The Guilty (17 page)

“No sweat. I’ll just call ’em and get ’em to straighten out their stories.”

“No, that’s not what I meant.”

“Talk to them again, they’ll have all their answers right. The jury’ll believe them, you’ll see.”

Bratt felt frustrated with where this conversation was headed. He had no doubt that both witnesses were lying about being with Small on the night of the shooting. It wasn’t enough for them to just “straighten out their stories” because then
he
would still know how dishonest they really were, even if the jury somehow believed them. And it was his knowing that made all the difference in the world, whether Small understood this or not. More than anything, he just wanted Parker and Clayton to disappear from view, so he could start fresh with new witnesses. As for where Small got those other witnesses, that was a problem in itself. But it wasn’t Bratt’s problem.

“You just don’t get it, do you,” he said, beginning to feel irritated

Small jumped up and slammed the glass partition with his open hand. “No,
you
don’t get it! I was in the park that night! Ask anybody an’ they’ll tell you. I didn’t go to no damn apartment in Burgundy, an’ I didn’t shoot no one! So don’t tell me I don’t get it! It’s
my
ass sittin’ in a fuckin’ jail-cell for the past eight months an’ I’m looking for someone who’s going to get me out! Do
you
get
that
?”

Bratt said nothing, trying to keep his cool. At the same time he wondered about Small’s dramatic glass-slamming routine, which he had just seen for the second time in as many meetings. He thought that Small, in his own way, might be as good a performer as he was.

“Why don’t you just sit back down and chill, Marlon,” Bratt said, folding his arms and waiting for Small to take his seat. As he watched Small make a show of regaining his composure, Bratt found himself questioning his own motivations. Was he more concerned that the witnesses might lie on the stand or that they might get caught in those lies, despite Small’s certainty that they could get away with it? Winning this case was going to be hard enough and, if Madsen were to be believed, winning this case had just become the most important thing in Bratt’s life.

“It happens to be my job to get your ass out of that jail cell,” he said, “and it’s a job I usually do pretty well. But it’s not going to happen just because you say everyone knows you were in the park that night, not when the only two witnesses you give me are liars and everyone who hears them will know it the moment they open their mouths.”

Bratt paused to clear his throat. He pulled at a frayed string that had once held a button to his silk shirtsleeve and wondered where he had lost the button and why he hadn’t noticed its absence until now. Small sat quietly, waiting for him to go on with his little speech, his dislike for his attorney obvious in his face.

A quick glance by Bratt to his side showed him that Kouri was also watching him and he knew
he had to choose his words carefully. He was aware that there was a fine line between telling his client he needed better witnesses and asking for better liars. Over the years he had convinced himself that he had never knowingly crossed that line, although his definition of “knowingly” had gotten narrower with the passage of time and the growing imperative to win.

He hated Small for making him walk that line again, and he hated himself for closing his eyes as he gingerly took the first steps. But what choice did he have? The need to win guided what he had to say.  

“You have to understand that I don’t do this job for you,” he said, “I do it because I like to win. It just so happens that when I win, you win. I couldn’t care less where you were that night, whether you shot those guys or not. That simply isn’t part of my job.”

From the corner of his eye Bratt saw Kouri’s body stiffen.
Leave me the hell alone,
he thought, directing the thought both at Kouri and at his own conscience.

“You couldn’t pay me enough to care,” he continued. “But you also can’t pay me enough to lie for you in court, nor to call witnesses that
I know
are going to perjure themselves, like your two buddies.”

He paused again, to see if there was any light of understanding in Small’s eyes. Almost, but not quite yet, so he went on.

“If you want a jury to believe you were in the park, then you can start by coming up with some
other
witnesses who can convince
me
first.” 

Small’s expression softened almost imperceptibly as he nodded, looking Bratt straight in the eyes, finally letting Bratt see what he was looking for.

“No problem, Mr. Bratt,” he spoke slowly. “I know what you want. I’ll get the word out right away. I know who else was with me that night. I’ll get you their names and phone numbers later this week.”

“I’m going to need them as fast as possible,” Bratt said, suddenly feeling like a junkie desperately waiting for his next fix. At the same time, he assiduously kept his eyes away from Kouri, who continued to sit motionless at his side.

“No problem, Mr. Bratt,” Small said again, and Bratt marveled at the tone of respect his client had suddenly begun using with him. “And no bullshitters this time.”

In the car later, driving with Kouri back to the office, Bratt did his best to look and act casual. He could feel Kouri’s eyes constantly on him, as if the junior lawyer were waiting for some sort of sign from on high, but he had no words of explanation or of wisdom to give him. He had said and done what was required in order to give them the best, if not the only, chance to win this case, mostly in the hope that it would be the last case he would ever have to plead. He had carefully chosen his words and could defend each one of them if he ever had to. How Small interpreted them and what he did about them was not his problem.

They parked in a lot a block away from the office, and trudged through the snow in silence. At one point Bratt’s foot slipped on some ice hidden under a thin layer of snow and he lost his balance. Instantly, Kouri reached out and grabbed his arm before he fell. At that moment their eyes met, and he saw that Kouri’s questions still lingered. Bratt mumbled his thanks and pulled his eyes and arm away, continuing along the frozen path.

He began to wish that Kouri would just ask what he was obviously dying to and get done with it. At least then he could defend himself and set the record straight. But he couldn’t broach the subject himself, because that would look like he was just trying to assuage his own guilty conscience.

Not much chance of that being the case
,
he told himself, and tried to push all thoughts of the subject out of his mind.

