Kill All the Judges (6 page)

“Your dad wants to clear the decks so he can take you skiing at Christmas.”

“Cool. Thanks.”

“Told me to give you his love, and he'll call later.”

“Thanks.”

“Okay, let's give that computer a rest. Why don't you give Lavinia a hand in the corral?”

Arthur had struck the right note. Nick closed his laptop. He'd taken a fancy to Lavinia, who teased him. Lavinia was twenty-three, a woofer from Estonia, a pretty blonde with an earthy directness. She and three agonizingly polite Japanese bunked in the former farmhouse of the former neighbour, Margaret Blake, just behind the apple orchard.

They found Lavinia carrying pails of feed for the cow and goats. She set them down, examined Nick critically. “You cute guy. How old you?”

“Almost fifteen.”

That was varnish, he was born in July.

She squeezed his biceps. “We make you bigger muscles. Come. After, we will fixing fence.”

Nick grabbed the heavy pails. Clearly, he preferred her company to that of old gramps. Arthur was grateful to leave him in her charge while he dealt with the headache of Cudworth Brown, who was clogging Arthur's answering machine. Brian Pomeroy was not returning calls, and no one, even his partners, seemed to know where he was.

Arthur had been too rash in flipping Cud off to Pomeroy. He wasn't Arthur's first choice, involved as he was in the aftermath of a devastating divorce, but several of the best had been unavailable, and he didn't dare deliver up Cud to an incompetent. Pomeroy had free time, and the case intrigued him. Arthur rationalized: there was nothing like a juicy murder to help a lawyer escape his marital troubles. He'd learned that during his own soul-destroying first marriage.

Brian had seemed fine the last time Arthur phoned, a few weeks ago. “I'm on top of it, maestro. Looks like a duck shoot.”

Arthur went into the house to shower, shave, and put on a suit, pausing to try Brian's cell number again. This time he answered. “You have reached the Speech Defect Centre. Please garble your message after the tone.”

“Why are you being impossible to reach, Brian?”

“I got into the worst shitstorm of my life last night. They just gave my Nokia back.” A tired voice, hoarse, as if from shouting.

“Dare I ask where you are?”

“Under RCMP escort. I'm just out of the tank. I'm waiting for court.”

Finally, here was the proof Arthur hadn't wanted to hear, proof that Brian wasn't holding it together. “What's the charge?”

“Causing a disturbance. Caroline wouldn't answer the door. I woke up the neighbours. Don't tell my partners, I'll deal with it. As to other matters of moment, yes, I did explore the matter of manslaughter with the loudmouth you foisted on me. If he hadn't made a theatrical show of indignation by stalking from my office, he might have learned that Astrid Leich, former stage performer, honourary patron of several worthy charities, and current chair of the North Shore Arts Council, having been awakened by a noise, slipped out to her balcony in time to see the accused pitch Justice Whynet-Moir onto the rocks of doom.”

“You are not making this up?”

“If you chance upon Cuddles, tell him he might want to come back and grovel. Tell him I'm off the case if he acts up again. The only reason I'm taking this on is to show the world what a complete prick Whynet-Moir was. Got to go, my name is being called.”

Arthur headed for the shower. This was another ticklish matter, Pomeroy's antipathy to Judge Whynet-Moir. Overeager to offload the file, Arthur hadn't borne in mind that Whynet-Moir had presided over the Pomeroy divorce. Pomeroy had run around afterwards calling curses down on the judge's head, alleging he'd been making eyes at Caroline all through the trial, that she was flirting back.

But despite last night's bizarre lapse, despite a doubtless majestic hangover, the fellow seemed sufficiently on his game. Arthur truly wanted to believe that.

Astrid Leich…he'd seen her a few times on stage. A touch overexpressive, some ham in her. There had been nothing in the
press about her role as witness. She saw the deed in the dark, from across an inlet? Identification issues can be very tricky in court–this case was not the duck shoot Pomeroy boasted it would be. But if there was ever an expert on the identification defence it was Pomeroy, who famously defended a hothead charged with assassinating the visiting president of one of those gang-ridden Asian republics of the former U.S.S.R.

