Lost Girls (40 page)

He tosses two eight-by-tens of Ashley and Krystal over the desk at me and they surf across the other papers into my hands.

''Point being?''

''Just look.''

So I do. And it's their faces again, the same ones I've stared at for what is now probably an accumulation of several waking days.

Look at you look at me.

This is what weeks spent alone in a room full of pictures will teach you. That in time, every image turns into a kind of reflection. There, in the watery surface of the photographic finish. That's me. The face of the watcher caught watching himself.

All along, these pictures have been looking out from morning newspapers, TV screens, police bulletin boards, and from above 1-800 numbers on milk cartons to see the same thing they saw every day when they were alive. Always there out of the corner of their eyes as they cracked a Popsicle in half over the rim of the corner store garbage can or walked through town with heads thrown back in sugar-high laughter. Always the faces of men, lips held even and cheeks sucked tight in the hope it might make them invisible. Watching the girls and wishing for them, for the return of their youth, for sunglasses. Believing they are too old and obviously normal to be suspected of bad thoughts or of doing harm only with their eyes, but never entirely believing any of this either.

''So?'' I break away, toss them back into Goodwin's lap.

''He killed those girls, Barth. And not for money or revenge or something you might think defensible given the context. He killed them because in his mind they were nothing more than those photos there. Because it's not murder if all you kill is an idea.''

''There's not anything--''

''I'm probably not as good a lawyer as you,'' he interrupts. ''But don't make arguments with me that you don't really believe. I'm good enough at this business to tell the difference.''

I allow him a second for this.

''I'm not asking you to withdraw because of what you think I believe,'' I eventually try again. ''I'm asking you to withdraw because you're going to lose.''

''And I can't do it, Barth. It's because I believe Tripp is a murderer. And I don't want to piss you off but I think you believe that, too, and that's part of why you want to get out of here so badly. But I don't want to question your motives. I just have to question my own. And I can't withdraw the charges against your client without, well,
dishonoring
the memory of those girls. I know that sounds icky or something to you, but it's how I feel. My reputation can go down the river, but I can't turn back now. I'm sorry.''

Goodwin lowers his chin so that it seamlessly joins his neck and he rocks a little in his chair, its squeaking the only sound in the room.

''I guess I never really imagined you'd do it. But I had to try. This living-out-of-a-suitcase thing can drive a man to desperation, you know?''

I try at a laugh, but Goodwin says nothing, just raises his head high enough to look at me with liquid pity in his eyes once more.

''Thanks again for the umbrella,'' I say, and leave him alone in his office, too small for a man of his size.

The first day with my new umbrella and it snows. A swirl of flakes that linger in the air as though in conversation before melting the instant they meet the earth. The sort of snow that often occurs at this time of year, a sign that winter is the true state for this country and that, in case anyone was wondering, it's on the way. It's pretty though, and preferable to the rain that instead of washing Murdoch clean has floated mud, candy wrappers, and dog shit out from their hiding places and onto the open sidewalks and streets. I take the umbrella anyway for the walk up to the courthouse and clip its metal tip over the concrete with every step, the snow hanging off my eyelashes or turning to teary droplets as it lands on my cheeks.

As I reach the top of the incline I look up and across William Street to see the courthouse lawn more agitated with cameramen and clipboard holders than usual. As one of them notices my approach a scrum forms to block my way, microphones sticking out from the tight collection of bodies like antennae twitching for any sign of life.

''Barth! Hey, Barth! What do you have to say in response to McConnell's comments of yesterday?'' The TV woman's voice, barking out above the grumbled inquiries of the others.

''I don't believe we've been introduced.''

''Alison Gregg, CBJT-TV Toronto. But you can call me Ali,'' she says, and the men keep quiet, sensing she's got a better chance of getting somewhere.

''Good morning, Ali. Now, I must admit I haven't read the papers this morning. Nor have I watched any television of late, so I really don't know what you're talking about.''

''After court yesterday McConnell came out here to tell us he was considering legal action against you for suggesting that he was as likely to have committed the murders as Tripp, and that you lied in your opening submissions when you said that you'd had a cooperative interview with him before the trial. He called you a
liar,
Barth. Any response?''

No
. That's what I should say.
No comment today, ladies
and gentlemen. Now, if you'd kindly step aside
. This is how Bert would have me handle such a situation, how I know it should be handled myself. After all, there really isn't anything to respond to: the lawsuit threat was spurious, the rest of it nothing more than McConnell's usual stage-stealing rant. But something in the sight of the reporters' faces, hungry and expectant, moves in me a desire to speak. No, that's not quite it either. It's not them at all, I can hardly even see their faces amid all the equipment and huddled parkas. It's coming from me. Words seething up to find their way to the outside. And when they reach the air each of them hangs there alone for a second before drifting away into the charcoal sky.

''You've got the wrong guy,'' I say. ''I don't answer questions, I ask them. Raise doubts. Responses are for those who have an
interest
in the proceedings, not defense lawyers.''

''C'mon, Barth. Doesn't it bother you to hear this stuff? Comments that damage your professional reputation?''

''It seems you're still a little confused, Ali. My professional reputation is not based on being
nice
. Moral indifference is my talent. And right now Mr. Tripp is paying my bills.''

She pauses for a moment, surprised to be getting somewhere. Although it's probably too late already I know I should make a run for it now. But instead I remain fixed at the center of their tight circle, run my tongue over chapped lips, ready to surprise myself with more.

''You sound like a mercenary,'' she says finally.

''No, like an actor. Because all of this is theater. That's why you're here, isn't it?''

