Old City Hall (16 page)

Parish caught his eye and flashed him a smile. Under the circumstances, she seemed remarkably relaxed.

“Your Honor,” the clerk announced in a ghostly voice when they arrived at the judge’s doorway, “Ms. Parish and Mr. Fernandez.”

Summers’s chambers were part legal library, part hockey museum, but mostly a shrine to all things naval. Almost every inch of empty wall space was filled with hand-drawn sketches of battleships. A bookshelf was adorned with odd-shaped bottles, tiny sailboats captured inside. On the credenza behind him was a set of framed photos, most of them showing Summers on sailboats with different members of his family. There was one large photo on his desk of him and his daughter, Jo. His arm was around her shoulders, her magnificent hair was down—something Fernandez had never seen before. They were holding a championship cup between them. In the background were white sails and blue sky.

The nautical motif was occasionally interspersed with photos of Summers in blue or white hockey jerseys, posing with well-known players from the Toronto Maple Leafs. In the corner was a collection of hockey sticks, apparently signed by members of the team. A glass frame held an old hockey sweater with a big crest that said
CORNELL
, with a large
C
in the top left corner.

“What the hell’s going on?” Summers demanded, ripping his gown off and throwing it onto a side chair. He glared at Parish. Fernandez looked at her too.

She took a breath and slowly exhaled. “What’s happening, Your Honor, is that I’m acting on my client’s instructions,” she said, speaking in measured tones. “He’s consenting to his detention.”

Technically, of course, Parish was bound to do what her client told her, and she wasn’t allowed to discuss their conversations with anyone. But that didn’t satisfy an angry judge.

“So I just heard.” Summers sat down and picked up a silver letter opener, which he twirled between his fingers. Fernandez could see that it was engraved with some initials, worn down and hard to read. Probably a family heirloom. “Ms. Parish, if ‘your client’ was going to ‘consent to his detention,’ why did we just go through that whole charade this morning?”

He thwacked the letter opener into his palm. It looked like very fine silver, Fernandez thought.

“And why did you file this stack of material?” he said, stabbing at her thick legal brief with the letter opener. “I was up all night reading this stuff.”

Fernandez picked a point on Summers’s desk and stared at it. It was best to be a humble winner.

“I’m bound by my client’s instructions,” Parish said. From her tone, it was clear that she wasn’t going to say anything else. She shrugged. Fernandez had to admit that she had guts.

Summers seemed to sense her resolve. He turned his gaze on Fernandez, probing for weakness.

“Mr. Fernandez, I know you’ve got these women’s groups tearing up your backside to make an example of Brace. And Chief Charlton
wants to pad his police budget. Listen: I read all your materials and those statistics.” Summers yanked out a large brief and turned to a page he’d marked with a yellow sticky tab.

“Four out of five women report they are abused by men. Give me a break.”

He reached behind him and pulled out a folder. “I checked the background of these statistics of yours. The study they’re based on was done in 1993, and abuse is defined as—wait, here it is—‘The three largest contributors to the eighty percent number were, Did he do something to spite you? Did he insult you? and Did he accuse you of having an affair?’” Summers tossed his folder on his desk. “Look, I’m no fan of violence against women, or men or anyone. But come on. Let’s not trivialize things.”

“Yes, Your Honor, but the heart of my submissions was—,” Fernandez said, concentrating on keeping his voice even.

“Look,” Summers said. “The simple statistical fact is that a man convicted of murdering a spouse in a crime of passion is ten times less likely to re-offend than a simple shoplifter. Everyone who works in these courts knows that. Everyone except the bloody press.”

Before Fernandez could get a word in, Summers turned, like a referee at a tennis match, to take in Parish. But now his face had softened. He’d finished playing bad judge; now he was playing good judge.

“Nancy, you hear about that game last weekend?” he asked. “Cornell whooped Colgate four to one.”

Parish smiled back. Fernandez had heard she was a hockey player, but he hadn’t known she’d gone to college in the States.

“That was the men’s team, Your Honor,” she said. “Let’s see what happens when the women play next weekend.”

