Steve Martini - Prime Witness

“In that case,” says Claude, “we’d also like some photographs of any marks left on the security guard by the device.”

“Sure. We can do that. I don’t know what marks are there, but we can check.

“Now,” he says, “I presume you’ve started the documentation? To complete the extradition application?” He shifts gears.

I assure him that this is in the works. I have talked to Goya about helping me when I get back, a bone to try to keep her content, until I can do something more.

“Good,” he says. He looks at me, a serious expression, to see that I have grasped the import of this.

“In extradition,” he says, “the devil is in the details. The documents are king.”

He is right. This is black-letter law of the worst kind. The most rigid areas of law are those governed by printed statutes where strict adherence to law and procedure is the difference between success and failure, conviction and acquittal.

“There’s an interesting issue,” says Jacoby. “A little ticklish, but we may as well broach it now. . ”

“What’s that?”

“The matter of capital punishment.”

I look at him.

“I don’t know whether you’re aware,” he says, “but the death penalty is a highly charged subject up here. Canada abolished it some years ago. It complicates questions of extradition at times.”

I look back at him. Jacoby knows he now has my full attention.

“Surely this is not a problem here?” I say. “Not in this case?”

Jacoby makes a face.

“I wouldn’t be so sure. It’s all part of our treaty, the U.S.-Canadian extradition treaty. Been in there for years,” he says. “Either country can refuse to return a suspect if that person is subject to execution in the other state. All perfectly aboveboard. It’s a question of political policy, addressed outside of the formal extradition process.”

I look over at Claude, whose creased and thinning face has dropped nearly to the table top. The lawyers at the State Department in Washington have not told us that this could be a problem.

“Surely I thought you were aware of this,” says Jacoby.

“I knew of the provision,” I say. “I was not aware that it might be a problem in this case.”

“I would expect that the extradition hearing will go smoothly. We have talked about the evidence,” he says. “It appears to be solid. This can be provided by sworn declaration.

“But,” he says, pausing for a little effect, “our minister of justice, while a tough woman, sadly she sees little social benefit in capital punishment.” He arches an eyebrow as if to say that he himself does not understand this.

“You think there’s a chance your minister of justice may decline to send Iganovich back south unless we agree to waive the death penalty?” I ask.

“There is that chance,” he says.

“You aren’t serious?” says Claude. “This man has murdered six people, and you want guarantees that we will not execute him if he’s convicted. Not likely,” says Claude.

I nudge him with my knee below the table. Like most of his brothers of the badge, diplomacy is not one of Claude’s polished charms.

“You must understand. There will be a great deal of controversy and press attention to this case as it wends its way through our courts.” He wrinkles an eyebrow, his way of telling me that politicians in this country are subject to the same forces of political gravity as those south of the border. They crumble under pressure. As I sit and stare at him I begin to wonder how I will break this news to Emil Johnson and the county fathers back in Davenport, that no matter how remote, that in the political seas in which they all swim, I may have to deal away the prospect of a death sentence for a stone-cold killer. If I know them, and I think I do, I sense that we are about to enter a game of international chicken with the only question-who will blink first.

The jail for the city of Vancouver is a block building five stories high, situated in the old city center. The surrounding buildings, many of them aging brick, are now run-down.

Jacoby leads the way. He has called ahead to let them know we are coming. Inside he hooks up with a guard, a man in a neatly pressed uniform, light blue shirt with epaulets of rank, and dark pants.

He leads us through a series of three-inch-thick steel doors, like airlocks, all controlled from a room behind one-way mirrored glass. We pass through a visitors’ area, a few inmates socializing with family, wives and kids.

“This is the main conference room,” says the guard. “They are waiting for you in here.” He opens the door. There are two metal tables placed end-to-end, bolted to the floor, scarred wooden chairs around them. Iganovich’s Canadian lawyer has stopped off on his way from court like a doctor on his rounds.

Jacoby makes the introductions.

Benson-Harrington is by all appearances an amiable man, professional in his approach, exuding no real venom.

Claude is busy sizing up the defendant. Andre Iganovich is seated at the head of the table. A surly look on his face, he is not interested in partaking of these social festivities. I am certain that this distance he maintains from us is something that sits well with his lawyer.

Iganovich is maybe thirty-five, brown hair in a crew cut, an unremarkable face, a little lopsided, thin and narrow with deep-set, dark eyes, somewhat haunted as if he is still dazed by his capture and the events of the last week. The only exceptionable feature are his teeth. They are stained a dingy gray-brown, and spaced like broken pickets in a fence. Like many from the impoverished places of Europe, it is a countenance that most resembles pictures I have seen from the last century, yellowed and aged daguerreotypes of flatland farmers and back-hill country boys sent off to fight and die in the Civil War.

He smiles at me, fleetingly. It is an expression that sends a slight chill through my body, raises the tiny hairs on the nape of my neck. His is a somewhat dense appearance, one that conveys the same native predatory message as a cruising shark, a look that makes me glad that we are not alone in this room.

I hear the door open behind me.

“Ah.” Benson-Harrington is suddenly all animation. “Your American counterpart,” he says. “You two must meet. Let me do the honors.”

I turn to look. The smile on my face fades like a dying gas lamp. There before me, centered in the frame of the door, is the now familiar if aged face of Adrian Chambers.

“We’re already acquainted,” he says, then like his client, the lawyer offers me only a forbidding and humorless smirk.

The drone of the jet engines is lulling me to sleep. Claude and I are taking the red-eye from Vancouver south, and I am lost somewhere between slumberland and the snickering visage of Adrian Chambers.

Iganovich has now formally declined to waive extradition. On this Chambers has counseled him, along with the more reserved Benson-Harrington. From their vantage point there is little to lose other than the good will of a state that wants to execute their client.

Claude scrunches down a little in his chair, the back reclining as far as it will go. He rolls his head in my direction and plants the question I have been waiting for.

“How did you two meet,” he says, “you and Adrian Chambers?” Along with everyone else present at our meeting, Claude has sensed the obvious hostility between us.

“We go way back,” I say.

“Bad blood usually does,” he tells me.

“A high-profile defense can be good for your practice,” I tell him. “It can breed new clients. But in this case, part of his motive is also a well-inspired vendetta,” I tell Claude. “Something from Dante’s Inferno.”