The Brutal Heart (6 page)

I wasn’t an expert, but it seemed to me Margot had done a better job of preparing her client than Sean had. She made no attempt to present Jason as anything other than what he was. She dealt with the question of his financial difficulties head-on, and he was matter of fact in explaining that while his client base had diminished after he’d made some bad investments, he was turning the situation around. Like his ex-wife, Jason had missed his share of large events in the lives of his daughters, but Margot offset that by encouraging him to talk about the events he had attended: the vacations he’d shared with the twins, and the daily routine of life in the Brodnitz house. The life he described wasn’t
Father Knows Best
, but it wasn’t neglect. The only tense moment came when Margot asked him about his own romantic life. Before answering, Jason shot his wife a glance that seemed pleading. Then he said that he and his ex-wife had been living separately for several years and that he had the normal instincts of a healthy man his age. Sean’s cross-examination was perfunctory, but Ginny didn’t seem troubled by the lack of rigour. When Jason returned to his seat, Ginny seemed to relax. “Well, it could have been worse,” she said.

When Madam Justice Susan Gorges declared a recess for lunch, Margot and her client exchanged smiles. He helped her off with her barrister’s robe; she flung it over the back of her chair, revealing a smart red suit that showed off her terrific legs; and she and Jason headed for the exit.

Ed touched Ginny’s arm. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” he asked.

“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Ginny said. “Sean wants to talk to me about what’s happening this afternoon.”

Ed smiled “Well, a Mariani rain check is redeemable any time.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ginny said, and she seemed surprisingly touched.

We ate at Java Deposit, a coffee place that had once been a bank on the main floor of an office tower near the courthouse. The building was full of lawyers, including my husband’s firm, and whenever court was recessed for lunch, Java Deposit was packed.

As Ed and I came through the door, a server with a sneer pushed his way towards us. There was, he said, a small table vacant inside the vault, but if we wanted it, we’d have to move quickly.

We moved. After we’d elbowed our way to our table, explored the menu, squirmed to make ourselves comfortable on our dainty wrought-iron ice-cream chairs, and settled in to wait for the reappearance of our server, we looked at each other.

“Why did we come here?” Ed asked.

“Because Falconer Shreve’s new offices are upstairs and they have some art you ought to see.”

“Reason enough,” Ed said. “I never thought these words would pass my lips, but let’s eat fast.” He sighed. “So why did Falconer Shreve move? Their offices in those two old houses were charming.”

“I agree, but the firm has plans to expand, and the old place just wasn’t big enough for extra people.”

“So is Zack pleased with the move?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t affect him much. When he’s not in court, he works at home most of the time now.”

“And you work at home too.”

“As much as I can manage,” I said. “Zack and I like being together. So everybody’s happy, especially Pantera, because it turns out he’s afraid of elevators.”

Ed’s eyes widened. “Am I missing something here?”

“Pantera goes nuts if he can’t be with Zack, so he always went to the old office. The day Falconer Shreve moved here, Pantera trotted off happily with Zack. For some reason, the elevators spooked him. Zack brought in a dog trainer, but nothing helped, so Pantera retired.”

“I take it Zack isn’t planning to follow suit.”

“He keeps promising he’ll cut down,” I said. “At the Bar Association Christmas party, someone told me that the average time between a trial lawyer’s first case and his first heart attack is twenty years. Zack’s already had five years grace, and his paraplegia doesn’t increase the odds in his favour.”

“Still, he took on Francesca Pope’s case, and I would have expected a kid from Legal Aid to handle that one.”

Our server came, and Ed and I ordered the special. As the server began pushing his way towards the kitchen, Ed was lugubrious. “I don’t hold out much hope for the Italian wedding soup. That takes a knowing hand.”

“Well, nobody can screw up bruschetta,” I said.

Ed sniffed. “That remains to be seen.”

“What do you know about the Francesca Pope case?” I said.

“Not much,” Ed said. “One of the students in my Documentary Theory and Production class started to do a piece on it, but he hadn’t finished when he decided to drop out, move to Alberta, and make his fortune in the oil fields. All I know is that the mayor and a clutch of civic leaders were in the warehouse district congratulating one another for their gentrification project when a scuffle broke out and Francesca Pope broke His Honour’s nose.”

“And, of course, with Francesca’s invariable bad luck, the cameras were rolling,” I said.

“I saw the footage,” Ed said. “Zack’s client looked pretty disturbed.”

