William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

“Yeah, you don’t look that great, Grandpa.”

“I meant to tell you yesterday that your father…he’s not able to come today.”

A painful few seconds. “He could have told me himself.”

“An important business opportunity came up, it involves some visiting Asian investors. To make up, your dad has booked the two of you for a luxury resort in Hawaii over New Year’s.”

“Fuck him.”

Arthur tried not to appear shocked but for a moment was without words. “It’s not surprising you’re upset. Your mother is unhappy about this too. Deborah will be phoning today, so you should probably stay in shouting distance. I…I’m sorry, Nick, I truly am.”

“It’s okay.” His eyes were glistening. He turned his head away.

“The woofers are doing a lamb on a spit. Why don’t you join them? Lavinia is there.”

“Maybe later.”

“And I thought we’d go out fishing again tomorrow. You can be at the helm.”

“Sure. Thanks.”

Arthur left him alone. As he pulled on his boots, he heard a sniffle, then tick-click-click from the keyboard. Outside, the mist swirled, and a distant foghorn moaned.

Dinner was served buffet-style because the drop-leaf table couldn’t accommodate all the guests, who included two software millionaires and a distinguished business lawyer. The shy Japanese woofers were in a huddle on the rug, near the Christmas tree, but Lavinia bustled about, giving a hand.

Arthur did so too, with forced exuberance, knowing he was on probation, masking the distress he felt over his grandson, who filled his plate and quietly left, returning only briefly when summoned to the phone. Nicholas Senior, calling from Whistler, on a break from his business frolic with the VIJPs. All Arthur heard was, “Okay, cool. I don’t mind. Merry Christmas too.” His face showed no emotion.

Arthur ensured that wineglasses were filled, but this was not a drinking crowd-nor were they as dull as he’d anticipated. Mind you, they didn’t have a chance to be boring. Arthur regaled them: picaresque tales about Garibaldi, recreating his role as the island’s wandering jester, his epic journey to Mount Norbert, armed with a bag of lemons. “I didn’t feel in real danger until I got home.”

Margaret joined in the laughter, forgiving at last. She had graciously invited her competition, Malcolm Lewes, a skinny vegan who checked under every lettuce leaf as if he feared to find some grub, some form of animal protein. He spoke little, seemed ill at ease, as befitted a man so badly thumped in the last election.

In response to a toast to the chef, Margaret let it be known that all the food was locally grown, fished, or raised. “This is what sustainability is all about.” Heads nodded as she decried the government’s neglect of the small farmer, its support for the agro-industries. Then she laughed. “I’m sorry, this isn’t a campaign meeting. Enjoy the food and the company. Merry Christmas.”

Malcolm Lewes put his salad down, stood tall. “I guess this is a good time to make my announcement.” He tried to smile, but the effect made him appear more forlorn. “I’ve decided we should all get behind Margaret Blake. I’m withdrawing my name.”

The loud applause must have depressed him further, but he gamely shook hands with those who came by to commend him for his sacrifice.

Arthur suspected that Margaret had somehow set this up, had spoken to someone who spoke to someone else who spoke to Lewes-that’s how he imagined such things were done in the shadowy world of politics. It bothered him that Margaret had been proving herself such a smooth operator. Was the corruption already setting in? Was a false face showing, was that an office-seeker’s smile? Watch how she circulates, a word or two for every ear, watch how she laughs at nothing very funny. Watch as she frowns at the saboteur as he sneaks off for a second helping of pie.

Also bellying up to the table was rotund Eric Schultz, a partner in a major Vancouver law firm who was probably drawing half a million a year. Several months ago, he’d shocked his peers by abandoning the Conservative Party, in which he’d been an active insider, announcing his move to the Greens in a newspaper op-ed. Arthur knew him from Bar Association events.

“Arthur, I hope there’s no house rule against trying another sliver of this delicious apple pie.”

“It’s highly addictive. I read your piece in the Globe , Eric. Admirable.” A Green Strategy for Business in a Finite World.

“Lost some clients, picked up others, smart companies, they know they have to change to survive.”

Arthur saw him fiddling with a pipe, so he led him out to the veranda for dessert and a smoke. It was dark now, after six, and the fog was thickening.

“You must be mighty proud, Arthur. Your wife has a great talent for this.”

“Runs the finest kitchen on the Gulf Islands.”

“I mean her political skills. Very persuasive woman. It seems I am to chair her campaign committee. Did it for the Tories, helped get a couple of duds elected.” He spoke confidingly: “She could pull it off, depending on how the cards play.”

Arthur sought a change of subject-their shared liking of pipes, the foggy weather, the sad state of the arts, anything-but for the moment he was too rattled to speak. Finally, he cleared his throat and said, “And how might the cards play?”

“The Libs, Tories, and New Democrats are all pretty even. With a good campaign, Margaret could win on a four-party split.”

Arthur had trouble accepting this. Malcolm Lewes won 10 per cent of the vote last time. There he was, at a window, staring into the gloom. “Well, Eric, we can only keep our fingers crossed.”

“Do you follow politics, Arthur?”

“The art is lost on me.” Arthur’s milieu had always been Conservative, his parents, his friends, law associates. He’d counted himself as an adherent without knowing why.

“By-elections favour the underdog. Voters aren’t stupid, they know the government won’t stand or fall on a single seat, so they’ll gamble on a maverick to spice things up. Someone like Margaret.”

Arthur coughed smoke. An image came of packing long johns for the flight to Ottawa. He’d never truly considered the dire prospect of her winning .

“Tell me, Arthur, you’re involved, aren’t you, in the case of this local fellow, the one alleged to have done in Whynet-Moir?”

“No, I am definitely not, but do not be surprised if Mr. Brown presently comes to the door begging me to get involved. He is the bane of my life. You knew Whynet-Moir?”

“He was once in my firm.” Schultz, puffing his pipe, seemed to ponder his further response. “Stole several choice clients and set up on his own.”

“I’d heard he was a bit of a slick fellow.” Corrupt, said Provincial Judge Ebbe, though it may have been the cocktails talking. Someone would be doing a blow for justice if he’d drop him down a well. Arthur was about to say something more but faltered as illumination came. How had he been so slow to make the connection? E.S.

“Eric, did you serve last year on the discipline committee?”

“Good, you got my note. I knew I’d be seeing you, but mailing it felt more…anonymous.”

“Your name will not be mentioned.”

“It wouldn’t do for poor Dalgleish Ebbe to have that catch up to him. Fine fellow, really, quite brilliant. His name keeps coming up for high court, but the Ministry of Justice keeps passing him over. Can’t blame him for being bitter that Whynet-Moir got the job. He’ll probably be buried forever in the bowels of the provincial court. Political correctness issues.”

Ebbe, as Arthur recalled, was dogged by a long-ago unwise comment about a rape complainant’s low-cut bodice.