Kill All the Judges (34 page)

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.

 

THE OWL AND THE HOOKER

“T
hirty 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.”

He awoke his computer, returned to the transcript of the Naught inquest, just couriered; he was at page 30 of 280. There was no one to share the burden, no one to replace the beautiful Oriental spy,
he had to do all the filing. He sighed, took a deep breath. He will bend, won't break.

This evening's mission: debrief Minette Lefleur–they're to meet a couple of hours from now. He skipped to page ninety-three, her testimony. It didn't amount to much; she saw nothing, heard nothing, knew nothing, but was devastated that such an awful thing had happened to this well-respected client of her licensed massage business.

The other key witness was Joe Johal, Honest Joe, the Chevrolet-Pontiac dealer, who encountered Naught on the houseboat ramp. “Evening, judge,” he'd said as they passed in the night. Naught looked unsteady, Johal had picked up a strong smell of alcohol. Counsel at the inquest made something of Honest Joe having lost a breach of contract before Naught, but no one could pin anything on him.

The receptionist had stuck a few Post-it notes to his phone, calls to be returned. Haley, half an hour ago, saying she was free after court on Friday and delighted to accept his offer for a cocktail in lieu of the dry-cleaning bill. He hoped she wouldn't expect dinner as well, payday wasn't until the end of the month. She seemed totally forgiving, but there was something about her–he couldn't pin it down–that made him uncomfortable. An earthiness, a forwardness. Close up, she smelled of jasmine.

“Mr. Jobson,” read another Post-it, “will be at this number until 5:30.” He racked his brain. Right, Clearihue's lawyer at the Vogel trial. Wentworth had left him a message.

Jobson picked up right away. “Mr. Chance? Glad we could catch up to each other. I take it you're acting for Mr. Vogel?”

“Well, yes, I am.”

“That's a relief, I was afraid he'd be without counsel.” That sounded sincere, but Wentworth was on guard. “I have instructions to talk.” Wentworth blinked. That was code for a settlement
offer. “We'd like to close the book on this thing now that Mr. Clearihue has passed on.”

Wentworth almost dropped the phone. “He
what?
”

“The Clearihue family hasn't issued any statements, so it wasn't generally known that he'd been in a coma since the accident.”

Wentworth confessed he was in the dark. The accident, Jobson said, occurred while Clearihue was checking out some timber properties in the Borneo rain forest. Sadly, he wasn't wearing a helmet when a falling mahogany tree clipped his skull.

Jobson wasn't one to hedge about, he was offering to rescind the entire deal, return the title to Vogel. Each side to pay their own costs.

Wentworth said he'd get back to him. He was too dazed to work this out right now, but he guessed Clearihue's estate didn't want the expense of a new trial, especially since they'd lost their main witness.

“We'll hear from you then, Mr. Chance.”

“Fine, um, just a sec. Exactly when was this accident?”

“Let me check…Yes, just over four months ago, the first weekend of October.”

Cross Clearcut Todd off the list. Wentworth chucked the eight-hundred-page transcript; it hit the floor with a satisfying whump.

The boss seemed to take it in stride. “Felled by a tree, you say? Poor fellow, a taste of Ceres's revenge. ‘In solemn lays, exalt your rural queen's immortal praise.'”

“That's Virgil.”

“Very good.”

They were bent into the wind-driven rain, walking to the parking lot. “You used that line in the Northwest Produce conspiracy.”

“I did?”

Wentworth didn't want to seem smug, but he knew more about the boss than the boss did. He was enjoying a little uptick in his spirits. Magically, thanks to a mahogany tree, he'd just become a hero to Vogel and his three beautiful granddaughters.

He sought Arthur's advice about the settlement. “Hold out for thirty thousand in costs in lieu of punitive damages. That will amply pay your bill.” Thirty thousand! Wentworth wouldn't have the gall to dicker that high, he wasn't skilled in the art. The partners were always on him about his low billings.

They climbed into the Chrysler, Wentworth at the wheel. It wasn't until Arthur directed him toward West Shaughnessy that he mustered courage to ask exactly where they were going.

