Kill All the Judges (41 page)

He told her he'd stopped by the school, the advance poll, and marked a big fat X for a soon-to-be-sitting member of the House of Commons. He wanted to discuss the LeGrand affidavit with her, but she was being greeted by a voter. He shouted: “On to Ottawa.” If it comes to pass, he'll tough it out, an act of love.

She had passed the phone to Eric Schultz. “Christ, I'm freezing out here. How is it your way?”

“We're battening down.”

“This blow could help. Our vote's firm, we'll pull out ninety-five per cent. Socialist hotbed here in Porky Bog, but they're looking over our merchandise, they may be ready to board the bus. O'Malley is holding at thirty-five, Blake thirty-three, the rest fighting for scraps. That spam attack bled a lot of vote away, probably enough to…”

“The bleeding has stopped.”

“How did you hear?”

“There was a police investigation, Eric. Someone filed an official complaint.”

“Never thought they'd carry through. I bitched, I hollered. Find some kind of charge, I said, shut down that operation.”

Arthur was speechless.

“You still there, Arthur?”

It was Schultz's turn to be at a loss when Arthur filled him in. Finally: “I don't know what to say.”

“I didn't tell Margaret.”

“Best that we do. Don't want her boobytrapped by some clever reporter.” Soft profanities, he was flustered. “Any chance this will get a proper burial?”

“I'm hoping so, but it's probably all over Garibaldi.”

“Christ.”

“That's the bad news.”

“There's better?”

“Eric, I'll ask you to deliberate long and carefully on this, but we now have a strong intimation of a corrupt payment to the office of the late justice minister.”

His recital of LeGrand's affidavit produced a long whistle. “That clinches it. Keep this under your hat–it'll come out in Question Period tomorrow that the administrator of Boynton's estate has
uncovered an account worth four million and change, untouched, that would normally devolve to his survivors. What's the best way to handle this? Tomorrow's Friday, a bad media day. Just before the election is best, Monday. Has to be released carefully, shouldn't come from us.”

“It may be too late already.” Arthur told him how he'd lost a free speech debate with Nelson Forbish. He got a laugh, Schultz in a spirited mood now.

“Better tell Mr. Forbish to keep mum.”

“Not to worry, the
Bleat
comes out mid-week.” Nelson had been known to put out special editions, single pages emblazoned “Extra!” but this weather promised to thwart such a plan.

The storm accelerated into the evening, yet another blizzard on the mild Pacific coast, weather patterns changing, hotter summers, capricious winters. Outside, the sound of a tree cracking under the weight, a leaner, an electric pop as a breaker snapped. Lights out.

Arthur fumbled his way to the candle bin, arrayed several on the dining room table, threw more logs on the fire. The Nicks and the woofers were out in that whirling snow, by the brick barbecue, preparing to grill steaks. They seemed content, in parkas and toques, laughing in the dusky light, tossing snowballs.

The phone lines were still open, so Arthur dialed Wentworth, who must be worried his general will be trapped here, Napoleon on the isle of Elba.

“I'm afraid we may be forced into a slight change of plan, Wentworth.”

Just silence but for the sound of a gulp.

“Not sure I'll be able to fly in early tomorrow, the weather may not permit. I'll try for the ferry.”

“That doesn't get here till noon.”

“Right, so I'm going to ask you to cross-examine the maid and the guard. I think you're ready for that, and I can't comprehend how I could do a better job. Anyway, Kroop may need another day to settle his insides. If not, find a way to spin things out until I get there. I'm sure you'll do a rip-snorting job.”

“Two witnesses aren't going to fill the morning.”

“Oh, raise some argument or other, something that will get the old boy going. If nothing else works, feign illness.”

“I
am
ill.”

“I have complete faith in you, Wentworth. You've done admirably. Admirably.”

“Are you sure, Arthur, because…”

“Any problems, I'm always right by the phone.”

Arthur made tea and sat down with Virgil's great and ancient tome, and began to read aloud by the flickering light. “It is sweet to let the mind bend on occasion.”

But he kept wandering back to his trial, fussing over it, even though there wasn't much he could do to ready himself for the final, vital witnesses.

One can't rehearse for Florenza LeGrand; it would be like rehearsing for the unknown. He wondered about her, her hints of narcissism, sociopathy. Did this daughter of a Thai concubine suspect her provenance? Was that at the root of her rebellion, a suppressed fury at her father's lies? A rebellion intensified by an artfully arranged marriage to a possessive dilettante? And thus a hick from the sticks became a murder weapon. But Arthur didn't want to believe Cud was a murderer…Or did he?

He was nagged by ignoble suspicions that none of his battery of suspects was guilty, that Cud actually did do the deed, recklessly, drunkenly, or deliberately, propelled by base motive, lust, greed, twisted notions of honour and deliverance.
Help me escape.
Had he answered Florenza's call while nearly senseless with drink?

And Astrid Leich, well, she'll probably identify Cud, and Arthur
will have to loosen the clasps and buckles of her finger-pointing confidence. Such cross-examinations are best done raw, but he should devise tactics for Kroop, who will break all records for churlishness as the trial drags on through Monday, as he misses his day of glory.

