William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

After the guests left, Arthur did tai chi on the grass. It had been a long time since he’d performed these graceful movements, and he felt the tension melt from him, leaving only melancholy from Nick’s sweet parting words. Afterwards, he wandered along the beach. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he began, “hallowed in our law is the concept of reasonable doubt…”

Finally, an off-day for Wentworth, and after a lie-in during which he replayed, critiqued, and catalogued the boss’s duel with Florenza, he set out for the office on his Outback. It was a warm day in the winter’s dying, but he was blue. Arthur had started off brilliantly, but struggled at the end, like a great opera singer who could no longer reach the high notes. Where was the Pavarotti of the legendary sixties, of the late eighties, the golden decade after he went off the sauce?

An even deeper concern: where was this trial was going? The jury wouldn’t hear from Cud. No defence evidence at all. Florenza LeGrand will have got the last word. She hadn’t been shy about being seen as spoiled and loose, and in fact was so candid about it she gained credibility. Arthur will have to pull it together for his speech.

It was mid-morning as he dismounted. He was confounded to find Brian Pomeroy arguing with the scrawny born-again outside the Leap of Faith Prayer Centre.

“Find refuge in the arms of Jesus.”

“Sorry, I’m an idolater.”

“Come home, my friend, come into the lap of Jesus.”

“That’s my graven image.” He gestured at Gassy Jack, pigeon excreta dripping over his eyes. “Who are these people, Wentworth, why have they been allowed to defile our neighbourhood?”

How did he know Wentworth was here? His back was to him. A madman’s sixth sense, or he’d seen Wentworth reflected in the plate glass.

“Let Jesus enter your heart.”

“Can he cure the insane? That’s my problem, pal, I’m an escapee from a nut house.” Brian grabbed Wentworth’s elbow, pulled him toward the door. “I’m not supposed to leave without an escort.” He looked quickly about. “I want you to keep an eye out for the Facilitator.”

In the elevator, he asked, “Are you like the rest of them, Wentworth, do you think I’m crazy?”

“You don’t seem so bad right now.”

“I am free of him.”

“Who?”

“Hector Widgeon. I finished it.” He waggled a CD at Wentworth. “Needs an edit, that’s all.” His other hand held Widgeon’s how-to book, from which he recited in a machinelike voice: “‘The editing process. Now you may touch and fondle every word and phrase, enjoying the fruits of your sweat.’ Sounds like fucking.”

“How does your book end?”

“Widgeon did it. He kept a list of judges.”

The regular receptionist was at her desk, but they found April Wu at a cubicle near Pomeroy’s office. “I’ve made eight appointments for you this week, Wentworth. Business is rolling in.” For the lawyer who leaked the affidavit-that was the sum total of his fame from this trial.

Pomeroy handed her the disk. “I have to get back. Caroline’s coming. Where are the pages you did?”

“On your desk, Brian.”

“Caroline’s coming,” he repeated. “This afternoon.” He wandered off to the office.

“He seems better,” April said. “You cut yourself.” It tingled where she touched Wentworth’s chin. She wasn’t wearing a bra today; you could see the breathtaking bumps of her nipples under that loose top.

“How was your weekend?” he asked.

“Lonely.”

What was her scheme?

Pomeroy roared from his office, slamming his door. “Pigeons! They’re flying and shitting all over my office!” He was terror-struck.

He was definitely not better. April was on the phone, dialing for an ambulance maybe, or Hollyburn Hall.

“Pigeons! Call the exterminator! I have pigeons!”

He was frantic and loud, his arms flailing. A crowd gathered, Brovak, Augustina, secretaries, frightened clients. “They’ve come, they’ve finally come!”

“Who let Pomeroy out?” Brovak yelled. “Anyone got a fucking straitjacket?” He pinned Pomeroy’s arms.

April opened the office door. “See, Brian, there’s…”

Pigeons. That’s what Wentworth saw from behind her, pigeons were flying and shitting all over. Three of them. A window was partly raised, and Wentworth threw it all the way up, and it took a while to shoo the birds out. The receptionist confessed. “I’m sorry, it was so stuffy in here.”

“When one opens a window visitors will come,” April said, out of breath, her breasts dancing with the rise and fall of her chest, causing Wentworth weakness.

Pomeroy was finally enticed back in. He stared down at his neat ring-bound manuscript. Kill All the Judges , a wet, white turd leaking down the side.

Cud came in at noon with a cheese and salami hero, crumpled the wrapper, and scored a three-pointer into the waste basket. “I’m going to open my heart, Woodward. Here’s the real deal.” He took a chomp out of his sandwich.

Wentworth wasn’t holding out much hope for the real deal.

“She wasn’t there.” Talking with his mouth full.

“What?”

“Florenza. She wasn’t there when I woke up. She wasn’t in the maid’s bedroom. This is going to be a little embarrassing.” Putting aside his sandwich, patting his pockets. “Do citizens have civil rights here or is the no-smoking bylaw taken seriously?”

Wentworth didn’t want to cramp his style. He gave him a saucer, opened the fire escape window. He could take it now. Hadn’t had a bout of hiccups for three days.

“I’m sort of half-asleep, and I reach out my arm for her, and she’s not there, nowhere, and I’m awake now and I hear this blood-curdling scream, followed by a thump. I’m still real hammered, okay, and I’m not sure if I’m hearing things, but that scream sounded like Whynet-Moir, like shrill. I jump up and I don’t see nothing at first, then there’s this guy, like this shadowy figure running down the stairs to the pool until he’s out of view. Don’t ask me for any description, maybe he had suspenders, I was too pie-eyed to get a lasting impression.”

Wentworth made notes. He had his barriers up, but this had the ring of truth.

“By this time I was halfway into my clothes, man, I was out the door pulling on my pants. I was spooked, even my short hairs were standing up. I must have grabbed my sock and boots, I don’t remember putting them on. The thing is, man, I panicked, I turned yellow. I have to admit it.”

Wentworth could see it, his famous machismo deserting him, a humiliation. Real men don’t turn chicken and flap off in panic.

“I admit my reaction was totally out of nature for me. Maybe I can shade it a bit in court because the guy left before I had a chance to pull myself together.”

“He left.”

“Yeah, I heard like a door slamming, a car door, and an engine, so he must’ve took off. But now I’m looking at another possible calamity. I instinctively knew some bad thing had happened, an axe murder, Christ knows, and I’m a person of interest, man, I’m the logical suspect. I’m not saying these were all coherent thoughts, it was like my subconscious was taking over, a flight impulse, whatever. I don’t remember getting into the Aston, I don’t remember none of that, I’d gone off the air.”

Cud had cried wolf so often that Wentworth couldn’t tell if he was being bamboozled. Rubbed to a fine polish, could this account sway the jury? “I have to tell you, Cud, that Mr. Beauchamp thinks you’re better off not taking the stand. There are a number of reasons for this-”