Arthur took his turn. “While you were at the table, madam, with the unstoppably affable host, did you note that his attention was often drawn to his wife?”
“Occasionally.”
“No slippage in his engaging manner when he did so?”
“What do you mean?”
“No frowns of discontent?”
A long pause. “Perhaps once.”
“Did you not get the impression, Ms. Tinkerson, that the hostess was making other offers to Mr. Brown that he couldn’t refuse?”
“You needn’t answer that question,” Kroop said.
“Then I have no more.”
At the morning break, Arthur drew up a chair beside Abigail, and they began an intense conversation. Wentworth assumed it was about April Wu, but didn’t feel invited to attend. Another smile from Haley as she left the room. She was pretty, sexy in a plump sort of way. It looked like those freckles extended down her bosom.
Again he studied his cross-examination notes. Three hours’ sleep, he had to suck it up, this could be his breakthrough, his chance to find favour with Arthur, who’d been standoffish. Not unfriendly. Sort of indifferent. Cud was on his feet, staring at Arthur, waiting to be noticed. Finally he tamped out a cigarette and walked out with it dangling unlit from his lips.
Haley led in Sergeant Chekoff, an iron-pumper if those chest muscles meant anything, a square head with worry lines. He joined the huddle, and as he got filled in, he looked shocked, and put his hand to his heart as if swearing to the truth. Wentworth didn’t think it was a put-on act.
The boss was beckoning Wentworth…no, Shawn Hamilton behind him, who got up and conferred with Abigail. She retreated with her cellphone. Wentworth couldn’t stand it any longer. He joined the scrum, Arthur and Shawn and Chekoff and Haley.
“I have no knowledge of this,” Shawn said calmly, “and I have no other comment.”
“Shawn, you were hired by Florenza’s parents.”
“Can’t say. Solicitor-client privilege.”
“Your office was used as a drop-off.”
“Solicitor-client privilege.”
“It doesn’t apply to criminal agreements, Shawn.”
Shawn excused himself, strolled back to his seat as if he hadn’t a qualm in the world. Haley looked at Wentworth. He smiled. She smiled.
Abigail finished her call. “Sorry, Arthur, the police weren’t involved, so the Attorney won’t agree to a mistrial.”
Cud was back, the gallery filling, and the clerk was urgently beckoning counsel-the judge was antsy.
“I can’t see Shawn involved in this,” Abigail said, “his career would be in the toilet. Let it go, Arthur; the chief won’t order a mistrial and he won’t give you a directed verdict. Anyway, what does a mistrial get you? A retrial. You’d have to do it all over again.”
That seemed to curb Arthur’s enthusiasm. The jury were filing in, the judge lumbering to the bench.
“Abigail, you’ve undertaken to call any witness I want.”
“Well, yes…within reason.”
“Then call Florenza’s parents. I will hold my guns for a while.”
He shepherded Wentworth back to their side of the table. “This could actually rebound in our favour.”
Whynet-Moir’s caterers were next up, four of them, but none had much to add but a young server-she was nervous but soon proved to have been more sharp-eyed than any of the dinner guests. At one point, as she was tending table, she saw Florenza’s hand in Cud’s lap. “When I leaned over next to her, she kind of pulled it away fast.”
“And where in his lap was her hand?” Arthur asked.
“Well, ah, sort of between his legs, actually, and, ah…”
“Yes?”
A rosy blush. “When she withdrew it, he had…I think he had a…”
She couldn’t say it, so Arthur did, “An erection.”
“I would say, yes.”
“You didn’t assume he’d stashed a cucumber in his underwear?”
Kroop quelled the laughter with a grunt of displeasure. “Mr. Beauchamp, please.”
“What did you next observe?”
“I returned to the kitchen, and when I came back a while later, I saw Mr. Brown’s, ah, crotch area was kind of…all greasy, and he was zipping his fly and then he wiped his hands with a serviette.”
“Thank you, miss, you’ve been most forthright and helpful.”
Abigail said her next witness would be Dr. Rosa Sanchez, the pathologist. Wentworth sat upright, aquiver with anticipation. He was about to take the stage, his name would be in the papers. He ordered himself to be calm as he dove into his briefcase for his notes. If he pulled this off, he could win the award for best supporting lawyer.
“How long will this witness be?” Kroop said.
“‘He weighs time even to the utmost grain.’” That was Arthur, sotto voce. Wentworth must check where that came from, probably Shakespeare.
“A little over an hour,” Abigail said.
“It’s almost noon break. Can we pick up the pace? I’d like to recess at four o’clock today; I’ve been conscripted to attend a rather special event this evening.” Wentworth had seen the notice, a bar dinner to honour the chief for his upcoming Order of Canada. Only a hundred dollars a plate.
“Bear with me a moment, milord,” said Abigail. She leaned on Wentworth’s shoulder to talk to Arthur. “You going to this dinner?”
“Fortunately, I have other things to do.”
“I’m on the menu, have to give a sucky speech. Listen, for some stupid reason, Brian wanted the jury to hear the whole post-mortem. Do you really need Dr. Sanchez?”
“What I don’t need, my dear, is to have the jury looking at all those grisly photos.”
Wentworth knew those photos too well. Whynet-Moir’s broken skull, his death mask.
“Okay, no post-mortem pics, and you’ll let the autopsy report go in?”
“I can’t see a problem.”
“And what about the other stuff, serum analysis, the DNA guy?”
“I don’t really suppose we’re much interested in that either, are we, Wentworth?” Without waiting for a reply, Arthur rose and said, somewhat grandly, “Mindful of the pressing demands on Your Lordship’s time, the defence will admit all forensic evidence.”
“Thank you. Adjourned till two o’clock.”
Wentworth continued for a while to look dully at his sixty pages of cross-examination notes, then swept them back into his briefcase.
23
On his way out of court Arthur was almost knocked over by Felicity, barrelling up the aisle in tears. He turned to see Mrs. Brown looking censoriously at her wastrel son. Arthur couldn’t find much sympathy for Cuddles, who’d reaped what his hyperactive libido sowed. Better to be a tepid lover than suffer an unregulated sex drive.
Margaret’s remark still bothered him. He did make a pass, Arthur. A pass-the word encompassed all manner of repugnant undertakings. I rebuffed him. Of course Margaret would say that. Then he abruptly rejected his imaginings as unworthy and false.
Arthur was no sooner out the door when he saw Charles Loobie aiming for him like a torpedo. He tried evasion tactics, pulling Wentworth into an alcove as if they had critical business to discuss.
That didn’t deter the bad news bear, who cornered them. Resistance was futile. “I got my headline, ‘Bawdy Poet’s Banana Peeled and Buttered at Banquet.’ Juicy stuff about Boynton and Raffy, keep it coming. Hey, Artie, I’m real sorry about Whitson; my source turned out not to be as informed as he claimed. But I got another theory.”
“Charles, I’m hungry, and I already have indigestion from one of your theories.”
“Okay, but I ask you, why do two Supreme Court justices get dumped two months apart? I think we’re looking for a guy who had a motive to kill both. Maybe you should key on Judge Naught. Maybe he had some corrupt dealings with Whynet-Moir.”