“Touché,” Summers said. He turned back to Fernandez and shrugged. “Excuse us, Mr. Fernandez. Old school rivalries.” He returned to Parish. “You see that Leafs game a few nights ago? I was with the chief justice. Great win. Maybe they’ve turned the corner.”

Parish shook her head emphatically. “Too many older players on the team,” she said. “They’re going to get tired.”

As tempted as he might have been to add his two cents’ worth to the conversation, Fernandez knew that anything he said about hockey would sound ridiculous. Besides, Summers didn’t even consider that he might have an opinion on the subject.

“Listen,” Summers said, sitting back and spreading his arms out, as if to envelop them in his embrace. “We’re in chambers. You’re both excellent counsel. We can speak candidly about this matter, can’t we? Ship to shore?”

Fernandez saw the letter opener flash in the judge’s hand. A big grin unfurled on his ruddy face. It wasn’t really a question.

“Certainly, Your Honor,” Fernandez said.

“Of course,” Parish chimed in.

“Two brilliant young lawyers. A case like this puts the whole judicial system on trial. Every move you two make will be scrutinized.”

Summers looked back at Parish. “Nancy, if you sat down with the Crown’s office, I’m sure something could be worked out. The man’s sixty-three years old, after all. There must be a way to get him bail. Doesn’t belong in the brig.”

Fernandez gripped the sides of his chair. “Young lawyers,” “Crown’s office.” Summers was speaking in code, and his message was very clear. Classic judicial carrot and stick. The carrot: He expected Fernandez to grovel a bit. To say, “in light of Your Honor’s helpful comments,” he’d confer with his colleagues and reconsider the Crown’s position. To try to get on his good side. The stick: If Fernandez didn’t find a way to get Brace out on bail, then Summers would be very pissed off, since he thought that was the appropriate result.

If only Summers knew that there was nothing I wanted more than to see Kevin Brace out on bail, Fernandez thought, his head spinning with the sudden turn of events that had left his carefully laid plans in tatters.

“It won’t be necessary for Mr. Fernandez to reconsider his position,” Parish said, standing up. “I’ll let him know if my instructions change. Thank you very much, Your Honor.” She extended her arm to shake Summers’s hand. Slightly bewildered, the judge stood and thrust out his hand. Seconds later, she was out the door.

Finding himself suddenly alone with the judge, Fernandez rose awkwardly. He proffered a quick handshake and hustled out.

Parish was already far down the hallway, well ahead of him. Further ahead than she’ll ever know, Fernandez thought as he quickened his pace to catch up with her.

A
ri Greene drove slowly up the quiet residential street. Almost every house was bedecked with Christmas lights, either on trees in the yards or in the front windows. They were small, mostly boxy little two-story homes, but every block or two, one had been knocked down to make way for new so-called monster homes, which inevitably featured garish stonework and overly wide driveways filled with basketball nets and equally oversize cars. Totally out of scale with their neighbors, the houses stood out like mismatched pieces on a chessboard.

A crossing guard dressed in a full-length bright orange raincoat was making his way across the street, his lunchtime work with the children going back to school finished.

It felt nice to be in an old-fashioned neighborhood—one of the things Greene liked the most about the city. When he was a kid, he used to sit in the front window of his family’s little bungalow and wait for his dad to come home from the shop. Every day it was the same. His father would walk slowly up the street, his shoulders slumped from a long day. There was a stout birch tree on their small front lawn, and no matter what time he came home, his father would stop in front of the tree, put his hand on it, and stand still for a long moment. His daily ritual. Then he’d come inside.

One morning when he was sick at home with the chicken pox, Greene asked his father, “Daddy, why do you stop at the tree every day before you come inside?”

His father smiled like a man who’d been caught with a little secret.

“Before I come in to my family,” his father said, “I want to leave all my problems outside. So I put them on the tree.”

Now he understood. “Is that why the tree’s so small, Daddy?”

“Maybe,” his father said. “And that’s why you’re going to be so big and strong.”

When Greene hit the six-foot mark in grade ten, it occurred to him that his father’s prediction had worked.

He drove past number 37, did a U-turn, and took a moment to study the house from across the street. It was a two-story bungalow with leaded-glass Tudor windows. A slightly battered Honda was parked in the narrow driveway, and behind it a van with the words
LEASIDE PLUMBING
written in bold script on its side.

