The Guilty Plea (20 page)

“Did she have any enemies? Ever get in a fight, get angry with anyone?”

“I knew you were going to ask me that.” Tressider flexed the pencil between her hands. It broke with a loud snap. “Sorry.” She looked flustered. “I’m not used to talking to police officers.”

“You’re doing fine.”

Tressider opened her middle desk drawer, tossed the two broken pencil pieces inside, and slammed it shut, as if she were hiding incriminating evidence. “Sam was smart, and impatient and I’ll admit it, she had a temper. People thought she was a snob, but she didn’t care.”

She reached for another pencil. “I don’t see how it’s relevant, but once in grade twelve this boy named Brett Barton was taunting her. He tried to pull her into the boys’ washroom.”

“What happened?”

“Sam was a strong girl. Cracked his nose in two places. Punched him so hard she broke a rib too. Then she threw him against a locker and he lost consciousness. It was a minor concussion, but we had to call an ambulance and run him up to the hospital in Haileybury.”

Kennicott pulled out the grade-twelve report card. “There’s nothing in here about it. Was she suspended?”

“It was a week before the scholarship applications went in. We had a big meeting. Brett was known for pushing himself on girls and no one blamed Sam for standing up for herself.”

“So you left it out.”

“She deserved that scholarship. But …” Tressider tapped her pencil and didn’t say anything.

“But you thought she overreacted.”

Tressider gripped the pencil tighter and kept tapping.

“Perhaps you weren’t entirely shocked when you heard about this murder.”

Tressider’s eyes looked tired. “I don’t know,” she said.

Kennicott left his seat and walked over to the wall opposite the window. There were two long rows of photos of students in caps and gowns under a sign that read top students of the year. The dated haircuts and the clothes made the series of photos look like a time capsule.

“Sam’s up on the top row, third from the left,” Tressider said.

Unlike most of the graduates, who were grinning at the camera, Samantha Frankland was serious. Kennicott turned back from the wall of pictures. “Was she close to any other teachers?”

Tressider pulled out a piece of paper and started writing. “No. Her only other friend was Lillian Funke, the town librarian up in New Liskeard. Lil brought in books for Sam from all over the province. This is her number. She’s in Toronto for the bail hearing, but you can call her anytime.”

Kennicott took the piece of paper. “Sam ever come back to visit?”

“Every time she’s home. Which isn’t very often. She’s never had a
lot in common with her mom, or her brother for that matter. It was her dad who had the brains.”

“Ever bring her husband and son?”

“One time, when the boy was a baby. After that she came alone.”

“Ever talk to you about her marriage?”

“No. Only about university, then her jobs. She was real upset when those rich girls from Toronto got the internships at the big banks. But typical Sam, made her more determined to make it. Prove she was better than they were.”

“When’s the last time you saw her?”

“About a year ago. She’d split up with her husband. It was all over the papers that he was dating that American actress.”

“How’d she seem?”

Tressider tossed the pencil onto her desk.

“Upset. Like you’d expect in a situation like that.”

“Angry?”

Tressider picked up the pencil and put it back in the cup. “Not angry like she was going to kill her husband or anything stupid like that. She was mad. At him. At herself. She said she should have been a better mother. You know, I think she felt like she’d never had a childhood, she was always working. I told her to enjoy having some time off for a change.”

“What did she say to that?”

“She smiled. Said it wasn’t a bad idea.”

It was 11:05 in the morning when Kennicott emerged from the school into the bright sunlight. Sitting at the top of a long set of granite steps and looking over the town, he heard the whistle of the southbound train before the engine chugged into view.

He could imagine young Samantha Frankland sitting in this very spot, watching this train make its daily run.

The whistle blew again. Kennicott wondered if it would slow down. Let someone off. Pick somebody up. But instead the train rumbled through the town, whistle echoing off the distant hills even after it disappeared behind the trees.

“Counsel, I’m prepared to give my ruling now,” Judge Norville said right after Ted DiPaulo and Jennifer Raglan had finished their submissions about whether or not Samantha Wyler should be granted bail.

DiPaulo glanced at Raglan. She was as surprised as he was. The time was twelve-thirty, and they’d both expected Norville to take an early lunch break and call her husband for advice.