Arthur hadn't told Wentworth that April Fan Wu was still in town, that he'd granted her absolution as part of his deal with Gib Davidson, but these matters were too tricky to be canvassed by phone. As was the matter of loosely wrapped Brian Pomeroy, from whom getting information was like prying bricks from a wall. What will the jury make of his outlandish visit to the LeGrand estate? They'll likely decide he was bonkers, the right conclusion.

Let it go. Seek solace in the
Aeneid
. The night had come, and weary in every land, men's bodies took the boon of blissful sleep…Soon he nodded off.

He awoke at daybreak, aroused by a winter wren fluttering about the bedroom, clawing at the window. He opened it wide to a blast of frigid air, and while waiting for the disoriented intruder to make its break, he jumped back into bed and worked at a turbulent dream set in a Roman arena. Familiar faces everywhere: LeGrand, Ebbe, Silent Shawn, and many more, a cast of thousands, all waiting for the lions to be loosed on Cud Brown. Arthur was disoriented–was this the right court, was he defending that frightened gladiator? Too late, a toga-swaddled jury roared their verdict.
Vae victis
! Woe to the vanquished! Then the roaring faded, and there was only the clicking of a keyboard, a madman in the throes of creation…

The power was still out, so the day's toilette included longjohns, ski socks, and a bulky country sweater. Downstairs, the Nicks were by a crackling fire. He thought to warm himself there but realized they were discussing family issues, so he pulled on
his boots. Odd that twitchy-nosed Pamela had not joined her fiancé here–maybe they weren't as serious about each other as Nicholas claimed. Arthur hadn't mentioned the filched Fargo, not wanting them to feel badly about having been conned out of it.

It remained very cold, but the wind had relented, and snow abated under a sullen sky. The pond would soon support a hockey team. A path of sorts had been tramped toward the woofer house, where he found Lavinia at a battery-powered radio, listening to the forecast: an Arctic front had settled in, a few more freezing nights expected. He called Syd-Air–they were vague about whether they'd be flying at all today. Wentworth was off-line, but Arthur left a message saying not to expect him early. The young man knew what to do.

The nine o'clock news came on. Power outages, traffic tie-ups, accidents. But then, from “our political bureau,” came this: “Questions are being raised in Ottawa about an apparent gift of four million dollars from shipping magnate Donat LeGrand to the late Justice Rafael Whynet-Moir.” Embellishing this account were references to the timing of payments, half down and half after Florenza's betrothal, an equivalent sum showing up–after Raffy was named to the bench–in Jack Boynton's Nassau account.

And who broke this story? Why, the editor of the Garibaldi
Island Bleat
, of course, who, determined to earn his pound of glory, had e-mailed his photos of the fax to multiple news agencies.

What set Arthur worrying was that Wentworth was mentioned as its sender. “Mr. Chance could not be reached for comment.” No mention of senior counsel, though no doubt Charles Loobie and his cronies made efforts and drew blanks. Well, it's out, the entire bribery scandal, and the chips will fall where they may. Many of these will fall on Arthur, who now must bear the brunt of Kroop's wrath–the defence has contaminated radio-listening jurors.

He was about to ring Wentworth again, but here was a bald-tired flatbed sliding and slipping up the driveway, weighted down for traction with a rusting engine block, a snowmobile, a beat-up
generator, and Dog. Arthur almost slipped on an icy patch as he rushed out to collar the defalcator.

“Heard you was here, and came right over,” Stoney said, directing Dog to lug the generator off the truck. “Let there be light. A special service for my most valued client.”

Arthur folded his arms, glared, waiting for him to come up with an improbable excuse for the missing Fargo:
I'm trying to solve a little drive-train problem.
Or possibly:
I traded her in for this here spiffy snowmobile.
Most likely:
She's now officially an off-road vehicle. She went off the road and down Hemlock Hollow.

Stoney had the brass to turn toward sea-bound Icarus, saluting it. “What think you, bwana, of this magnificent display of local art? You oughta thank Dog too; he lugged umpteen bags of cement down there, hammered up the forms when the tide was almost up to his nuts.”

“Thank you, Dog,” Arthur said. “I know you're not consciously involved in this caper with the Fargo.”

From the cab of the truck, a strong smell of reefer, accounting for the slowness of Stoney's reaction: “Now, this here generator rents out at only…Caper? Fargo? Am I being accused of something here?”

“Your act of being vastly affronted doesn't wash with me, Stoney. I want my truck.”

“I am hurt, deeply hurt.” He ploughed off to the garage, cleared a snowdrift from the door, managed to wedge it open. There was the yellow Fargo, gleaming, it had been washed.

“You mean
this
Fargo? The one I borrowed once to haul in the cement? The one me and Dog spent an hour washing?”

It was only later, when Arthur realized he'd forgot to challenge Stoney over the chattel-mortgaged Chrysler, that he rued having let him soak him for the generator.