Kill All the Judges (13 page)

“It's highly addictive. I read your piece in the
Globe
, Eric. Admirable.”
A Green Strategy for Business in a Finite World.

“Lost some clients, picked up others, smart companies, they know they have to change to survive.”

Arthur saw him fiddling with a pipe, so he led him out to the veranda for dessert and a smoke. It was dark now, after six, and the fog was thickening.

“You must be mighty proud, Arthur. Your wife has a great talent for this.”

“Runs the finest kitchen on the Gulf Islands.”

“I mean her political skills. Very persuasive woman. It seems I am to chair her campaign committee. Did it for the Tories, helped get a couple of duds elected.” He spoke confidingly: “She could pull it off, depending on how the cards play.”

Arthur sought a change of subject–their shared liking of pipes, the foggy weather, the sad state of the arts, anything–but for the moment he was too rattled to speak. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “And how might the cards play?”

“The Libs, Tories, and New Democrats are all pretty even. With a good campaign, Margaret could win on a four-party split.”

Arthur had trouble accepting this. Malcolm Lewes won 10 per cent of the vote last time. There he was, at a window, staring into the gloom. “Well, Eric, we can only keep our fingers crossed.”

“Do you follow politics, Arthur?”

“The art is lost on me.” Arthur's milieu had always been Conservative, his parents, his friends, law associates. He'd counted himself as an adherent without knowing why.

“By-elections favour the underdog. Voters aren't stupid, they know the government won't stand or fall on a single seat, so they'll gamble on a maverick to spice things up. Someone like Margaret.”

Arthur coughed smoke. An image came of packing long johns for the flight to Ottawa. He'd never truly considered the dire prospect of her
winning
.

“Tell me, Arthur, you're involved, aren't you, in the case of this local fellow, the one alleged to have done in Whynet-Moir?”

“No, I am definitely not, but do not be surprised if Mr. Brown presently comes to the door begging me to
get
involved. He is the bane of my life. You knew Whynet-Moir?”

“He was once in my firm.” Schultz, puffing his pipe, seemed to ponder his further response. “Stole several choice clients and set up on his own.”

“I'd heard he was a bit of a slick fellow.” Corrupt, said Provincial Judge Ebbe, though it may have been the cocktails talking.
Someone would be doing a blow for justice if he'd drop him down a well.
Arthur was about to say something more but faltered as illumination came. How had he been so slow to make the connection?
E.S.

“Eric, did you serve last year on the discipline committee?”

“Good, you got my note. I knew I'd be seeing you, but mailing it felt more…anonymous.”

“Your name will not be mentioned.”

“It wouldn't do for poor Dalgleish Ebbe to have that catch up to him. Fine fellow, really, quite brilliant. His name keeps coming up for high court, but the Ministry of Justice keeps passing him over. Can't blame him for being bitter that Whynet-Moir got the job. He'll probably be buried forever in the bowels of the provincial court. Political correctness issues.”

Ebbe, as Arthur recalled, was dogged by a long-ago unwise comment about a rape complainant's low-cut bodice.

“Rafael–Raffy, we used to call him–lobbied hard for his judgeship. You'd see him at federal Conservative functions, attaching himself to the justice minister, for whom, by the way, he served as a political aide in Ottawa several years ago, before the Conservatives took office. He made a substantial campaign contribution in 2006, the year he was appointed. I happen to know he wasn't the first choice of the PM or half the Cabinet, but the minister fought like a tiger and got him in.”

Schultz was speaking carefully, but the insinuation was that money passed under the table–Judge Ebbe had made the accusation more boldly. There was a local angle here, an eerie convergence: appallingly, Margaret Blake could succeed that minister, the late Jack Boynton, as the Member for Cowichan and the Islands.

“Whynet-Moir's appointment came after he began squiring Florenza LeGrand about,” Schultz said. “The romantic legend is that he then proposed. She probably decided it would be groovy to be a judge's wife.”

