The judge ordered a break, and Arthur nudged Wentworth, who was staring at the protruding bottom of a junior prosecutor bending over the counsel table. “Wentworth.”
“Oh, sorry,”
“I’ll want a transcript of Leich’s 911 call. And ask Abigail to produce the maid for cross-examination. Rashid too, while we’re at it. I’ll want you to interview them first.”
Arthur went out to the gallery to check his messages. Nothing from Margaret. It still smarted that she’d chastised him, but when he thought back, yes, he could see how his jests about her campaign, about Ottawa, might have smacked of smirking faithlessness.
Nicholas Braid had called. “I guess you’re not there. A couple of locals are out in the barn, they told me you hired them to build a pedestal for that monstrosity in there. A Mr. Stonewell and some fellow he calls Dog, they assured me they have permission to use the Fargo to haul the cement. Nicky vouched for them, so I gave them the keys, hope you don’t mind.”
Arthur uttered a profane lamentation; the Fates had it in for him. He dragged himself back to court 67, looking for Wentworth. A junior prosecutor, buxom and freckle-faced, had him in close encounter, trapped against the jury railing. Finally, he moved back to his station, flushed.
Arthur said, “Well?”
“She said yes.”
“Who said yes to what?”
He stammered. “Oh, um, Abigail, she’ll produce the maid and Rashid.”
Chekoff stepped back into the box, smoothed his rumpled suit, and described his wanderings around the grounds with a photographer, illustrating the tour with photos. Exhibits P-33 through P-39 showed views of Leich’s balcony from the vantage of the fallen chair, an unobstructed distance of sixty metres.
They next went to the other side of the little nipple of an inlet, to 5 Lighthouse Lane, Leich’s house, where photos were snapped in the opposite direction. “I had a conversation with Ms. Leich following which I escorted her to headquarters. There she attended a lineup of eight men as depicted in Exhibit 54, in which the accused is shown wearing a placard with number six. I instructed Ms. Leich to write down the number of any person she’d seen from her balcony at approximately three a.m.” And of course she wrote down number six.
“That’s the man,” she’d said-hearsay, but Arthur didn’t object, didn’t want the jury thinking he was hiding an awkward truth.
He rose to cross-examine, wondering why the jury seemed distracted-they were watching Felicity Jones return in a pout. She retook her seat between Cud and Mrs. Brown, quickly withdrew her hand when Cud tried to press it.
“Let’s try to understand this, sergeant-after you discovered the body you made no attempt to enter the premises?”
“Okay, I called the chief and he spoke to some other people, I don’t know who, and he called back to tell me to button down the place and post guards until the daylight hours.”
“The night before, responding to Ms. Leich’s call, you arrived well after my client ran the car into the tree.”
“I had to do some checking, see who lived at 2 Lighthouse Lane.”
“Prominent people-is that why the investigation was put on hold?”
“From what I could determine, there was no one at home, and it looked like it could have been…” Hesitation.
“Suicide?”
“Well, it had some of the earmarks.”
“Suggesting that Ms. Leich didn’t see what she claimed to see.”
“We were keeping all options open.” Sullenly.
“In your search of the house, did you find any copies of Mr. Brown’s poetry books? Liquor Balls, Karmageddon.”
Chekoff pondered. “Can’t say we did.”
“Not in the maid’s room either?”
“I have no note of that.”
Shawn was writing his own note. Arthur wondered if he’d gone so far as to remove evidence. He played with a thought that Shawn might be representing not just Flo LeGrand but, more surreptitiously, friends in Ottawa, friends who wanted things hushed up.
“Odd to think that my client, even intoxicated, would drive off and leave behind his belongings-unless, if he was doing any thinking at all, he intended to come back. Did that thought strike you?”
That, in retrospect seemed a foolish question, and Arthur got the answer he deserved. “Maybe he had a reason to wanna get out of there fast.”
“As I understand it, Ms. LeGrand was under instructions not to talk to you.”
“That’s about it, counsellor.”
“Does the name Carlos Espinoza mean anything to you?”
“Can’t say it does.”
Again Shawn was writing, an indication Arthur was on the right track. “Are you aware that fourteen years ago Ms. LeGrand had a lover in Mexico by that name?”
“I may have heard something about that.”
“And what did you hear?”
“Mr. Beauchamp, we’re not interested in scuttlebutt.”
“But I daresay, milord, we are interested in knowing who killed Rafael Whynet-Moir.”
“What the sergeant may have heard is of absolutely no probative value. I will not have this court used as a forum for backhanded attacks on reputation.”
“Nor should the court erect a shield against relevant inquiries that involve reputation.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, your lack of deference to this court has not gone unnoticed.”
Arthur had the old fellow going, and he was thinking of adding fuel, but Abigail was now trying to enter the fray. “Milord, if I may…”
“You may not. I do not need to hear from you. The question is entirely unseemly and is disallowed. It’s four o’clock, we’ll adjourn.” He swept out, slammed the chambers door. Arthur felt badly about putting the fellow in a sour mood when he was soon about to enjoy accolades with his rubber chicken.
As the courtroom buzz settled, Arthur turned to see a familiar but unexpected presence. Provincial Judge J. Dalgleish Ebbe, who, after he’d been passed over for elevation to the Supreme Court, had foul-mouthed Whynet-Moir in a cocktail lounge. Arthur riffled through his papers for the 2006 Law Society complaint, reread Ebbe’s claim that His Lordship and his spouse were major contributors to the Conservative Party, and that Whynet-Moir bribed the justice minister, the late Hon. Jack Boynton, to get the appointment.
Ebbe didn’t, or wouldn’t, look at Arthur as he joined the exit queue. Odd that he’d take time out from sentencing vandals, brawlers, shoplifters and other minor miscreants to come here. His curiosity must have been piqued by Arthur’s broad hints about hanky-panky in high places.
Schultz’s comment came back: Can’t blame him for being bitter.
24
“Thirty days in the lockup will cure you of your insolence. Mr. Chance, you will have to carry on for the defence as best you can. Hmf, hmf.” Wentworth rose with a scornful smile. “With pleasure, milord…”
The reverie was shattered by a whining power saw, carpenters below, working overtime, it was after five o’clock. Wentworth had stopped in there, saw three neckless long-haired heavyweights setting up the sound system for tomorrow’s grand opening of the Gastown Riot, heavy metal with Blood’n’Guts.
His stomach was growling; that lunchtime chowder hadn’t much staying power. With Loobie’s steak sandwich and his three whiskies and tip, $48.27. This newshound was a leech.
He rubbed his eyes, tried to focus on his to-do list. Newly added to it: Judge J. Dalgleish Ebbe. What was his interest in this case? Maybe he was just waiting like a vulture for the boss to give Kroop a heart attack so he’d get shortlisted again for the high court. “And get me all you can on Boynton,” the taskmaster commanded after court recessed, “misdoings, misappropriations, skimming from expense allowances-every politician leaves a trail. Google him, or whatever one does.”