slumped in his chair. Woe. He tried some deep breathing, centring himself. As he was groping for a state of transcendental emptiness, his mother phoned.

  “I don’t like to call you in the office like this, Leon, but I assumed you must have been kidnapped by a flying saucer when you didn’t make it up to the cottage on the weekend.”

  “Mom, the office is in crisis.”

  “Let me tell you about crisis. We’re supposed to be seeing slides at the Walisches’ tonight. I suppose you know they went to Russia again — Sid Walisch is still a communist even after Afghanistan, though I think Lenin would turn over in his mausoleum if he knew — but anyway, yesterday your father fell asleep on the grass at the lake and has third-degree burns, and he is going to be tonight’s entertainment, the laughing stock. And everyone thinks I’m the family pinko.”

  His mother paused to chuckle at her joke, and Leon found an opening. “Mom, things really are in a mess here. Ted has left the firm and he and Carrie are getting divorced.”

  Leon heard just the phone static for a moment.

  “Oh, my God. Not Ted and Carrington. Why, they were such a perfect couple . . . Forgive me, Leon, but who, may I ask, is the transgressor?”

  “Carrie is the victim.”

  “Oh, how terrible. What happened?”

  “Mom, not right now.”

  “You bring that poor woman over for dinner. This weekend. She must be desolate. Men can be such . . . well, not you, Leon, you’ll never be unfaithful because you never seem to find anyone to be unfaithful to. What is this, a midlife crisis for all eternity?”

  “I’ve got work, Mom. I’ll call you from home.”

  He hung up, and thought: an evening with Carrie and Mom and Dad, it didn’t seem overly romantic. But maybe it was the way to start — it could be followed by a concert, the theatre, a real date. He wondered if Carrie had the slightest inkling . . . But no, she saw him as a kind of avuncular figure, friendly old preachy Leon, the cowardly lion of Oz: he’ll never find the Emerald City.

  Well, Mr. Johnson had to be attended to — Leon must see him quickly, and marshal his argument to adjourn this imminent trial.

  But he was delayed in his flight — Pauline called, announcing the unscheduled arrival of Herbert Orff. Leon hoped he might speedily deal with this militant victim of the media barons and send him on his way.

  Roly-poly Herbert Orff came in puffing under the load of several thick expandable files. “I’ve got three cabinets full of ammunition like this. Absolute proof. I phoned Dr. Yorvil in Alberta and he’s sending more. He says this is our big chance to right the wrongs of history.”

  “I don’t even want to look at this trash. I told you I’m arguing the Bill of Rights.”

  Orff whined: “But that sounds like a technicality.”

  “The judge is a tough sentencer, Mr. Orff. I’d hate to see you put away.”

  Orff’s pudgy little eyes went into a squint, and his voice faltered. “But I’m only guilty of telling the truth.”

  Leon asked him for a retainer of five thousand dollars. It was a lot, but times were hard, and this gentleman wasn’t getting a free ride.

  As Orff dumbly wrote out a cheque, Leon asked him: “Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”

  “Mr. Blumberg thinks I’m at the dump. He’s not as smart as he thinks he is, I hardly ever go to the dump on Tuesdays.”

  Herbert Orff, garbage inspector. Leon led him out.

  “Mr. Blumberg isn’t the smartest member of your . . . racial persuasion, Mr. Robinovitch.” Orff hesitated as if expecting a response to this; then, his big rear wobbling, he rolled out of the office. Leon was in a hurry, but he didn’t want to share the same elevator.

  Pauline Chong gave Leon a disgusted look. “Boy, that’s the bottom of the barrel.”

  Then they heard what sounded like an argument in front of the elevator.

  A loud, cranky voice: “You’re a dirty, cocksucking racist, you want my opinion.”

  Leon couldn’t identify the voice — another tenant of this floor? Had Orff muttered something offensive?

  He poked his head around the door and saw that Orff was alone, staring at the closed elevator door. He was loudly debating with no one but himself.

  “You’re a fucking bigot,” he said. “Fucking anti-Semite.” Yes, it was Orff who was speaking, but as if from a different larynx, the voice street-tough and resonant.