“She was disturbed. She was off her medication. The mayor and his cronies were in her neighbourhood, or what used to be her neighbourhood, and the mayor had kicked her backpack out of the way because it would have looked unsightly in the pictures.”

“If the mayor thought a backpack was unsightly, I wonder how he feels about a murder in one of his shining condos,” Ed said. “The dead woman’s fellow condo owners certainly aren’t happy.”

My pulse quickened. “Do you know someone who lives in the Pendryn?”

“Yes, our friend David Schaub. Barry and I were at a party there not too long ago. It’s quite an experience. There’s all that drama about entering through the freight elevator, then the doors open and you step into a dream. The whole place is open-concept, twenty-four-foot vaulted ceilings and skylights, a huge stretch of the original brick in the living room, and two very large, very private balconies. The view of the city from the bedroom just about stopped my heart. As, of course, it should for $629,000.”

“That’s pricey for Regina,” I said.

“The building caters to a very special clientele.”

“What do you mean?”

“People buy into that particular building because of the privacy. Most of the other warehouses that have been converted are close to Albert Street, but the Pendryn is the only building in a three-block area that’s been restored. There’s a courtyard with a pool and an exquisite little Japanese garden, but it’s cut off from the rest of the neighbourhood by security fences topped with razor wire.”

I made a face. “Not very neighbourly.”

“The people who live in there aren’t eager to see the welcome wagon. They’re willing to pay for the privilege of doing what they want to do – no questions asked.”

“By other tenants?”

“By anybody. I have a nagging suspicion that there’s more to Francesca Pope’s case than meets the eye.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that your husband is representing Francesca. Zack’s the most expensive trial lawyer in the province. And you know the old journalists’ axiom: follow the money. It would be interesting to know who’s paying the tab.”

I glanced at my watch. “If we ever get served, you can ask Zack yourself. He usually stops by his office over the lunch recess, and we’re going up to Falconer Shreve to look at the art anyway.”

Ed squirmed on his chair. “No food. No service. And chairs that seem to be intended for dolls. Let’s cross this place off our list, shall we?”

“Consider it done,” I said.

Falconer Shreve’s offices were on the fifteenth floor. The elevator was mirrored, and as Ed caught sight of himself reflected repeatedly from every angle, he sighed. “I understand Pantera’s misery about being in this elevator. These Andy Warhol repetitions of my bulk make me want to howl too.”

“We’re the only ones in the elevator,” I said. “Go for it.”

The elevators opened directly into the firm’s reception area, where hard-polished floors gleamed and walls painted the gentle shade of old silver perfectly complemented two large, eye-catching works: a shimmering metallic drape by Miranda Jones and an intricately painted Ted Godwin tartan.

At her low glass desk in front of the tartan, Denise Kaiswatum was simultaneously signing for a package, taking a telephone call, and smiling reassuringly at a frightened and unhappy-looking woman. When the courier left, Denise hung up the phone, directed the unhappy woman to the client waiting room, and gave Ed and me an apologetic smile.

“You just missed Zack,” she said. “He came in to check his messages, then he and his client went back to court.”

“Is it all right if I give Ed the art tour?”

Blake Falconer came out of his office. When he spotted us, he came over. At Zack’s party, Blake had looked careworn, but he seemed restored this morning. He was past fifty, and his reddish gold hair was greying, but he kept it scrub-brush short and his skin was ruddily freckled and youthful. He extended his hand to Ed. “Good to see you again,” he said. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk last night, but Ginny Monaghan seemed to be enjoying your company, and we try to keep our clients happy.”

“Very wise,” Ed said. “And luckily, I have no need of a lawyer. I’m just here to see the Falconer Shreve collection.”

“I can take you around,” Blake said. “I know nothing about art, but I’ve been with land developers all morning, I could use a break.”

Blake hadn’t exaggerated when he said he didn’t know anything about art, but as he filled us in on Falconer Shreve’s future plans and pointed out the new pieces, he was thorough if not inspired. That changed when he led us into the boardroom to see the Joe Fafard ceramic group portrait of the founding members of Falconer Shreve. “I must have seen this a hundred times since it arrived, but it gets me every time,” he said and his eyes were moist. “Anyway, that’s us – the way we were the year we graduated from the College of Law.”

I turned to Ed. “They called themselves the Winners’ Circle.”

