William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

Lance ignored the question. He wasn’t going to let this smart aleck stereotype him. “Did you tell your lawyer you were coming to see me?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because he’s an idiot. I don’t trust him.”

“Brian Pomeroy?”

“That’s the one.”

Delete, delete. What had been reborn with promise has evolved into self-flagellating mockery. A detour typical of the drooling nutter he had become, prompted by the mess he’d made of Cudworth’s appointment on Friday.

Follow Brian, as he flashes back to his session with Cud, to restored Gastown, its cobblestone streets and tchotchke shops and failed chic, to Maple Tree Square, where the raw, rowdy Downtown East Side begins, where timorous tourists turn back.

The ground and second floors of his firm’s building were occupied by Club d’Jazz, an exponential improvement over the last tenants and their nausea-inducing singalongs. Brian’s third-floor digs offered views of pigeons strutting on the outer sill, whitewashing it with their excrement. He kept his windows closed, he feared those birds, was obsessed with images of them flying in and shitting all over. His partners had relegated him to this office because he wasn’t showing up regularly. Macarthur, Brovak, and Sage: fickle friends who’d stopped expressing sympathy over his divorce, in fact had stopped talking to him. But they talked about him. He spied them once in a while gawking, whispering.

He wasn’t taking many cases these days. A motor manslaughter plea coming up. A couple of misdemeanours, a fraud. And this one, referred to him by the immortal Arthur Beauchamp, who hinted there was glory to be won by so enterprising a counsel as Brian Pomeroy.

Cudworth had done only one smart thing on the night he got busted. As Detective Sergeant Chekoff was pouring coffee into him, trying to sober him up for the third degree, he asked to make a call to Arthur, who advised him to shut up.

Brian had summoned Cud to the office because he’d lost his notes from his earlier interview. Nothing in the file but the bail papers. With surprising ease, during a lucid interval, Brian had got a judge to agree to a property bond.

Part of his problem in getting his ass in gear was that the Attorney General had appointed as special prosecutor a well-known feminist shit disturber named Abigail Hitchins, with whom, many years ago, Brian had a bizarre, disastrous affair. He didn’t have the gumph to phone her-he couldn’t seem to get drunk enough. As a result, he hadn’t got around to getting her particulars of evidence. He should do that one of these days, especially since there’ll be no preliminary inquiry-the A.-G. wanted a speedy end to this sensitive matter, so he’d indicted directly to trial.

No sooner had Cud Brown sat down when these words popped out of Brian’s mouth: “Would you be willing to take a plea to manslaughter?”

What had possessed him to be so bold and obvious? Maybe a mental short-circuit, a disconnect, a fast rewind to his motor manslaughter file, an insurance agent who drove over a squeegee kid.

At any rate, Cud lost it. Went storming around, scaring the pigeons and the secretaries. Worse, he tattled to Arthur Beauchamp, who left a voice mail asking about this manslaughter nonsense. Brian’s cellphone was off now, he didn’t want to talk to Arthur, to anyone. He was disturbed, distressed, disordered, dysfunctional, the Latin prefix for apart, to pieces . At least the earlier panic had dissipated. He was learning how to get along with his breakdown, learning how to deal with people and not give himself away. It was an art.

He poured another tequila, got up to empty his ashtray. He’d have to make a run for more smokes. The bar downstairs never had his brand, and the waiters and the low-lifes who hung out there were always wanting legal advice. He was known here at the Ritz, he’d beat a gaming rap for the owner. Yeah, Cuddles, that’s why Lance Valentine is in this pissy location; his creator gets cheap rent. Room 305, with its own sink, shitter, and shower. Furniture from about 1959. Prints on the walls by some unheralded Wild West artist. Brian identified with one of them: an unhorsed cowboy in a cattle stampede.

He played with his phone, stared out at the busy street, a squad car moving slowly, checking faces. A dealer fading into the shadows under the awning of Quick Loans, No References Required. Harry the Need, purveyor of quality off-the-shelf smack, flake, and meth. A whore shouted an endearment to the cops, and they joked with her, then moved on. Time for another Xanax. He took it with tequila.

It was just after ten. Abigail, like most witches, never slept. She answered on the first ring.

“It’s Brian.”

“For Christ’s sake, I have friends over.” A background babble.

“What kind of case have you got against Cud Brown?”

“Bry, are you drunk?”

“Yes, I am.”

Abigail must have withdrawn to a quieter room because the noise lessened. “Take my advice, check yourself into a clinic for the fucked up.”

“I forget, when’s the trial?”

“Mid-February.”

Things were starting to spin. He couldn’t remember why he called her. The Crown evidence, the particulars, that’s what he needed. He was having trouble pronouncing the word.

“Get back to me when you’re normal. I couriered them a month ago.”

“To my office?”

“Yeah, go there much? Get a pencil. I can now release the name of the eyewitness.”

“Eyewitness?”

“Homicide, please, Detective Sergeant Chekoff…Yes, I’ll hold, tell him it’s Lance Valentine.” He covered the receiver and swivelled back toward Cud, who was gazing at the silhouette of Rosy Chekoff. Pert nose, plumlike mouth, taut bosom, big hair.

“I know Pomeroy,” Lance said. “He’s one of the best.”

“He ain’t on top of it! He asked me to cop to manslaughter!”

“That’s one of his tricks. He wanted to see your reaction, assess how strongly you believed in yourself.”

“Bullshit.” Cud plopped back into his chair. Lance wasn’t sure if he wanted to help out this hayseed poet with his slightly rancid smell and sour attitude. He didn’t seem to have unlimited funds-this would be a costly endeavour. Yet he was intrigued.

The first thing Hank Chekoff said when he finally came on the line was, “Is Rosy all right?” Possessive and distrustful was this porcine suburban copper. He often showed up at the end of the day to drive Rosy home. He wasn’t happy about her working here.

“She’s doing incredibly well, old boy, working her little, ah, head off. It’s about his late Lordship Rafael Whynet-Moir.”

“Why do you think I know anything about the file?”

“Because with your experience and skill you’d most likely have been assigned to it.” Rosy had actually mentioned he had the file. “Give me your honest assessment, Hank, how tight is it?”

“What’s your interest? Who do you represent?”

“Can’t divulge, strict instructions. But…let’s say a major underwriter is curious to know if it’s homicide or suicide, in which latter case they don’t have to make payment.”

A hesitation. “You’re talking big money?”

“Big.”

“Tell your clients to pony up. A prominent lady of unblemished character saw the judge get shoved off by this Cud Brown creep.”

“Good view?”

“Excellent. Deck to deck. The judge’s neighbour. Hey, let me speak to Rosy after.”

Lance got what he could from him, then switched him to Rosy and swivelled to watch her react. She turned and gave him a tired smile, as if to say, Thanks, but I didn’t really want to talk to him.

He may have erred in hiring Rosy. She’d been as worthy as the dozen others he’d interviewed, with the bonus of being breathtakingly scenic, but he’d taken her on before learning her husband was a copper, and now there were complications. Hank may have heard exaggerated rumours about Lance’s reputation with the fair, yet decidedly unfair, sex. The last thing Lance needed was a jealous cop tailing him around town.