Good, Greene thought as he got out of his car. Looks like she’s home. He walked casually up the front walk and rang the bell. Off to the right was a small wooden door that had been nailed shut. That would have been the milk box, a relic from a gentler time.

Footsteps approached rapidly and the door was flung open. A tall brunette woman with deep brown eyes, just like her father’s, stood in the door. She wore an oversize sweatshirt, with the words
ROOTS CANADA
prominently displayed, and a pair of stretch yoga pants over her protruding belly. He could hear the sound of a hammer banging on pipes.

“You the electrician?” she said, peering behind Greene, looking for his van.

“Afraid not, Ms. Brace,” Greene said. He had his badge in his hand, and he discreetly showed it to her. “Detective Ari Greene, Toronto Homicide. Could I speak with you for a few moments?”

Her face fell in a deep frown. “I need the electrician in the next hour,” she said. “Do you know how hard it is to get a plumber the week before Christmas?”

“Close to impossible, I imagine,” Greene said.

“Well, I’ve got one working downstairs. But now I need the electrician to hook up the power. They call it nesting, Detective. First child, and I’m renovating the basement. Due in a month, and my husband
just
had
to go with his buddies on their annual ski trip to Mont Tremblant. And oh, there’s the little matter that my father is in jail, just before his first grandchild’s about to be born. So sure, I’ve got loads of time to speak to you.”

Greene smiled. Said nothing. Always watch what witnesses do, not what they say. Or even better, what they don’t do. Despite the chaos in her life, Amanda Brace had not slammed the door in his face. He thought of the call to her from the Don made on Brace’s behalf. How her father had refused to talk to her. Greene was pretty sure she was as eager to ask him questions as he was to interview her.

“Come on in for a minute,” she said finally, as if her own good breeding won out over all competing emotions. “I made some coffee for all the trades. Do you want some?”

“No thanks,” Greene said.

“I better check that badge again,” she said. “A cop who refuses free coffee.”

Greene smiled and motioned to the small living room to the left of the hall. “Can we sit and talk in here?”

“Sure,” she said, closing the door behind him. The small house was remarkably neat. He noticed a framed picture over the mantel—a cover from a professional-looking corporate magazine. Amanda Brace was in front of a group of stylish-looking young people, all wearing shirts with various
ROOTS
logos on them. In the background there were rows of perfectly stacked boxes and binders. A headline read
ALL IN ORDER
and the subtitle said
AMANDA BRACE AND HER TEAM KEEP ROOTS ON TRACK
.

Brace took a seat against the far wall, well positioned to be able to look out the little bay window for the renegade electrician. Greene took the seat facing her.

“I should tell you, Detective,” she said, tying her hair back, “I already spoke to my father’s lawyer. She sent me to her partner, Ted DiPaulo, who gave me what he called independent legal advice. Wouldn’t charge me for his time. Let’s be blunt. I don’t have to talk to you at all, do I?”

Greene nodded. “That’s true.”

“I can just tell you to get lost, and that’s the end of it.”

“You can tell me to get lost,” he said.

She seemed to hesitate for a minute. “Look, it’s an open secret that I hated my stepmother. I was nine when she—” Brace took her eyes off Greene and looked hopefully over his shoulder at the street. Greene heard a car pass slowly.

“I did a word jumble in grade four and called her my ‘pest’ mother. They made me see the school psychologist and all that. It was nineteen years ago. All I can tell you is that my dad doesn’t have a violent bone in his body. Never. You want to make him out to be this horrible, nasty man. Well, that’s not him.”

Greene nodded.

“That’s all I wanted to say. Okay?”

Greene said nothing. She didn’t make any move to escort him out. He heard another car approach and slow down in front of the house.

“And you want to know my whereabouts on Sunday night and Monday morning, I imagine.”

Greene nodded again. Sometimes the best question was just silence.

“You know, it’s funny. I had ‘Kill Katherine’ on my to-do list, but I just didn’t get to it. Instead I was home patching the basement walls.”

“When’s the last time you saw your dad?” Greene asked.

“Our weekly dinner, like always,” she said, lifting herself a bit out of her seat. “It’s the electrician. Thank my raging hormones.”