“Because we were perfect in every way,” Blake said. “Or so we thought.”

“Zack told me that when he was invited to join the Winners’ Circle, he was like a drunk discovering Jesus,” I said. “Dazzled. Born again.”

Ed leaned in to look more closely at the witty figures of the founding five. Fafard had worked from a photograph taken on the day they’d graduated. They were wearing their academic robes: it had been windy and the robes swirled. “My God, Fafard’s good,” Ed said. “You can feel the wind at their backs.” He looked more closely at the young faces. “You can see the hope.”

Ed gazed at the expensively appointed boardroom. “It appears the Winners’ Circle realized its promise.”

Blake shrugged. “Appearance is not reality,” he said. “Let’s go look at the big man’s office.”

“Saving the best till last,” Blake said, but when he tried the door, it was locked. “Shit,” he said. “I should have remembered that Zack has a client who refuses to leave the office until she knows her possessions are safe. I’ll get the key from Norine.”

Francesca’s backpack with her bears was on one of the client chairs. Everything in Zack’s office had the high sheen of money and attention; Francesca’s bears were refugees from a sadder, crueller world. For a time when she was little, Mieka had collected Care Bears. With their cotton-candy-coloured furry bodies and the cartoon portraits proclaiming their identity and their special caring mission on their tummies, these emissaries from the cloud-land of Care-a-Lot had always struck me as too cute by a half. There was nothing cute about Francesca’s bears. Their fur was mildewed, patchy, and filthy; their faces and feet had been eaten away by rot or rats; and most of them were missing eyes or noses.

As he gazed at them, Ed’s face was suffused with pity. “What’s the story there?”

“That’s her treasure,” Blake said thoughtfully. “Zack says when the mayor kicked Francesca’s backpack, she felt as if he was kicking her children.”

“So she was trying to protect them,” Ed said.

“We all do terrible things for love,” Blake said. “At least Francesca still has her bears.”

“Blake, how did Zack end up with her case?” I said. “It’s not the kind of thing he usually handles – it’s not high profile, and I’m guessing it’s not big money.”

Blake’s answer was a beat too quick. “Just doing a favour for a friend,” he said. He took Ed’s arm and led him to the Ernest Lindner watercolour of a moss-covered stump behind Zack’s desk. “Give this one a closer look,” he said. “I didn’t see much here at first, but Joanne got me interested.” He turned to me. “This is called high realism, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Lindner was fascinated by the process of decay and regeneration in the natural world,” Blake said. “At least that’s what Joanne told me.” His smile was bashful, the schoolboy found out showing off, but I wasn’t deflected.

“So who was the friend who got Zack to take on Francesca Pope’s case?” I asked. “One of your developers with a heart of gold?”

Blake averted his eyes. “No. The friend was me.” He glanced at his watch. “God, look at the time. I’ve got a meeting. Have fun.” He kissed my cheek and pressed the key into my hand.

As Blake passed Ed, he patted his shoulder. Then, except for the lingering woody scent of his aftershave, Blake was gone.

“There’s a man living a lie,” Ed said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was surprised. Ed was careful with language and careful with assessments. “Blake’s had his problems, like all of us, but I would say he’s a lucky man.”

Ed’s face was troubled. “Maybe once upon a time,” he said. “Not any more.” Ed pointed to the intricate whorl at the heart of the fallen tree in Lindner’s watercolour. “Look at that,” he said. “Even with trees, destiny unfolds from the heart.”

Unlike Zack, I tend to drift off during trials. As a citizen I’m grateful that the wheels of justice grind exceedingly fine, but as a spectator, I’m aware only that at times they grind exceedingly slow. I knew that the outcome of the Monaghan-Brodnitz custody deliberations would alter the lives of Ginny, Jason, and their daughters, but that afternoon with the sun slanting through the courtroom windows, the air warming, and the lawyers wrangling about procedure and reading the law into the record, I found my eyes growing heavy. The parade of witnesses who marched up to be sworn in did nothing to stir my blood. In their civilian lives, these good people might have been witty and incisive, but the demands of testifying stripped them of individuality and muffled their voices in a thick fog of clichés and buzzwords. As an earnest young social worker who didn’t look old enough to flip burgers explained in jargon-riddled detail the difference between being an enabling parent and an empowering parent, Madam Justice Gorges’s sigh of impatience was audible. I wasn’t surprised when at a little after four, she declared that court was recessed.