“Groovy?” The word sounded old-fashioned even in Schultz's mouth.

“Florenza is still a hippie at thirty-three.”

“If one assumes, Eric, that Whynet-Moir bought his judgeship, what motive might anyone have for doing him in?”

“A cover-up?” He shrugged. “Brown's counsel might want to check it out.”

A good idea. Why was Arthur even blathering on about this case? “Brian Pomeroy. I'm in frequent contact with him.” Was that so? He hadn't talked to him for a couple of weeks. He guessed Schultz knew more than he was letting on. He seemed uncommonly interested in the case, so Arthur asked him why.

“Well, this Cudworth Brown. Here's a fellow who was up a tree for two weeks with the Green Party candidate for Cowichan and
the Islands. Wouldn't do to have him convicted of murder. Not at all.”

Arthur puffed in grim silence. It bothered him that Margaret had joined the multitudes urging him to defend Cud. Why would she care?

He was about to suggest they retreat into the warmth of the house when they both jumped at what sounded like a shot. No, Arthur decided, a backfire. A lone headlight coming through the mist, a poorly muffled engine. A flatbed drew up to the house, Stoney grinning at the wheel. Beside him was Dog, a short, squat compatriot. Next to Dog was the even shorter Hamish McCoy. In the back was the legal fee, the twelve-foot Icarus, strapped down on a foamy, a red flag hanging from his toe.

“Where do you want it?” said Stoney, rolling down the window, letting out a cloud of cannabis-flowered air so thick that Schultz reared back.

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbled, “this was unexpected.”

McCoy left the cab, came to the steps, looking at the many parked cars. “Didn't know you was having a do tonight, but merry Christmas all the same.”

“No, no, come in, meet some friends.” Arthur realized too late that was a mistake.

“Hope we didn't miss dessert,” said Stoney, advancing with a lit joint. “Anyone want a hit of this?” Schultz shied away again. Dog stumbled drunkenly from the truck, clutching a can of beer, and simultaneously drank from it while pissing on the lawn.

“Arthur, can I speak to you for a moment?” Margaret said, standing sternly at the door.

 

NEW LOVE BLOOMS AS THE OLD LIES DYING

O
kay, I admit it, I was in hog heaven at the capitalist trough, quaffing wine and spooning up a third helping of crème brûlée. Crisis over, Flo was snickering, and the ring I'd butter-fingered off her was in my pocket. Incidentally, I still have it–did I mention that? The coppers released it to me after I got bail–I told them it was mine, to protect her.

Anyway, I figured if things went right, I could be Florenza's kept lover, her toy boy, no more living in a beach shack on Garibaldi. Maybe she'd set me up in a penthouse over English Bay.
You changed my life.
Okay, your turn, you change mine.

Little did I know that this romantic comedy was about to morph into high tragedy. But I was deaf to inner whispers Flo was going to cut me loose after I provided fast, fast relief for needs that weren't being met by the fuzz-nutted pucker-ass over there. He had nods and smiles for everyone but me, maybe because the last time he looked my way I was wiping globs of butter from my hand with a napkin.

Meantime, he was mewling over the important lesbian novelist, urging her to read from her new book. Not much opposition from her. She stood, smiled, said something self-deprecating, read a page or two about a woman on her fifth unhappy marriage.

I'd stopped drinking, mainly because my bladder had swelled to the size of Hudson Bay. I didn't want anyone to see my pants were slimed with butter, so I waited till the moment was ripe, when
everyone was applauding her, to slip away, grab my pack because I've got a change of jeans in there. I can't find the nearest sandbox, though they've probably got a dozen of them, so I breeze outside and wee on the grass, the way you'd do at any function on Garibaldi.

I'm behind the Lamborghini, maybe getting a little spray on the back fender, and I don't know what attracts the curiosity of its owner, maybe my groans of relief, but here he comes, the insufferable snob in the shiny shoes, just in time to catch me shaking off behind his priceless ragtop.

