As soon as Patterson finished his phone conversation, Chris went back to talk to him.
"Phil's a good guy. Bright as hell. But"—Patterson looked dubious—"I don't know how he would react to this."
"He's done it before."
"Yeah. But we weren't completely upfront that we were using him. He was a little ticked off when he found out."
"You're still on good terms with him?"
"We're tight. Like I said, he wasn't happy about it, but he knows it was a bit of a feather in his cap as a journalist."
"Being part of this case would be a much bigger and brighter feather. And this time we would be upfront about what we had in mind. Appeal to his public spirit and sense of civic duty."
"I think he'd buy into that. You will be the reliable source, I assume?"
"Yeah. I'll give him something he can't resist. Try to set up a meeting for later this afternoon. Four o'clock. I've got some business over at the courthouse before then."
The white-haired orderly gave Chris a slight nod of recognition as he stood in the marble foyer of the courthouse, looking up at the list of cases and courtrooms scrolling down the TV monitor. R. v. Harris was in courtroom 302.
The Crown had elected to first try Harris with the clerk's murder. The trial had attracted a fair number of spectators. Three media types in the front benches had open notebooks on their laps; the remainder appeared to be friends and relatives of the victim and the accused. The dead woman, Chris remembered reading, was black, so the small cluster of black people sitting on the left side would be her family and supporters. A smaller group in the straight-backed benches on the other side of the aisle would be the family of the accused. It was like a church wedding, Chris thought as he took his seat, the bride's party on the left and the groom's on the right. He didn't know the presiding judge, a woman in her mid-fifties, seated on a raised dais under the coat of arms, the scarlet sash of a justice of the Court of Queen's Bench in vivid contrast to her black robe. The accused, a balding, inoffensive-looking man, blinking behind rimless glasses, sat in the prison-er's box, watching intently as his lawyer prepared to cross-examine a witness for the prosecution.
Scott Millard, a look of polite bafflement on his snub-nosed, deceptively guileless face, stood at the lectern, resting both hands on its slanted surface as he surveyed the witness. He was wearing a barrister's court gown of black cotton, or "stuff" as it was called in court circles, with a waistcoat of the same material, a wing collar, and white tabs. He was still young, as barristers go, which explained why, despite his brilliant record of court victories and being a Bencher, he had yet to be appointed Queen's Counsel. That appointment was sure to come with the next New Year's List, thought Chris, entitling Millard to wear silk.
The witness that Millard was gazing upon so benignly was a key one for the prosecution. He was a well-known psychiatrist who had testified in his direct evidence for the Crown that the accused, although distraught, clearly knew that what he had done was wrong. As the silence grew, the psychiatrist stroked his neatly trimmed beard and nervously pursed his lips in and out.
"Tell me, Doctor," Millard began in what sounded like a throw-away question, "how much time did you spend in the company of the accused, Mr. Harris?"
The witness hesitated, looked over at the table where the Crown attorney and his junior sat, and finally mumbled, "One hour."
"One hour! That's it?"
"Yes."
"No further questions." Scott Millard gave the jury a dumbfounded look and, shaking his head, resumed his seat at the counsel table.
A murmur, quickly silenced by a glare from the bench, rippled through the audience. The family of the accused whispered excitedly among themselves.
"Court will resume at two o'clock," the judge announced, gathering up her papers.
The lawyers' locker room in the basement of the courthouse was the best place to intercept Millard. The defence lawyer would have to go there to disrobe, even if that meant, as it often did, just exchanging his gown and waistcoat for a sports jacket. Signs were posted in the basement warning that it was a restricted area with access limited to lawyers and courthouse staff. No problem there. Chris Crane was a member in good standing of the Law Society.
Chris waited just inside the entrance to the large subterranean chamber, crammed with rows of green-painted lockers and echoing with the slam of metal doors and the banter of lawyers as they changed into civilian clothes. He was beginning to wonder if Millard was going to work through the lunch break when the lawyer walked in. He paused when he saw Chris and mouthed, "Me?", pointing to himself. Chris nodded and Millard said he would be with him as soon as he put his gown and briefcase in his locker.
"I realize you are in the middle of a trial and that this might not be a good time," Chris said as Millard, sans gown and briefcase, returned. "We could meet later if you like. But," he added, "we're in the early stages of the investigation, and time is crucial right now."
"I appreciate that. The trial is just about over. I'm just calling one witness, and closing arguments won't be until tomorrow. Let's go up to the cafeteria and grab some lunch while we talk."
"Let me guess," Chris said as he and Millard picked up their trays and joined the short queue of diners filing past counters laden with food. "Your witness will be a famous psychiatrist who will have spent considerably more than an hour with the accused."
"Considerably more." Millard laughed, helping himself to a slice of blueberry pie from the pastry counter. "Several days in fact."
"I don't understand the prosecution. Leaving their star witness vulnerable like that."
"It's not entirely their fault. I know the celebrated Dr. Murray. He's an arrogant, opinionated son of a bitch who thinks he's infallible. Besides, the prosecution has consistently dismissed the insanity plea as a non-starter from the get-go. They thought all they had to do was go through the motions," Millard said as they took their seats and started to eat.
"They've probably changed their mind after what you did to Dr. Murray. Or what he did to himself."
"You think so?" Millard gave Chris a keen look and, pleased by what he saw, smiled as he pushed his empty soup bowl to one side.
"I was watching the jury. They didn't like the good doctor. Juries don't appreciate being talked down to."
"I hope you're right. If they buy the insanity defence it will make one hell of a difference for Harris. Instead of spending the rest of his life in prison, he will be sent to a mental hospital for treatment. His case will be reviewed every year and he will be released if the doctors find that he's sane. However, that's not what you're here to talk about."
The criminal lawyer seemed remarkably composed about his former lover's murder. He might have been able to find relief by immersing himself in his work. Professionals could sometimes do that. The good Lord knew trial work was challenging enough to banish all thought of anything else. "I believe you were well acquainted with Adrienne Vinney?" Chris began.
"Well acquainted? That's one way of putting it, I guess. We had an affair. It lasted several months, but that's been over now for the better part of a year. Her call."
"How did you feel about that?"
"How do you think I felt? I loved her. More than I've ever loved anyone in my life. Or ever will again." Millard paused for a sip of coffee. "But I've come to accept that she was right. The relationship—I hate that word—would never have worked in the long run. Not with each of us having separate, totally demanding careers. Not to mention outsize egos." Putting down the cup, he looked Chris in the eye. "I gather she died a horrible death?"
"As you know, there's not much I can tell you about that. But it was pretty grim, all right."
"The thought of her in the hands of a serial killer makes my skin crawl." For the first time the lawyer let his emotion show. "Are you going to catch the guy? That's a stupid question, I know."
"We're