Arthur found it hard to see Cud Brown doing this. A ruffian, yes, and a scoundrel, true, but a murderer, doubtful. What motive could he have had? He'd been sitting pretty, enjoying his small fame, enjoying the literary life, library readings, CBC interviews, the circuit of writers' festivals.

Arthur had no firm idea why he so disliked the local literary luminary. It wasn't because he smoked cigars, or drank too much, or seduced countless women with his weary beatnik shtick. Maybe it was his undeserved success. His new collection,
Karmageddon
, was, impossibly, shortlisted for the Governor General's Award. The fellow was a sham, a poetaster, his verses self-indulgent and profane.

But was there a darker, hidden reason for his antipathy?
I hope it's not because I spent two weeks up a tree with your lady.
That comment rankled, and was the more hurtful for its taint of truth. Two years ago, in an anti-logging campaign, Cuddles and Margaret were chosen by lot to share a high platform on a fir tree. Cud lasted only thirteen days, but they were miserable days for Arthur. He embarrassed himself by being suspicious, flagellated himself with sordid, excessive, unworthy imaginings. He suspected he was neurotic that way, conditioned by his first wife, unfaithful Annabelle.

He had to smother his ire when Margaret joined the chorus urging him to take Cud's case. “Arthur, darling, I spent two weeks enduring his foul tongue and smelly cigars and smellier feet, and even
I
think you should defend him. Everyone on the
island expects you to. Otherwise, it'll look like you're punishing him for some reason.”

A reason she was too polite to define, or didn't understand. He didn't understand it himself, his pathetic jealousy. Call it a phobia, he was phobic about Cudworth Brown.

The leftovers from last week's court docket–Hamish McCoy,
inter alia
, were being heard today in the legion hall. Because the sky was clear, the sun warm, and the hall reached as easily by sea as by land, Arthur had persuaded Nick to enjoy a trip on the
Blunderer
, his canopy-topped outboard.

He put Nick behind the wheel for a while, and they kept to a leisurely ten knots while dolphins followed. “This is brilliant,” said Nick. He'd recovered from the disappointment of his father's cancelled visit, and, even better, was starting to tune in to country living. If all went well, maybe they could lollygag back, do a little fishing.

Nearing North Point, they could make out the charred stumps of posts on Breadloaf Hill, the remains of the community hall. Margaret had volunteered Arthur for a committee raising money for rebuilding. “It's not asking much, Arthur, it's something I'd normally do.” Too busy seeking a nomination for a by-election soon to be called, in Cowichan and the Islands. Her clunky vehicle of ambition, the Green Party–aptly named for its unripe adherents–had never elected anyone to anything. Arthur had given up trying to persuade Margaret that hers was a quixotic quest.

He took over the controls, swung around the North Point beacon into the crooked-finger bay where sat the mildewed legion hall. Cuddles must have seen him coming, because he was on the small-craft dock, motioning for Arthur to toss him a line. Nick asked to stay on board with his laptop, so Arthur put on his jacket
and tie, then went up the ramp, with Cud at his elbow, pestering him. “How can this Leich woman claim to see someone who wasn't there?”

“Cud, spare me the rhetoric. You've obviously talked to Brian Pomeroy. You know the worst. Be grateful he's still acting for you after you flounced out of his office.”

“Okay, I prostrate myself, I'm abject. What cake did Astrid Leich pop out of? Why wasn't I told about her? Who's behind this attempt to job me? The system, the courts, the prosecutors, the police? They need a scapegoat, they got to look like they're doing something, too many judges are being offed. They hire a retired actress to identify prime suspect Cudworth Brown in a lineup.”

“There was a lineup?” Arthur was startled.

“Yeah, I told Pomeroy. He said, don't worry, it's a formality, like fingerprinting.”

Arthur made for the back door, paused, took a breath. “Cud, my advice to you is this: compose yourself, repair your rupture with Pomeroy, and help him plan your defence. Astrid Leich will be a key witness.”