“To see my oldest and most valued client.”

“Faloon. The Owl.”

“You know that too.”

They passed by grand gated properties hidden by tall cedar hedges; the people around here had the kind of money you don't need to show off. Arthur pointed to a driveway, and after he announced himself at the intercom, the gate swung open to receive them. The house looked like a replica of a small English castle, block and stone, with towers.

As he parked under cover by the entranceway, a short, swarthy man came out, arms spread wide, a face-cracking grin. Faloon. Wentworth had read about him; he used to be the world number three jewel thief. They'd never got him for his last caper, in Cannes, a rumoured fortune in uncut African diamonds.

He gave Arthur a bear hug and Wentworth a vigorous handshake. “Your headman here must've got me off a hundred times.”

“Well, actually thirteen wins and two losses, but it's the record for most acquittals for a single client.”

“What's this guy, your personal encyclopedia?” Faloon led them through a palatial entrance hall into a parlour about ten times bigger than Wentworth's flat, done in an Arabic style, colourful
rugs and carpets, patterned floor cushions, settees, ottomans.

“Claudette's in the ballroom with her tango class, but she left some appetizers.” Cheese, grapes, sliced oranges, pita bread, miniature sausages, a feast. Wentworth was famished.

“Mr. Beauchamp don't partake, but I got beer, wine, or hard, or I got jake, regular or decapitated.” Wentworth took the regular to help him stay awake. “Put some of them canapés away, Stretch, you look like you been working eighth oar on a slave ship.”

Wentworth silently concurred. He sat a hand's reach from the tray, willing himself not to descend on it like a wolf. Arthur sat with a grunt of comfort on a plump settee. “I have a small favour to ask.”

“Already done.”

“I am keen to secure a certain item of jewellery, to wit, an opal ring likely hidden by an insane lawyer in a second-floor suite of Hollyburn Hall in West Vancouver.”

“Don't know the joint.”

“Haute bourgeoisie hospice for junkies. Overstaffed, but they don't lock the doors.”

“I can do it in my sleep.”

“You might check for any non-prescription drugs while you're at it. In recompense, I can offer a one-third reduction in my next fee.”

“You're not gonna see the Owl professionally again. I ain't into free trade no more, I've given up the game. This time I mean it.”

“I'm sure you do.”

After dropping Arthur off for dinner at his club, Wentworth found his way to Fishermen's Wharf, on the docks of False Creek. The rain had lessened, so he wandered around the slips for a while, early for his appointment with Minette.

Several years ago, when he'd beat her first case, she'd offered him a treat–which of course he declined, though it prompted many torrid imaginings. They'd carried on as friends in a non–sexually threatening way. She still used him, the odd bylaw complaint, a threatened nuisance action by neighbours. After Naught's death, the police tried to shut her down, but Wentworth got her business licence back. She actually did know how to massage, had a bodywork certificate, but her sideline was more lucrative, with maybe three dozen regulars, well-to-do professionals, business persons.

Here was her boathouse, two storeys on a sturdy, timbered raft, sandwiched between a sloop and a yawl. This was the gangplank on which Naught had bumped into Johal.

Minette swept out to greet him in style, a cocktail dress, dark eye shadow and hot red lips, prepped for work–they liked to watch her undress, she'd told him. She pecked him on the cheek. “Still a virgin, honey?”

He didn't want to admit that for all practical purposes he was, though technically not if you count a few strained episodes with his landlord's tough-talking daughter, who used to barge into his room. That was two years ago, before she joined Officers Training. Then there was his teenage sweetheart, she'd finally let him do it, after about his fiftieth try, in the back seat of her dad's Impala. That led, a few days later, to a bizarre quarrel; she claimed she'd been saving her virginity for someone special. No wonder sex scares the pants off him. It's become a neurotic thing.

Minette led him to the second floor, a stylish boudoir with Matisse and Modigliani nudes, a massage table for those who wanted to pretend that's what they came for, vials of scented oil, sex toys, an array of quality condoms, a bed turned up.