William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

“Rafael-Raffy, we used to call him-lobbied hard for his judgeship. You’d see him at federal Conservative functions, attaching himself to the justice minister, for whom, by the way, he served as a political aide in Ottawa several years ago, before the Conservatives took office. He made a substantial campaign contribution in 2006, the year he was appointed. I happen to know he wasn’t the first choice of the PM or half the Cabinet, but the minister fought like a tiger and got him in.”

Schultz was speaking carefully, but the insinuation was that money passed under the table-Judge Ebbe had made the accusation more boldly. There was a local angle here, an eerie convergence: appallingly, Margaret Blake could succeed that minister, the late Jack Boynton, as the Member for Cowichan and the Islands.

“Whynet-Moir’s appointment came after he began squiring Florenza LeGrand about,” Schultz said. “The romantic legend is that he then proposed. She probably decided it would be groovy to be a judge’s wife.”

“Groovy?” The word sounded old-fashioned even in Schultz’s mouth.

“Florenza is still a hippie at thirty-three.”

“If one assumes, Eric, that Whynet-Moir bought his judgeship, what motive might anyone have for doing him in?”

“A cover-up?” He shrugged. “Brown’s counsel might want to check it out.”

A good idea. Why was Arthur even blathering on about this case? “Brian Pomeroy. I’m in frequent contact with him.” Was that so? He hadn’t talked to him for a couple of weeks. He guessed Schultz knew more than he was letting on. He seemed uncommonly interested in the case, so Arthur asked him why.

“Well, this Cudworth Brown. Here’s a fellow who was up a tree for two weeks with the Green Party candidate for Cowichan and the Islands. Wouldn’t do to have him convicted of murder. Not at all.”

Arthur puffed in grim silence. It bothered him that Margaret had joined the multitudes urging him to defend Cud. Why would she care?

He was about to suggest they retreat into the warmth of the house when they both jumped at what sounded like a shot. No, Arthur decided, a backfire. A lone headlight coming through the mist, a poorly muffled engine. A flatbed drew up to the house, Stoney grinning at the wheel. Beside him was Dog, a short, squat compatriot. Next to Dog was the even shorter Hamish McCoy. In the back was the legal fee, the twelve-foot Icarus, strapped down on a foamy, a red flag hanging from his toe.

“Where do you want it?” said Stoney, rolling down the window, letting out a cloud of cannabis-flowered air so thick that Schultz reared back.

“Sorry,” Arthur mumbled, “this was unexpected.”

McCoy left the cab, came to the steps, looking at the many parked cars. “Didn’t know you was having a do tonight, but merry Christmas all the same.”

“No, no, come in, meet some friends.” Arthur realized too late that was a mistake.

“Hope we didn’t miss dessert,” said Stoney, advancing with a lit joint. “Anyone want a hit of this?” Schultz shied away again. Dog stumbled drunkenly from the truck, clutching a can of beer, and simultaneously drank from it while pissing on the lawn.

“Arthur, can I speak to you for a moment?” Margaret said, standing sternly at the door.

Okay, I admit it, I was in hog heaven at the capitalist trough, quaffing wine and spooning up a third helping of creme brulee. Crisis over, Flo was snickering, and the ring I’d butter-fingered off her was in my pocket. Incidentally, I still have it-did I mention that? The coppers released it to me after I got bail-I told them it was mine, to protect her.

Anyway, I figured if things went right, I could be Florenza’s kept lover, her toy boy, no more living in a beach shack on Garibaldi. Maybe she’d set me up in a penthouse over English Bay. You changed my life. Okay, your turn, you change mine.

Little did I know that this romantic comedy was about to morph into high tragedy. But I was deaf to inner whispers Flo was going to cut me loose after I provided fast, fast relief for needs that weren’t being met by the fuzz-nutted pucker-ass over there. He had nods and smiles for everyone but me, maybe because the last time he looked my way I was wiping globs of butter from my hand with a napkin.

Meantime, he was mewling over the important lesbian novelist, urging her to read from her new book. Not much opposition from her. She stood, smiled, said something self-deprecating, read a page or two about a woman on her fifth unhappy marriage.

I’d stopped drinking, mainly because my bladder had swelled to the size of Hudson Bay. I didn’t want anyone to see my pants were slimed with butter, so I waited till the moment was ripe, when everyone was applauding her, to slip away, grab my pack because I’ve got a change of jeans in there. I can’t find the nearest sandbox, though they’ve probably got a dozen of them, so I breeze outside and wee on the grass, the way you’d do at any function on Garibaldi.

I’m behind the Lamborghini, maybe getting a little spray on the back fender, and I don’t know what attracts the curiosity of its owner, maybe my groans of relief, but here he comes, the insufferable snob in the shiny shoes, just in time to catch me shaking off behind his priceless ragtop.

He stops like he just walked into a wall when he sees I’m not zipping up, I’m lowering my gaunches, my balls and pecker dangling. Slowly, very slowly, he starts backing away, pointing a remote control, setting the car alarm, I figured, because I hear a little bleep. He disappears, I pull on fresh jeans.

Back inside, everyone was shuffling around with coffees and cognacs, except for Flo and a couple of other smokers, who were out on the deck. Shiny Shoes couldn’t look me in the eye, and him and his wife left early. Last I saw of him he was checking to make sure I hadn’t jacked off all over his backup lights.

Whynet-Moir was trying to get the other lady writer to read, but she declined, and I’m feeling affronted that he doesn’t ask me. In case you didn’t know, that’s one of my fortes, doing readings; I get the crowd up at the coffee bars on Commercial Drive. Especially when I’ve had a few, like now.

I go out to the deck, bum one off Flo, a Gitanes, a prestige cigarette, I guess, but it smells like a burning tar pit. One of the tycoons and his spouse are out here too, him with a cigar. Mr. and Mrs. Bagley, he’s CEO of a frozen food conglomerate. “When do we get a chance to hear you read?” he asks.

Exactly my thought, but I’m demure. “Aw, I don’t know, it’s getting late.” I glance inside, and Whynet-Moir still has his back to me.

The spouse chimes in, “Oh, please, just one poem.”

Florenza looks at her watch, as if to affirm it’s getting late.

“We insist,” Bagley says, and he dinches his cigar and runs in to fetch Whynet-Moir. Mrs. Bagley goes off to get another drink.

The hostess pats my right buttock in a sort of proprietary way, like it’s something she owns and values. “The Bagleys will be the last to go, they tend to cling. I’ll have to start yawning.”

Then she pulls out my books again and asks if I know her well enough by now to sign them. I figured I had sufficient information on her, given I’d recently had my hand up her dress, but I didn’t have any bon mots quick at hand. She told me “Never Regret” was one of her favourite poems, so I wrote that. And for the other book, Karmageddon , she wanted a line from its title track. It goes, “New love blooms as the old lies dying.”

As I’m scribbling these out, she says, “How does a steam and a swim later sound?”