Lost Girls

chapter 47

From the Murdoch Prison for Men I head directly for Goodwin's office. Even though it's only twenty to nine I've learned that it's his custom to slouch downstairs well in advance of the required time in order to move at a pace compatible with the limited capacity of his butter-clogged arteries: a lumbering scuff that tips his bulging upper half to one side and then the other like a harbor buoy caught in a stiff wind. But I'm in luck. As I slide the last five feet to his door on leather soles made slick by melted snow, grab the frame with one hand, and pull myself in with an accidental click of the heels I find that Goodwin's still there, putting the end to what appears to be a fried egg, cheddar, and peanut butter sandwich.

''Barth! Definitely your most spectacular entrance yet! But could you just sit down for a second? I swear to God you give me an upset stomach every time you come in here sweating and panting like you just finished a marathon. By the way, has your umbrella been working out all right? Next we're going to have to get you a proper down-filled, guaranteed-to-allow-circulation-to-essential-internal-organs-at-sixty-below winter jacket.''

''Thanks, Pete. But I don't think I'm going to need it.''

Goodwin lowers the last nugget of his sandwich to the tinfoil it came from and takes a slurp of coffee from its accompanying foam cup.

''And why's that?''

I lower myself into the chair before his desk, find Goodwin's eyes through the stacked files.

''I've reviewed the most recent DNA evidence with my client and discussed the implications upon the case for the defense in some detail. And under the circumstances I advised Tripp to consider changing his plea.''

Goodwin leans forward, his lower lip trembling outward like an unfurling tulip petal.

''And?''

''I believe he has agreed to do so this morning.''

''Agreed to--?''

''Plead guilty.''

''Oh.''

''You won, Pete.'' I extend my hand over the desk. ''Congratulations.''

Takes the hand and gives it a limp joggle, his palm slippery with egg yolk.

''He's pleading guilty?''

''There's no point in continuing in the face of overwhelming physical evidence. I mean, as you can appreciate from--''

''But it's not overwhelming!'' he almost shouts. ''The hair doesn't end it, not on its own. Even with the other things it's not enough. You know that. So why are you telling Tripp to plead? Now, without even introducing the defense's case? Why plead now, Barth?''

This is unexpected. I assumed Goodwin would respond to this news the same way I would have if I were in his position: take the conviction and run to the nearest bar for a long series of libations and entertainments. But no, he's got to have it all figured out in his own mind first or else he won't get any sleep for the next fifteen years.

''I've advised Mr. Tripp in the manner that I have,'' I say, working to sound matter-of-fact, ''because I feel there's no longer any reasonable chance for an acquittal. The hair samples changed things significantly for us. That may not be your estimation, but with all due respect, it's not your job to judge the wisdom of strategic decisions made by the defense.''

''I realize that. But this whole thing feels weird. For weeks you're hammering away at how the Crown's evidence is nothing but a load of junk, and then all of a sudden you're rolling over and playing dead. It seems to me that something's missing here.''

''You're right about something being missing,'' I say. ''The thing is I have to do this. And you have to let me.''

There's a grinding from under Goodwin's chair as he leans back but says nothing. For a moment I take his silence to be an indication of doubt, but that's not it. He's listening. I take in a long breath that, held for a half second, blasts out again. And with this banal exchange of air, the timeless in and prehistoric out, comes a sudden, devastating fatigue.

''For the first time in twenty years I'm trying to do something right,'' I say. ''And I may be going about it all wrong, but I'm new at this sort of thing.''

For a time Goodwin appears to consider my face more than my words.

''Can I ask you something? Unrelated.''

''Unrelated's okay with me.''

''You live alone?''

''You first.''

''Me? Yeah. I'm a bachelor,'' he says, the word hanging decisively in the air as though a permanent designation.

''Me too. Why?''

''Just curious. Sometimes I think I can pick them out.''

''Bachelors?''

''Lonely people.''

Goodwin checks his watch again.

''We've got fifteen minutes,'' he says. ''I'm not as fast as I used to be on those stairs. In fact I've never been fast on those stairs.''

But neither of us moves.

''This is an inappropriate question to ask at this point, I know. But I have to ask it.'' Goodwin pushes his chin into his neck. ''Do you really think Tripp did it? Just him, I mean, all on his own?''

''I think there's evil in the world. That there has to be because nothing else can explain some of the things people do.''

''That, counsel, is not a direct answer.''

With this the big man rises, squeezes through the space between desk and wall, and waits for me when he reaches the door.

''You coming down with me or is Tripp going to be without representation this morning?'' he asks, turning to look back at the heap that was once Bartholomew Christian Crane, that still is, sitting in his office chair.

''I'm coming with you,'' I say, and with another miraculous breath manage to rise and walk myself.

Once downstairs I grab the cellular out of my bag and stand outside the doors, play the familiar tune of Lyle, Gederov's number. The snow has started again. A rustle of powder on my shoulders, collecting on the courthouse lawn even in the time it takes the receptionist to pick up and transfer me to Graham's office.

