An assistant Crown attorney swung past us in the hallway, his black gown billowing. He snickered and called back over his shoulder, “Don’t hold back, MacPhee. How do you really feel about Thorsten?”
“Jackass,” I muttered.
Mombourquette pulled out a handkerchief and wiped the back of his neck. “Gonna be a scorcher. Enough to make you hope the trial drags on until July. I’d like it to be cool for my remaining days.”
“Hard to believe it’s your last twenty.”
“One hundred and sixty hours, but who’s counting.”
“Excellent. Let’s go watch the circus.”
You would think, with a case of this magnitude, that courtroom 23 would be standing room only, but there were fewer than twenty people in the room, not counting judge, jury, plaintiffs, court staff, cops, and a solitary reporter. Even so, the early morning scents of aftershave and fruity shampoo were gradually being replaced by sweat and overheated footwear. The few people in the room were buzzing softly. Madam Justice Pierrette Lafontaine sat purse-lipped at the bench. I wondered idly what that would do to her signature red lipstick. My sisters tell me that’s a dated look, but on Judge Lafontaine, it sent a powerful message: Don’t mess with me or I’ll drink your blood. She feared nothing. Especially not passing trends. Maybe that’s why I always admired her.
The Crown attorney fidgeted like a kid awaiting Christmas morning. Would Santa bring him closing arguments that would lead to a conviction? And eventually a life sentence? Or would some small word or concern reduce the sentence to the lower end of the scale? Twenty-five with no parole would be good for the Crown attorney’s career. It would help in moving up and out.
I glanced around for my friend P. J. Lynch, who covered the courts for the Ottawa Citizen, but there was no sign of his carrot top and gap-toothed grin.
In between eyeing the prisoner’s dock with amusement, the Crown appeared to be flirting with his blonde colleague. I assumed she was a new assistant Crown and I figured the ink wasn’t dry on her yet. The rumour among those who cared was that she was so good, she would leave him in the dust. I certainly hoped so.
There were no legal aid lawyers for Brugel. He could afford to hire and fire the very best. Rollie was Brugel’s third lawyer and perhaps his most expensive.
On the right side of the line of lawyers, a thin and jittery young man glanced behind him, his forehead furrowed in concern. He was wearing a navy suit that seemed to have been intended for a larger man. From my previous court visits, I recognized Jamie Kilpatrick. He loosened his white shirt collar with his fingers. I knew he was the one junior lawyer that Rollie had on his payroll. In this case, rumour had it that the indentured serf took care of all the work, while Rollie did whatever you do when you’re a scum-sucking bottom dweller. Although right at that moment, the scum-sucker was nowhere to be seen. The hapless Jamie seemed even more nervous than usual.
Maybe Rollie was in the men’s room, adjusting his handmade silk tie. He was as expensive as he was effective, and he did look very good in Harry Rosen suits. I took comfort in the thought that even he was not likely to win this time.
Brugel faced the bench and the jury behind bulletproof glass. The rest of us got a view of his shaved head gleaming, his neck as thick as a fire hydrant. He was one scary dude. He’d built a business running drugs and prostitutes, with extortion as a sideline, and yet, he’d never done a minute’s federal time. He gave the impression he thought he was top dog in this court, and he’d probably be in charge behind bars too.
The Crown maintained that Brugel had ordered the crime, and an underling named Guérin had delivered. Guérin’s own legal team had cleaned him up, cut his hair, somehow even covered the jailhouse tattoos on his neck, but he’d still oozed criminality. Some gifted dentist had done a cosmetic job on his teeth, no doubt using the proceeds of a couple of wasted young lives. But no cosmetic procedures could fix those hard, dead eyes. They were the kind of eyes you might expect on someone who had dumped a bound and injured competitor into a car and set it on fire. That fire had spread to the victim’s home, killing his seven-year old daughter and leaving Laurie Roulay, his common-law wife, with scars from the third degree burns. That’s what she got for trying to save her child. Guérin was a guy with fifty priors, who’d already served more than ten years in prison, not counting the misdeeds no one had ever pinned on him. He hadn’t had much to hope for except a view of bars and razor wire, so he’d managed a deal of sorts in return for testifying against Brugel. It was a case of the puppet fingering the puppermaster, and the prosecution had gone for it in a big way. When the time came, Judge Lafontaine was likely to dish out the most stringent sentence against Brugel. Even that would be a disappointment for those who favoured drawing and quartering.
Of course, the defence was expected to keep things rolling.
Judge Lafontaine had now narrowed her eyes. I knew Lafontaine had a long fuse, but when it hit the end: look out. Rollie Thorsten had definitely tried to ignite that fuse during Brugel’s trial. Next, Lafontaine would flare her nostrils. I’d enjoyed it when Rollie had tested the judge’s tolerance. Privately, I’d been rooting for a contempt of court charge against him, but I never got lucky.
There was a rustle by the door in the back. Mombourquette and I turned as the door opened and a court officer rushed forward up the left aisle. A murmur swept the room. I didn’t know this officer, but like everyone else that morning, he was sweating.
At last, flared nostrils from the judge.
A whispered consultation.
The judge spoke to the court clerk.
The clerk said, “All rise. This court is now recessed until this afternoon at two.”
The judge always gets the last word. She said, “Mr.
Kilpatrick, you may join me in my chambers.”
As we trickled from the courtroom into the third floor foyer, we were passed by P. J. Lynch, my redheaded reporter friend. P. J. was running late, swimming against the tide and elbowing his way to the front of the courtroom.
He turned and mouthed, “Hey, Tiger. What the hell happened?”
I just grinned. P. J. brings it out in me, although as a rule I trust him as far as I could throw my Acura. Never mind, I like his giant freckles and the gap between his teeth as well as the carrot top. “Don’t ask me. You’re the reporter. But now that I see you, I believe you still owe me twenty dollars.”
Mombourquette merely sneered. Reporters have that effect on him. Come to think of it, so do lawyers. We flowed toward the elevator, although I was tempted to watch and see if P. J. would get out of line and try to ask the judge a question. A contempt of court charge might be interesting, but, after all, most of the time P. J. is my friend, so I called after him. “Remember the rules.”
“Well, that was a letdown,” I said to Mombourquette. “I was hoping to see Brugel get hammered by the Crown.”
“Me too. But there’s always this afternoon. By the way, Elaine tells me you’re selling the house on Third Avenue,” Mombourquette said, casually, as we ambled along, in no hurry to get back outside to the hot mist. That’s the problem with having your friend date a cop, there’s even less privacy than usual.
“I’m thinking about it. I never felt right living there. I don’t feel entitled to the money either.”
“You take life too seriously. Think about it. You work for ten years, you get injured, you get beat up, you get halfdrowned, you get evicted, then someone leaves you a house and some money. You can’t just accept that and chill out?”
“Guess not.”
“No wonder your sisters always get their