''We're here to report what's happening. People have a right to know.''

''People have the right to be occasionally horrified. What your audience loves most is to shake their heads, tell each other how the world is going to hell, pass on all the rumored details of the worst crimes of the day before finally declaring they can't listen to another word about it, it's all too awful, why does the news always have to be
bad
news? Then they compare notes about the game last night --when are they going to trade that Swedish bum on defense?--or did you see the inspirational story on
Oprah
about the kid with the rare disease that left him looking like an eighty-year-old dwarf, and won't a donor please come forward so we can suck out their bone marrow for a one-in-a-million chance for a cure? It's all harmless gossip. There'll be trivia-game questions. Ten points if you remember either of the names of the two dead girls up in northern Ontario a couple years back, and a bonus of twenty if you get them both. So maybe the public has a right to know, Ali. Or maybe all
this
''--I swing my arm around to take in the semicircle of furry microphones and black-eyed cameras--''is nothing but slightly shameful family entertainment.''

I take a step forward but nobody moves to let me pass. The TV woman pulls a strand of hair from her mouth, clears her throat.

''One more thing,'' she says. ''If Tripp didn't do it, what do you think happened to those girls?''

The sky above dimpled with snow, flakes of a size that make a flat thump upon impact with shoulders and boots. We're statues gathering drifts on extended limbs, faces hidden to all those who stand outside the circle.

''You know something?'' I start, pull myself back. ''I'm really very tired now, Ali, and the day hasn't even started yet. So if you could all please step aside, I've got to get back to work.''

And they do step aside. Microphones retracted, notebooks drawn against chests, mouths held shut. I move through them and hear only my own footsteps and the rattle of runny noses. But as I scuff up the slick courthouse steps I can't help but look back. Air taken in, warmed, and released in irregular cycles, rising above them like white smoke lifting from dying embers.

''Excuse me! Barth! Can I just clarify something?''

It's Ali Gregg's voice again, its practiced toughness gone and replaced by the higher pitch of confusion.

''Are you trying to tell us that you think Tripp did it? That you believe your own client is guilty?''

I should say something to that, I know. Tell them of course not, not at all, I never meant to suggest anything of the kind, where'd you get that idea? But instead I slip inside and let the heavy door close behind me, pretending not to hear.

That evening I return to the Empire Hotel with rivulets of meltwater from the morning's snow trickling over my shoes. Black shoes now brown from the mud I had to plug through to go from the courthouse back door, behind the library, and down a backyard lane to avoid the pack of reporters waiting for me out front. There's now $250 in ruined Italian leather on my feet but it's well worth not having to look again into the hollow faces of the press, open mouthed and circling in like a pack of wild things that feed upon the flesh of the living along with the dead.

But of course it's already too late. My morning's candid performance may have stunned them all for a second, but they must have soon collected themselves to beam back the image of counsel for the defense in the Important Murder Trial of the Week having what appears to be some kind of low-grade nervous breakdown on the front steps of the court. Not terribly momentous as
news,
perhaps, but undoubtedly close to the top of the something-you-just -don't-see-everyday list. So when I finally duck into the hotel's front door I'm not surprised to immediately hear the concierge's voice come out at me from the murk of the lobby.

''It's a lucky thing I caught you there, Mr. Crane, 'cos I've got a wad of messages from your lawyer friends down in Toronto as thick as my thumb!''

I wait for my eyes to adjust so that I can scuff over and take the messages from his hand. A wad as thick as two thumbs, by the feel of it.

''Thank you. Another thing. I was just wondering, does that young woman who dances in the Lord Byron-- the one with the longish blond hair--is she still a guest here?''

''You mean the
young
young one?''

''Yes.''

''Well, she weren't
ever
a guest here.''

There's a pause, and I'm thankful that the darkness prevents me from seeing the concierge's puzzled face or the terrible map of veins etched into the top of his head.

''Only danced the one night. Came in here saying she'd never done it before and wanted to give it a shot. Must not have liked it much.''

''I see. Well, thanks anyway.''

''A damn shame, though,'' I hear him say as I make my way to the top of the stairs. ''We don't get 'em that young or pretty up here every day. No, sir, we have to live with whatever hand-me-downs we can get, so to speak.''

All of the messages have come from either Graham or Bert and all are marked URGENT. I can hear Graham holding the concierge's hand through the message-taking (''Can you please make sure that Bartholomew gets this,
and
that he understands it's urgent. Now, can I help you with the spelling of any of that?'') or Bert's more direct approach (''Just get him to fucking call, all right, Einstein?''). The offices of Lie, Get 'Em Off & Associate must be having one of those days marbled with tension, office doors continually swinging open and slamming shut, and before it's all over one of the secretaries bursting into tears.

Despite all this I decide not to call back. It's not a fear of having my employers tear a wide strip off me, nor is it humiliation for having done a profoundly unwise thing. I just don't have the energy to pull the cellular out of my bag, turn it on, and punch in the numbers.

Then the bedside phone rings.

In one spasm I pull the cord out of the wall and roll onto my back on the bed. And just when I start to think that the time has finally arrived to figure out the larger significance of recent events and make some serious decisions as to what to do next, sleep comes.

When I wake it's with the suddenness with which one responds to a noise, but the cool air of the room is silent. The night has collected again outside the windows, and the wind that sways the streetlight sends a shiver down from the back of my head, although I'm still fully dressed in my suit on top of the sheets. A quarter past three and there's no good reason to get up now, but I know that sleep won't return for me tonight.