  “I should’ve told that lawyer I’ll defend myself.” This was his normal voice.

  Orff then snarled, “You couldn’t defend your dick, Hitler.”

  Now, yet a third voice issuing from the same throat: “Tell der stupid kike lawyer to stuff it, all he vants is your dough.” A distinct German accent. Astounded, Leon realized he’d heard this voice before, as he and Orff had left court: That asshole lawyer.

  Just then the elevator door opened — and there was Robert Barnsworth, his features set in grim determination. He had a folded paper in his hand: some kind of formal notice, Leon guessed. He was about to storm from the elevator, but then seemed unsure how to get around the hulk blocking the way.

  “You can stick it up your fucking cunt, you Nazi swine!” Orff screamed at him.

  Terrified, Barnsworth took a few steps back into the cage. Leon bolted toward the elevator as Orff, moving with zombie-like slowness, stepped inside.

  “Stick it up yours, Jew-boy,” Orff growled, still facing Barnsworth.

  Leon got a hand in just before the elevator door closed, and it slid quickly open again.

  “Herbert!” Leon shouted, and the man seemed to snap to. He turned and faced Leon, blinking — the guy had been in some incredible kind of trance. Leon could see Barnsworth in the corner, his hands covering his groin area; he’d assumed the attack would be sexual.

  “I have to go to work. I’m on late shift on the twenty-four-hour emergency line.”

  “For what?”

  “Solid wastes removal and blocked drains.”

  “Are you okay?”

  “I have a headache.”

  “I want you to come back tomorrow, Herbert. I’m going to ask a friend to see you. He’s of, ah, German extraction. I think you’ll like him.” Dr. Hal Kiehlmann, to be exact, doctor of the mind. Some kind of split-personality illness here.

  “Okay, Mr. Robinovitch.”

  Trapped in the corner and cowering, Barnsworth spoke faintly: “Could you, um, ask this gentleman —” He didn’t finish, sucked in his breath as Orff took a step back.

  “No
w, you mustn’t bother Herbert, Mr. Barnsworth.”

  Leon let the elevator door slide shut.

  ***

  Chuck had drawn badly in the lottery of the appeal court: three law-and-order freaks, they made Torquemada look like a Sunday-school teacher. Mr. Justice Clearihue, the new guy, had to prove he was just as mean and fucked-up as the other two more seasoned sociopaths up there, and said Chuck’s client — a forger of welfare cheques — deserved what he got.

  “A particularly sordid endeavour. I cannot see that the trial judge erred. Appeal is dismissed.”

  Clearihue had been a corporate lawyer, a mouthpiece for the multinationals, what did he know about real law? Tonight he gets honoured, cash bar and speeches at the Four Seasons. Chuck didn’t really want to go, but there would be a chance to schmooze and make some deals.

  Now he had to get down to the Old City Hall for the appearance with Harry Squire. But he had some spare time, so he walked down the corridor to the main courthouse where a trial was under way that he was too snoopy to miss. The Cartwright divorce. He couldn’t believe it was going ahead. Had Ted snapped?

  Ted had called Chuck last night, his voice formal, tight and tired. He understood why Chuck had sided with Carrie. One has to do what one has to do.

  “And I have to do Melissa’s divorce tomorrow.”

  “You’re out of your mind.”

  “Wouldn’t it look odd if I suddenly backed out? Wouldn’t that seem suspicious?”

  “Just say you got sick, for Christ’s sake. My God, man, Carrie could just walk into the witness box and blow your career to smithereens.”

  “Carrie wouldn’t do that.”

  What was with this guy, representing his secret lover in her divorce suit? Suicidal.

  Dr. Cartwright’s lawyer, Ely Church, was a very skilled tactician. If he ever discovered this incredible liaison between the plaintiff and her lawyer — well, Ted wouldn’t be able to get a job selling second-hand cars.

  Chuck took a seat near the back; he didn’t particularly want Ted to notice him there. But Ted had all his concentration zeroed in on Melissa’s husband, Dr. Yale Cartwright, the heart specialist. He was in his sixties, at least thirty years older than his wife, and though a big man and somewhat stout, he seemed frail on the stand, his face sad and contemplative. Ted was badgering him.