He stops like he just walked into a wall when he sees I'm not zipping up, I'm lowering my gaunches, my balls and pecker dangling. Slowly, very slowly, he starts backing away, pointing a remote control, setting the car alarm, I figured, because I hear a little bleep. He disappears, I pull on fresh jeans.

Back inside, everyone was shuffling around with coffees and cognacs, except for Flo and a couple of other smokers, who were out on the deck. Shiny Shoes couldn't look me in the eye, and him and his wife left early. Last I saw of him he was checking to make sure I hadn't jacked off all over his backup lights.

Whynet-Moir was trying to get the other lady writer to read, but she declined, and I'm feeling affronted that he doesn't ask me. In case you didn't know, that's one of my fortes, doing readings; I get the crowd up at the coffee bars on Commercial Drive. Especially when I've had a few, like now.

I go out to the deck, bum one off Flo, a Gitanes, a prestige cigarette, I guess, but it smells like a burning tar pit. One of the tycoons and his spouse are out here too, him with a cigar. Mr. and Mrs. Bagley, he's CEO of a frozen food conglomerate. “When do we get a chance to hear
you
read?” he asks.

Exactly my thought, but I'm demure. “Aw, I don't know, it's getting late.” I glance inside, and Whynet-Moir still has his back to me.

The spouse chimes in, “Oh, please, just one poem.”

Florenza looks at her watch, as if to affirm it's getting late.

“We insist,” Bagley says, and he dinches his cigar and runs in to fetch Whynet-Moir. Mrs. Bagley goes off to get another drink.

The hostess pats my right buttock in a sort of proprietary way, like it's something she owns and values. “The Bagleys will be the last to go, they tend to cling. I'll have to start yawning.”

Then she pulls out my books again and asks if I know her well enough by now to sign them. I figured I had sufficient information on her, given I'd recently had my hand up her dress, but I didn't have any bon mots quick at hand. She told me “Never Regret” was one of her favourite poems, so I wrote that. And for the other book,
Karmageddon
, she wanted a line from its title track. It goes, “New love blooms as the old lies dying.”

As I'm scribbling these out, she says, “How does a steam and a swim later sound?”

“Real sweet.”

“After I send Rafael to bed.”

“What if he doesn't go to bed?”

“We'll just have to find some way to get rid of him.”

And here he comes, sort of slithering out onto the deck, a look of embarrassed relief. “Ah, here you are, Cudworth. I'd rather lost you, I thought you might have found our little event too staid and fled. But then I remembered with relief we're putting you up. Has he seen his room, dear?”

“Not yet, darling.”

Whynet-Moir was smiling, but it wasn't real genuine. He must have suspected what's up, it's probably happened lots of times before. “A great hue and cry has gone up for you to read from
Karmageddon
. I beg you, please, grace us with a few lines.”

I shrugged. “Okay, what the heck.”

I followed him in, rummaging through my head for something raw enough to get the clinging Bagleys out the door.

I was also thinking about what Flo had said, it was causing me the willies.
We'll just have to find some way to get rid of him.
The way she said that, not tossed off but in a low, intimate voice. I wasn't totally
hammered yet, but my defences were down. What a lamb in the woods I was.

 

It was after seven, nearly Hitchins time, as Brian slipped from the Ritz into the tinselled, foggy city, into the shimmer of storefront lights. He moved quickly, furtively, to Quick Loans, No References Required, the windows barred and dark. Its proprietor, a grizzled Iranian with a loaded .45 under the counter, was honouring the Lord Jesus, despite being Muslim, by not extorting repayments from the poor on Christmas Day. Soon Mr. Kharmazi might become more than a nodding acquaintance, given Brian's dire financial straits. Harry the Need has also taken Christmas off–Brian didn't blame him, but he's had to cut back, only a half gram left for the next emergency. Right now he was strung out like a taut clothesline, paranoid without that compensating muscular high. Possibly delusional, but there was no scientific way of testing that.