William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

“There used to be discipline.”

“Too much TV.”

“Kids today, they’re lazy. Manfred, old boy, can you switch to the local news?”

Arthur was hiding behind the codgers, in his little cove, working his way through a chef’s salad, determined to get his strength up for his reception on Garibaldi, a chilly one if he returned ignobly from his quest: the averted eyes, the throat clearings, the commiserative mumbles. “Well, you tried.”

Here was Margaret in high definition, poking her ballot in the slot. Cut to a quickie interview outside the polling place. “I’m exhausted. I’m hopeful. The choice is in the people’s hands.”

The same routine for the other main candidates, followed by an unfunny sidebar, a costumed independent running for the Clown Party. Arthur dialed Margaret’s cell, left a message. “‘The choice is in the people’s hands.’ A splendid example of iambic pentameter. As in, ‘Love’s gentle spring doth always fresh remain.’ As mine remains for you.”

Disconnecting, he muttered, “How corny, Beauchamp,” then looked up to find himself staring into the penetrating silver eyes of Caroline Pomeroy.

“Corny? Not at all. Lovely, in fact, Arthur. How blessed Margaret is to have a partner who quotes from Venus and Adonis instead of Inspector Grodgins’s Last Case .” She pulled up a chair. “Are women actually allowed in here?” A mocking look about, a sardonic smile-how twinned she was with her ex-husband, her duelling counterpart.

“The bill of rights says so, but you wouldn’t know it. The ladies get frozen out.”

The habitues had checked her out with reproving looks, squirms of discomfort. Even Manfred looked haughty and displeased as he took her order for a whisky sour.

“The last bastion of male hegemony. I’m surprised at you, Arthur.”

“Ah, well, old habitats die hard. They leave you alone here. If it helps, I put eight women on the jury.”

“How magnanimous of you.”

The trial, the by-election, the travails of a divorced mother of three-these topics canvassed, she said, “Shall we move on to the main topic of this evening’s symposium? The headless horseman of Hollyburn. What would cause him to fake a stab at suicide? Lord knows. We talked of the children, of course, and I told him-and I almost grieve to say it-that they deeply miss him.” A moment to muse. “As do I, in an aberrant way. ‘I, the Masochist,’ it’s the title of one of my stories.”

“I especially enjoyed your portraits from the barrens of academia. You got my note?”

“Yes, and thank you. I spoke to him about my taking Gabriela, Amelia, and Frank to Ireland. Not as a dig or taunt-I actually encouraged him to visit. Trinity College, Dublin. Wilde, Shaw, Joyce, Yeats. A shrine. Never mind. That didn’t set him off. He said, yes, he’d like to visit.”

“He sounds to have been unusually…together.”

“Oh, there was much of the same unintelligible gallimaufry I’d heard on the phone. Otherwise, he was desperately trying to be on his best behaviour. I suppose he feels there’s some…” She shrugged.

“Hope? Is there?”

“Hope? Not till he has a lobotomy.” She snapped back her drink. “Loneliness is easier, chicken soup for the fucking soul. Though I have to admit he does scintillate against the dullsville of the professoriate.”

A glistening in her eyes caused Arthur discomfort. “Manfred, I think we have an empty glass here.”

Manfred did his duty with a snotty lack of enthusiasm. “I’ll bet you hate being called Man Friday,” Caroline said.

“A fake suicide, you said.”

“I did twenty years’ hard time with Bry; I used to know when he was lying or faking, but now maybe it’s all lies and fakery. Yes, he had a breakdown, yes, he got wired on toot, and yeah, his shrink probably nailed it with her acute substance-induced delusional whatever. As illustrated by that literary grotesquery he’s been potting about with.”

“A fair description. I’ve been reading it.”

“If he’s been off cocaine for nearly two weeks, why is he still crackers?”

“They say it takes time.”

“Maybe. Or it’s all a game.”

“He frequently mentioned you when I saw him. He said you got sucked in. Everything happened because of you.”

“He got junked up and went crazy because of me? Endearing. If you see him again, don’t let him show you his Cuban photos. I humoured him. Beaches, babes, 1960 Plymouths, Habana Vieja, boring, boring. When he went out for a smoke, I dug back further on his hard drive and saw pictures of his rat hole in the Ritz, with its seedy street views. He’d been taking snaps of his so-called followers, one of them the pizza delivery guy. Another was a bongo player. Portraits of the weird. Some cluck in a suit who looked like he’d just vomited off a dock.”

Arthur checked his watch. “I suspect my jury are returning from dinner. I should get back to the courts.”

“I’ll drive you.”

Looking down over the great hall, checking his watch obsessively, Arthur was having one of his rare addiction attacks. Caroline’s whisky sours had been the visual trigger, and memories had given it muscle, memories of tense hours, tense nights, waiting for juries, the antidote for nail-biting a mug of whisky or a tall gin. But tonight his only solace, if you could call it that, was Kill All the Judges , which he’d ploughed through to its confusing ending. Some flashes of wit. Bizarrely entertaining. Unpublishable.

It was exactly two minutes to eight. He expected the chief would call time out around nine. Attendance was down, only diehards remained, just a handful of Cud loyalists. Only two reporters left. Silent Shawn had not returned from dinner break. Wentworth had gone off somewhere to pace and fret, having picked up that the boss didn’t want to be bothered right now.

Here was Dalgleish Ebbe, giving up for the evening, leaving. The judge, who’d avoided Arthur all through the trial, seemed uncertain whether to respond to his beckoning finger. But then he joined him.

“I’m curious, Dalgleish, at your devotion to this case.”

“Ah, but I’m your devoted fan, Arthur. Always a treat to see you in action. Brilliant speech, by the way.”

“Thank you. A couple of holes have been opened up on the superior court benches. I presume your name is being considered.”

“Having been left at the altar multitudinous times, I’m beyond any reasonable expectation.”

“Nonsense, an erudite fellow like you is wasted on the lower court.” Arthur dug into his briefcase. “Of course, you may not want this to fall into the wrong hands.” Passing him the fax from the Law Society’s Discipline Committee.

Ebbe gaped at it, his critique of Raffy: “Someone would be doing a blow for justice if he’d drop him down a well.”

“Fuck me,” said the erudite judge.

“Good luck,” Arthur said, then sidled over to a headset-equipped radio reporter. It was eight o’clock. The polls had closed in Cowichan and the Islands.

“Any results yet?”

“I promise to let you know, Mr. Beauchamp.”

Ten minutes later, she called him over. “One poll out of 160. Mosquito Flats. O’Malley thirteen, Blake eleven, the Clown two.”

He retreated to his reserved space by the concrete railing. There hadn’t been a whisper from Kroop’s chambers. The old boy was probably taking a nap. Cud was walking in circles down below. The looks he’d been giving Arthur reflected felt insult and betrayal. His neighbour, his compadre, the famed barrister who was supposed to have walked away with this one, had slammed him, shamed him.

He approached the newswoman again. “Coming in now,” she said. “Twelve polls heard from, Conservatives 1,008, Green 875, NDP 610, no one else close.” Arthur went off to fret. The NDP was holding, bad news. But these must be the mining and lumber camps, small polls quickly counted.