The Guilty (18 page)

“Oh, Robert, you know as well as I do that we all have something to hide, most of all the ones who proclaim the loudest that they don’t.”

Bratt held back an angry retort. Parent wasn’t missing a beat today and he was going to have to watch what he said.

“Here’s an important lesson for you, my dear,” Parent said, turning toward Nancy. “The lawyer who says the least is usually the one hiding the most useful information. Certainly the most interesting.”

Parent was trying hard to impress Nancy with his clever observations. Bratt didn’t like being talked about in the third person while he was sitting in the same room. He felt his face redden in anger, but this only encouraged Parent to continue his analysis.

“Robert here is usually much more discreet, but look how he’s blushing. What is he hiding, I wonder? Why not tell us, Robert? Relieve your conscience of whatever burdens it.”

Parent had come too close for comfort with that last remark. Bratt suddenly felt like an open book that the prosecutor was able to read from at will. He needed to end Parent’s game, but without revealing what was eating at him.

“Quit playing the father-confessor, Francis. That bullshit hasn’t worked on me for twenty years, so give it a rest.”

“You’re usually not so easy to read, Robert.”

“
And quit telling me what I’m like, or what I do or don’t have on my mind. You don’t know me as well as you think”

Parent stood up abruptly and walked to the window, stretching as he did so. He spoke while keeping his back turned to Bratt, certain that this would irritate the
defense attorney.

“Fine, fine,” he said, sounding bored. “Deprive me of my little pleasures if you must. Anyway, Robert, you go and see your witnesses, whoever they might be. Take all the time you need making sure they know their lines well. It won’t make much difference for Mr. Small in the end, will it?”

Now the son of a bitch is patronizing me,
Bratt fumed to himself.
And he keeps dropping hints about my alibi witnesses as if he smells something fishy.

“Don’t be so smug,” Bratt said, trying hard to maintain his own mask of self-confidence. “It’s been a lot of years since you put one past me in court.”

“Thanks for coming by, Robert,” Parent said, with a dismissive wave of his hand. “We’ll call you if we need anything else from you.”

At this last indignation Bratt’s temper, to his own surprise, as much as Parent’s, snapped. He was used to being treated with more res
pect than Parent was showing and he found being talked to like a child in front of Nancy to be particularly galling.

“You can shove your pompous crap, Francis!”

“Oh my, I’ve hurt Robert’s feelings.”

“You can patronize me all you want, but you know I’ll kick your ass in court, just like I always do.”

“Is this what it’s all about, Robert? You beating me in court? That doesn’t leave much room for the client, does it? But, as long as you win…”

“Don’t twist my words!”

“No. That’s your specialty.”

“I’ve had enough of your smug self-assurance for today. I’ll fax you my alibi witnesses when I’m good and ready.”

With that, Bratt stormed out of the office. As he stamped down the hall, he could hear Parent’s voice calling behind him.

“All good things come to an end, Robert. Don’t take it so personally.”

When Bratt got back out on the street the air was thick with heavy, wet snowflakes. He didn’t want to go back to his office until he had cooled off from his sour mood and he decided that a mid-winter stroll would help lower his temperature. He headed down St. Laurent Boulevard, toward the Old Port, two blocks south of the courthouse.

As he walked, he tried to figure out exactly why he was angry, and how he had gotten
there. Parent’s insolence was nothing new. He’d been treating Bratt like a schoolboy since their days together at the Crown, and Bratt had always been able to shrug it off before, chalking Parent’s attitude up to professional jealousy.

Bratt had always prided himself in keeping cool and maintaining his composure in the most heated battles. In any argument it was usually his own smug self-assurance that rubbed his opponents the wrong way. Lately, though, he was flying off the handle at the slightest provocation. Parent was probably in his office right now, gloating with St. Jean about having gotten under his skin so easily.

Frustrated over his lack of self-discipline, Bratt kicked at a small chunk of snow and sent it skittering down the icy sidewalk. Walking as fast as he dared on the slippery surface, he got to the Old Port and headed west along the waterfront. The cold wind blowing in off the St. Lawrence River dug into his bones and set his teeth to rattling. The river was still frozen solid, weeks away from the spring thaw that would allow the first ships to get through.

Bratt walked briskly, his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets, alone with his thoughts. There were no other pedestrians foolhardy enough to travel so close to the wind-swept piers. Only the occasional car passed him, looking for a parking space in the shelter of one of the large, converted sheds that lined the river.

Shit, you’re going to freeze to death,
he scolded himself, making no effort to move farther inland.

Bratt thought back to the day Leblanc had suggested he take on Marlon Small’s
defense. He had rejected the idea outright at the time and yet he had ended up taking the case anyway.

Just couldn’t back down from a challenge, could you?
Particularly when people are telling you what an amazing lawyer you are. Vanity, thy name is Robert Bratt. Now you’ve gotta win it, and not only to satisfy your damn ego.

After walking for a few more minutes, he’d had enough of the cold wind that was whipping around him. He quickly crossed the street again and headed a block north to St. Paul Street, where the narrow, cobbled road would give him some measure of protection. Once there, he was able to slow his pace down somewhat and he took the time to gaze into the windows of the tourist-empty souvenir shops that he passed. He continued his ongoing internal debate as he window-shopped along the Old Montreal street. 

Now that I’ve taken on Small’s file I’m regretting it,
he thought.
That fact alone is cause for worry. I haven’t survived this long in the game by being wishy-washy. Lately, though, I’ve been constantly second-guessing decisions that used to be so easy to make. Who’d believe Robert Bratt would have so little taste for a good murder trial?