His appointment with Parent that afternoon was at 3:00 and he headed straight to the courthouse while Kouri went on up to their office. At five to the hour Bratt was standing in front of a receptionist as she advised Parent of his arrival before buzzing him in. He wondered what he was going to say when the prosecutor asked to see the names of the proposed alibi witnesses. “I think my client is interviewing actors for the roles as we speak,” was one possible answer, although perhaps dangerously close to the truth.

He walked through the maze of corridors of the Crown offices, following the numbered signs and arrows on the walls until he arrived at Parent’s office. As associate chief prosecutor for nearly twenty years Parent had a much larger office than most of the other Crown attorneys. Despite his family connections Parent had never accepted the judge’s robes that had been waved at him from time to time, preferring the moral certitude of his sworn oath to prosecute the hell out of every petty thief and jaywalker that had the misfortune to cross his path.

Bratt knocked lightly on the open door and stepped in. Parent sat behind his large melamine desk, on a standard-issue gray-cloth civil servant’s chair. Across from him and with
his back still to Bratt sat Sergeant-Detective Philippe St. Jean, and next to him, turning in her seat to face the door, was Nancy Morin.

Bratt stared at her from just inside the doorway, unsure how to act. Parent, to Bratt’s relief, broke the ice by speaking first.

“Hello, Robert. Come on in. You know Philippe St. Jean. And, of course, this is S-D Morin, whom you’ve become intimately familiar with recently, I believe.”

Bratt was stunned, suddenly certain that she had already revealed their affair. Nancy must have recognized the expression on his face, because she smiled at him reassuringly as she said to Parent, “After the past two months in court I’m sure he hoped it was the last he’d seen of me.”

“Nonsense,” said Parent. “How could any man get tired of the presence of such a lovely lady? Now, sit down, Robert, and please shut the door.”

The prosecutor pulled a yellow legal pad closer and pushed his thick glasses up higher on his long, thin nose, peering through them at Bratt.

“Well, Robert, I’ve been waiting expectantly for this moment ever since I heard you took over for Lynn Sévigny. What do you have for us?”

B
ratt didn’t answer right away. He still hadn’t decided what to say about the alibi witnesses and Nancy’s presence had thrown him for a loop. He turned his head and stared at her again, asking himself,
What the hell is she doing here?

Parent answered this question as if Bratt had asked it out loud.

“Miss Morin is going to assist me during the trial, Robert. You probably weren’t aware she was being temporarily assigned to homicide, since Philippe is taking his retirement. Well-deserved, I might add.”

“Oh, I see,” Bratt replied, although he clearly didn’t see at all.

It was taking several seconds for what Parent had said to sink in. Nancy was going to be working the Small trial? Her message had said they’d be seeing a lot of each other, but this wasn’t what he had expected.

Bratt turned toward St. Jean, trying to keep the surprise from his voice as he spoke.

“Retired, Phil? At your age?”

“I’ve put in my thirty years,
Maitre
Bratt. It’s time to move on.”

“Well, winning this case won’t be half as much fun without you.”

Both St. Jean and Parent reddened and frowned at the remark. Only Nancy smiled, turning quickly to the window when she did so.

“He’ll still be there to testify about the accused’s statement, of course,” Parent said. “You had a chance to watch that Oscar-winning performance by Mr. Small, Robert, I’m sure.”

Parent raised one bony hand up to his forehead and leaned melodramatically back in his chair, as he mocked Small’s words.

“
F you
,” he said, deleting the expletive in deference to Nancy’s presence. “I feel fine. Just get me my lawyer. And get me my mommy while you’re at it.”

St. Jean roared with appreciative laughter, while Parent
favored Bratt with a slow, snakelike smile. He clearly had little fear about being on the losing team, with or without St. Jean at his side.

Bratt didn’t rise to the bait, even though he found Parent’s self-satisfied arrogance hard to digest. He surprised the prosecutor by smiling right back. He may have thought as little of his client’s videotaped performance as the others did, but he had his own ideas about who was going to see it.

“You’ll be served my motion to exclude the tape tomorrow, Francis. We’ll be among the privileged few who ever have the chance to see it.”

Parent’s smile turned icy. “Well, that will be for someone else to decide. In the meantime, I believe you have something for us.”

He held out his hand regally, as if he expected an alibi witness to materialize in thin air and be instantly within his grasp. When Bratt didn’t respond for several seconds he slowly lowered his outstretched hand.

“Am I missing something, Robert?”

“No,” Bratt squirmed uncomfortably, “I am. I haven’t had a chance to interview all the alibi witnesses yet. I’ve been a little squeezed for time.”

Parent turned to St. Jean with an exaggerated wide-eyed stare, as if incredulous that such a thing could happen. “If you didn’t have the time you should never have taken on the case, Robert. We’re not talking about shoplifting here.”

Bratt winced inwardly, but said nothing. Being treated like a rookie by the older prosecutor was old hat, but it was getting tiresome.

Parent waited, looking disappointed that he hadn’t been able to goad Bratt into anger. He shrugged indifferently at the lack of a response and continued.

“Well, if you haven’t seen all the witnesses you can give me the names of the ones you have seen. Monsieur St. Jean can begin contacting them-”

“No,” Bratt blurted out. “Sorry, Francis, but I prefer giving you the names of the witnesses that I’ll call only after I’ve interviewed them all.”

“I was supposed to have their names before today.”

“Shit happens,” Bratt growled, unable to think of a better way to explain his dilemma.

“Well, that’s a novel argument. Like to try it in the Superior Court?”

“Just name the time and place,” Bratt snapped back, a little too loudly. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

Parent’s eyebrows arched as if he had just discovered something fascinating.