The judge is tougher than people give her credit for, DiPaulo thought as he watched her reach for the book of cases he’d filed. He remembered something about Norville. She had one child, a girl who was developmentally delayed. When the baby was only two years old, her husband died, and she remarried nine months later. The woman was a survivor.

Raglan rose to her feet. “If Your Honor wants to proceed before lunch, that’s fine with me.”

DiPaulo stood. “I agree.” What did Norville’s sudden decisiveness mean?

“Will the defendant please rise.” Norville’s voice was laced with a stern confidence.

Samantha Wyler stood up, unsteady on her feet.

Hearing judges read out their decision was the most painful part of being a defense lawyer. Even when victory seemed a foregone conclusion, until you heard the magic words “not guilty,” or in this case “released on bail,” you never knew.

When they gave their rulings, judges didn’t worry about the poor defendants whose lives hung in the balance. Instead, to justify themselves every step of the way, they went into excruciating detail about their decision-making process. Judges lived in fear that the dreaded
Court of Appeal would overturn their rulings. They never wanted to leave their posteriors exposed.

It was DiPaulo’s practice, as the judge spoke, to draw a vertical line down each page in his court binder, about a quarter of the way from the outer edge. On the left-hand side he wrote the judge’s words, while on the blank space to the right he noted the key points he’d need for an appeal, should he lose.

Standing beside him, Wyler raised her eyes to the judge. Usually when clients did this they looked rather pathetic, pleading. But not Samantha. She looked straight at Norville.

“This is one of the toughest decisions I’ve had to make since being appointed to the bench.” Norville furrowed her brow at Wyler. “On the one hand, ma’am, if you are innocent, you’re going through a hell that none of us in this courtroom could ever imagine. The father of your only child, dead. Your son, bereft. I’m cognizant of the fact that if I keep you in prison, you’ll be cut off from him for months, maybe years, at a formative stage in his life.”

Okay, DiPaulo thought. Now tell us about on the other hand.

“On the other hand, if you are guilty,” Norville said, “you are responsible for the death of a man with whom you shared this lovely son—his father—and all the grief that’s left in your wake.”

Wyler put her hands behind her back. As if she were waiting for the handcuffs to go on.

“It is not up to me today to determine guilt or innocence. The only issue is if you’re a good candidate for release on bail. There are three questions I must answer. First, will you come to court as required? As Mr. DiPaulo said in his excellent submissions, you’ll surrender your passport and live in Cobalt—a one-horse town with the only horse tied up, was how he put it. And, as he pointed out, you don’t even have a driver’s license.”

DiPaulo was writing furiously. Often it wasn’t a good sign when the judge told your client what a great job their lawyer had done for them. Prelude to bad news despite a valiant effort.

“The second ground. Will you commit further offenses? Again Mr. DiPaulo points out that you have no criminal record. And more important, I’m confident your mother will be an excellent surety. Once you go back to her house, I don’t think you’ll be a danger to anyone.”

Two out of three ain’t bad, DiPaulo thought, but not enough.

“The last and most vexing question is whether or not releasing you would undermine public confidence in the administration of justice.” Saying that, she lifted DiPaulo’s thick binder of cases and dropped it back on her desk with a thump. “It’s not unprecedented to grant bail to accused in murder trials, especially someone such as yourself, with no criminal antecedents.”

For some reason, judges loved double negatives. As if they were more nuanced. Why say “it’s not unprecedented” instead of spitting out “there’s precedent” for granting you bail.

DiPaulo’s hand froze on his pen. He’d been gripping it so tight his fingers were in spasm. They were stuck. He let go of the pen and tried to move them.

He realized that Norville was silent. This was the moment of decision. He didn’t dare look up. His fingers were numb. No one in the courtroom moved.

Please don’t say “but,” the dreaded word every criminal lawyer hated to hear, the fulcrum upon which a negative decision always turned. If the next word was “but,” it was all over.

He looked up at the judge. Her eyes were on him.

“Mr. DiPaulo,” she said. “What arrangements are in place for your client to see her son if she’s living up north and he’s down here in Toronto?”