So I hate my client, so what? When was the last time I really liked one of my clients? That’s never been important before. And if I think he’s guilty, again so what? That’s never been important before, either. At least this one claims to be innocent, unlike a lot of other people I’ve represented, like Mr. Cooper Hall, ‘cash
please, no checks from fraud artists.’ It’s not my job to judge him, after all.

But you can’t deny that these things are important now, can you, Robert? You just can’t rationalize everything like you used to. Things feel very different, ever since…well, since Claire got beaten up on the witness stand, of course. So now, you’re just pissed off every day and at everything, especially if it has to do with the Small case. And it sure didn’t take much of a shove to make you go off the deep end back in Parent’s office.
 

He was beginning to tire of the never-ending debate.

What’s the point of beating yourself up over this? Just do your best and in a few weeks it’ll all be over. Who knows? You’ll probably win, anyway. That’ll solve everything.

He had walked several blocks west by the time he got a semblance of control over his thoughts and emotions. Despite having escaped the strong wind that came in off the water his cheeks were beginning to burn and he decided he had cooled off enough. He took a right at the next corner and headed back up to Notre Dame Boulevard, then turned back east, approaching his office from the far side of the Basilica that dominated Place d’Armes. As he neared it he could see several tour buses parked in front of the huge church. In the middle of winter it was one of the few tourist destinations that still drew crowds.       

Maybe I should go in there and seek some sort of guidance,
he thought, half-jokingly.
No, better not. After twenty years as a lawyer, I might not get out of the confessional until spring.

He reached the parked tourist buses and then crossed the large square, maneuvering through the slow-moving traffic. His pace quickened as he got closer to his destination, until he was nearly jogging by the time he entered his office building.

Safe,
he thought to himself, as he came in from the cold.

Tired and cold from the long walk, and mentally drained from the argument he had been having with himself, Bratt sought refuge at his law firm. All he wanted was to be alone with his thoughts for a little while longer. 

When he stepped into the firm’s waiting area he saw several of his associates standing around in their shirtsleeves at the top of the corridor, drinking coffee and talking loudly. Leblanc and Kalouderis seemed to be holding court, while the others looked on, smiling at their stories.

They turned to him as he removed his rubbers and coat, and waved him over.

“Bobby, come here. You’ll remember this one,” Leblanc called out.

Bratt approached the group, puzzled at this unusual mid-afternoon gathering, and hesitant at getting dragged into any kind of group discussion.

“What’s up?” he asked. “Nobody got court?”

“Geez, where you been the last hour? They got another bomb alert,” Kalouderis said. “Pete here thinks the whole thing’s very exciting.”

Kouri smiled, but said nothing.

“So, anyway, while we’re killing time we thought we’d just fill him in on some of the office folklore.”

“Uh-huh,” Bratt replied, unable to muster up any enthusiasm. The others didn’t seem to notice his lack of interest and continued their conversation as they gravitated into his office after him, not allowing him the peace and quiet he had hoped to find there.

Leblanc sat on the edge of Bratt’s desk, dragging him into the conversation.

“Bobby, you remember when John was defending that Haitian kid? What was his name? Edson something or other.”

“Horacius,” piped in Kalouderis. “He was a small-fry in one of those Montreal North gangs that were shooting each other up, back in the early ’90s.”

“Yeah, him,” Leblanc said, laughing, then turning toward Kouri to continue his story. “So, it was the trial and this one kid who’d had his arm almost blown off is testifying, telling everybody what a murderous bastard this Horacius kid was.”

“And he was, too,” Kalouderis chimed in again, from his usual seat, stretched out on the sofa.

Bratt sat expressionless and gazed out the window at the blowing snow, barely tolerating their presence, totally indifferent to the topic of conversation. He had no idea if he had ever found this story humorous, and now it simply grated on his nerves.

“So, John’s cross-examining the kid,” Leblanc went on, “and he’s going at him with a sledgehammer, really trying to make him look like shit. And this kid’s trying to put up a brave front, right? He doesn’t want to give John anything, but pretty soon John’s got him twisting in the wind.”

“Must have been one of his sober months,” a voice to Bratt’s left said, getting a laugh from the others, including Kalouderis. Bratt couldn’t be bothered to turn to see who spoke, but it sounded like Ralston.

Leblanc waved his hand to hush him so he could go on with the story.

“So, finally this kid speaks up and says, ‘Geez, Mr. Kalouderis, if you worked this hard at my trial there’s no way they would have found me guilty.’”

Kalouderis laughed loudly, gleefully kicking his feet on the sofa, but Kouri only looked confused. Bratt just wished they would all go away. If John wanted to laugh at his own screw-ups, couldn’t he find somewhere else to do it?

“The kid doesn’t get it,” Leblanc said, pointing at Kouri. He spoke slowly to the new lawyer, as if explaining to a small child. “The witness that was testifying against Horacius just happened to be another one of John’s clients. John had lost a trial with him a couple of months before that and he didn’t even remember him. He was cross-examining him for an hour and it never clicked that he’s representing one client against another, for crying out loud.”

“Do you have any idea how frustrating it is when one of your clients shoots another client,” Kalouderis complained. “You end up losing two clients out of the deal. Very bad for business.”

Leblanc continued as if Kalouderis had said nothing. “He’s got no idea that he’s in a serious conflict of interest and in the deepest of shit with the judge.”

“Yeah, which was too bad because I had Sauvé on the bench,” Kalouderis said. “Now that was a good judge. He even acquitted one of my black clients against some cops once.”

“I guess you weren’t so sober after all,” said Ralston.

Kalouderis ignored the last remark, adding his own details to the story.

“Let me tell you, Pete, I had to do some of my best pleading to convince him that it was all just an honest mistake and I wasn’t trying t
o pull a fast one on the court.