He entered, abandoning Cud. He was determined not to feel sorry for him. That was how wily defendants sucked you in, seduced you out of retirement. Here, in Branch 512 of the Canadian Legion, Arthur would sing his final swan song, the sentencing of Hamish McCoy.

Several regulars were there, looking miffed because the bar was roped off. Nelson Forbish again dominated the small press table, which tilted slightly every time he moved, causing the two young women at the other end to jiggle up and down as if on a teeter-totter. Absent was Constable Pound, licking his wounds, widely blamed for bringing combustibles into the community hall.

Hamish McCoy sat slouched, glaring at Kurt Zoller in his fetishistic life jacket. It would be a task reigning in the leprechaunish Newfie, who'd shown little appreciation after being merely slapped on the wrist for growing half a ton of potent pot. He'd
called Zoller a “dorty, stinking Nazi squealer” when they bumped into each other yesterday at the general store.

It was a quarter past two when judge, prosecutor, and court staff finally got themselves organized at tables. “Okay, order in court,” said Wilkie. “We're a little late starting, and we intend to catch the three-eleven ferry, so I want everyone apprised of that.” A stern look at Arthur and ever-smiling Mary, the prosecutor. “Okay, where were we?”

“Unsightly Premises Bylaw,” said Mary. “Robert Stonewell.”

Stoney wasn't within the room, and emissaries couldn't find him outside, a search that consumed several minutes. Judge Wilkie spent the time staring at the glowing Bud Lite wall clock.

“Okay, hold that one down,” he said. “Call the McCoy case.” Arthur and his client came forward. “Mr. Zoller, you were to meet with some locals to come up with a program of community service for Mr. McCoy.”

“Yes, sir. I have a list of recommendations.” He flourished a sheaf of papers. “May I start by reading the minutes of the advisory planning committee?”

“You may not.” His Honour hadn't reckoned on having to deal with a master of circumlocution.

“The problem is, Your Worship, this matter was debated last night with a lot of interesting views going back and forth–”

“Mr. Zoller, we have a ferry to catch. I just want your recommendation.”

“Certainly, Your Worship, but I promised I would mention the minority report, which calls for defendant to do a hundred hours of beach cleanup–”

Wilkie interrupted again. “Thank you. What did your group finally decide?”

Zoller loosened his yellow life jacket, took a breath, began again. “Okay, well, there's one main project and a couple of things we'd like to add. Mrs. Hilda Kneaston, who lives across from the defendant on Potters Pond, wants you to order him to
wear clothes in the summer while he's out in his yard, at least shorts or a swimsuit–”

Wilkie was battling to restrain himself. “Mr. Zoller, how long does it take to drive to the ferry?”

“Ten minutes.”

“Okay. And it leaves in twenty-five minutes. When is the
next
ferry?”

“That would be the nine-forty-five tonight, but it's usually late.”

“Understand this, Zoller, my wife and I have a dinner engagement tonight. Be it on your head.”

“Yes, sir, I'll get right to the substance.” Zoller began a rambling irrelevancy about how tourism was the mainstay of the island economy, and how the island's many cultural offerings should be on better display–”

“Get to the point!”

Before Zoller could do so, Stoney charged into the room. “Sorry, Your Honour, my car broke down.”

Wilkie glanced anxiously at the clock, scrambled through his papers. “Stonewell. Unsightly premises. Do you want an adjournment?”

Stoney must have sensed profit in saying no. “Those cars are my babies. Most of them were there before there was even a bylaw. I'm ready for trial.”

“Not guilty,” Wilkie said.

“What?”

“Not guilty! I find you not guilty! And you, Zoller, sum up in no more than six words, because we have to get to the damn
ferry
!”

“That's what I'm leading up to, the ferry. The majority vote last night was for the idea of a statue at the ferry dock, maybe on the hill overlooking Ferryboat Bay, at least fifteen feet tall, like the ones in the front of the defendant's house with wings on them, and in time for tourist season this spring. And we could hang a sign on it to inform visitors of the island's many arts and crafts–”