DiPaulo shot to his feet, his mind a jumble of emotions. There was no “but.” Norville’s going to let Wyler out. The videotape of the boy playing with Greene—DiPaulo thought it had sunk his case. Blood was coming back into his fingers.

Now he saw it. Norville didn’t want to cut Simon off from his mother. When her first husband died, she must have seen what happened to a child who lost a parent. That was her focus. Why didn’t I think of that? That tape of Simon playing with trains would be a killer at trial, but now it was going to get her bail.

Keep your cool, Ted, he told himself. Don’t act like it’s a done deal.

“Your Honor, that’s an excellent question.” He was stalling for time to get his thoughts in order.

Raglan stood. “Your Honor. I appreciate your concerns about the boy seeing his mother, but I want to remind the court that Simon will be a key witness for the prosecution. There’s a real danger he might be
unduly influenced by the accused. In a homicide case, this must be the court’s paramount concern.”

Norville tapped her pen.

I’m losing her, DiPaulo thought.

“The Crown makes an excellent point.” Norville bit her lower lip. She shrugged her shoulders at him, as if to say, “Sorry, Ted. Close, but no cigar.”

“Mr. DiPaulo. I have grave concerns about separating mother and child, but …”

There it was. The “but.”

The idea came to him in an instant. Damn the “but.”

“I share Your Honor’s concerns,” DiPaulo said, interrupting the judge, which was a real no-no in her court. Norville scowled. He kept talking. “And I agree with my friend. We can’t allow my client to be alone with her son—”

“Okay then.” Norville cut back in. “Then I’m going to deny—”

“But, Your Honor, I have the solution. Hear me out,” DiPaulo said.

Norville had her mouth open. She was about to speak. Don’t stop, he told himself.

“When Ms. Wyler comes to Toronto to meet with me, I’ll take her to see Simon in the playroom at police headquarters. The one in the video. Obviously the boy was comfortable there.”

“Hmm,” Norville said.

“It keeps Ms. Wyler in touch with her son.” Come on, Judge, keep nodding, DiPaulo thought. “It doesn’t prejudice the trial. Just the opposite. It keeps my client totally visible to the police. Everything’s recorded.”

Norville broke into a grin. Like a hiker who’d made it across a wild river, safe on the far shore. “I was thinking of something along the same lines,” she said. “Ms. Wyler, I’m granting you bail, but believe me the terms of your release will be the strictest that I can fashion without keeping you behind bars. Step over the line once and you’ll be in custody so fast your head will spin. Is that understood?”

“Yes,” Wyler said. It was stunning to hear her voice for the first time in court.

For the next twenty minutes Norville piled on every term and condition she could think of. House arrest, the only exception being allowed to go to the libraries in Cobalt and New Liskeard. No use of
Internet or e-mail. No cell phone. No long-distance calls except to her lawyer.

DiPaulo dutifully made notes of every word on the left-hand side of the page. In the blank right-hand margin he drew an enormous happy face.

Round one to the defense. With Herbert Hoover odds, no less. Man oh man, he loved to win. And tonight he was going to get a very good night’s sleep.

Arceli Ocaya was worried about Simon. It had been three months since Mr. Wyler was killed and the boy had stopped talking about his father. Any time she brought up the subject, the boy took out one of his toy guns and shouted, “Bang bang! I’m police. Bad guys hands up!” Guns and police were the only things he talked about.

After the murder, Simon and Arceli had spent a few days at the home of Simon’s uncle Nathan. The police sent over a social worker, and Simon started crying, saying he wanted to go back to day-care camp. They worked out a plan. For the fall Simon would live at Arceli’s apartment during the week and spend the weekends at Nathan’s house. Uncle Jason would drive them back and forth. In January they would move permanently to Nathan’s place.

When the boy first went back to day care, many of the parents tried to help out, inviting Simon for playdates at their houses. Now they were complaining about all his talk of police and guns.

Every two weeks Detective Greene came by the apartment and took Simon to police headquarters to see his mother. He loved the police radio. “Copy that,”

“Ten-four,”

“Roger, we’re on our way.” Simon used those phrases over and over again.