''Bartholomew! How lovely you called! This must be your breakfast break. Can I ask you something? Are you getting enough protein? Just this morning someone was telling me about the importance of protein to stimulate-- oh, bugger it, how are you?''

''I've got some news I want you to hear from me before you hear it from anywhere else. And I'd appreciate it if I could speak to you alone on this.''

''What's going on, Bartholomew? But wait, before you go any farther, maybe we really should get Bert in on this, because if he finds out we've been having private talks behind his back he's likely to turn extremely bitchy on both of us.''

''Can't we just have a conversation between the two--''

''Well hel-lo, Bert!'' Graham calls too loudly out his open office door. ''Guess who's on the other end of this line? Bartholomew! Would you like a word?''

In the background there's an unidentifiable barnyard sound, the passage of gas from a bull's guts.

''Isn't this opportune? Bert just walked in the very moment you called!'' Graham nearly squeals, an exaggerated tone from a man noted for his exaggerated tones. Then there's a click over the line and our voices expand in the vacant air of the speakerphone.

''Well, now, Bartholomew, what gives us the pleasure of hearing your voice today?''

''I doubt what I have to say will give either of you any pleasure.''

''Well, tell us, then. What is this pleasureless bulletin?''

''I'm going to plead Tripp guilty today.''

''Beg pardon?''

''It's over. I changed his plea.''

Graham makes a flapping sound with his lips.

''This is something of a shock, Bartholomew, I must say--''

''What the fuck do you mean, you changed his plea?''

''I convinced him it was the only course to take. And then he confessed.''

''To who?''

''To me.''

''So now you're going to fucking give this to them?''

''I'm about to.''

''No, you're goddamn not. You're off this file as of now.''

''You can't do that, Bert. This is my case. You gave it to me to handle on my own and this is the way it's going to go.''

''You're wrong there, pally boy. Because you're fucking done. You hear me? You do this and we'll be lucky if this guy doesn't sue us out of business! Have you forgotten how this works? You're supposed to be on his side, and instead you want to go and tie the bloody noose around his bloody neck, for God's sake! Now, why the fuck would you do something like that? Why are you screwing the Crown up the ass for free? Eh? Could you tell me that, please?''

''This was my decision, Bert.''

''That's where you're wrong. It's never been your decision, you little prick. It's this firm's decision. It's our names on the line. You're just an employee, remember? You're nobody. So whatever you do, whatever stupid decisions you make, make us look stupid. See how that works?''

''You don't know the full--''

''You don't know what your goddamn job is.''

''May I interject for a moment, gentlemen?''

Graham has recovered, his voice now a controlled, theatrical baritone.

''Now, listen, Bartholomew. We've been aware of the stress you've been under on this file. But after our conversation following your unfortunate press conference some time ago I thought we'd sorted everything out. And now, without any consultation with us, you wrongly advise your client on the main issue of trial. These are very severe errors, Bartholomew. Very severe. You of all people! He's going away for life now, you know that. And a life sentence that follows a plea of guilty is just as long as one that follows a conviction by jury. Given this, I can only conclude that you've utterly lost your capacity for good judgment.''

''Actually, Graham, I feel like I'm just finding it.''

''And how's that, Bartholomew? Hmm? Could you explain that to us?''

''No. I don't think I can.''

''Ohh!'' Graham moans. ''To say the least, to say the absolute least, you've put this firm in a very difficult position.''

''And I regret that. But there's something else I have to tell you.''

''Do tell.''

''I resign.''

''What?''

''I'm out. After this, I'm done. I'm going to do something else.''

''What something else?'' Graham spits. ''Bartholomew, you were made for this stuff! I know that Bert agrees with me on this, even though he's distinctly disenchanted with you at this particular moment. We've put a lot of time into grooming your talents into something that Lyle, Gederov can grow upon in the future, Bartholomew. Don't turn one mistake into two.''

''It's not a mistake. And as for young lawyers to build the firm's future, there are plenty more where I came from and you know it. Go and pluck one of them out and turn them into whatever you need. I'm gone.''

Surprisingly, Graham gives up. More surprising, Bert takes a stab at it himself.

''What are you going to do? Eh? You think you can just walk away from your life? You don't think we all haven't thought about ways to get out? Everybody wants to escape, Barth.''

''I'm not escaping. I'm quitting.''

''Fine. Then quit. And while you're at it, go to hell.''

Then they wait. They've made the appeals they felt obliged to make, been denied as they hoped they'd be denied, and are already calculating the reputational and monetary losses that face them, recalling the names of other hot young lawyers who could be brought in to take Bartholomew Crane's place. They are practical men above everything else. Men who'd lived their professional lives knowing that their time was literally money, that in this business people frequently fall away and that the only choice is to work out the best deal you can and carry on with the dirty job at hand.

''We respect your capacity to decide your own professional future, Bartholomew,'' Graham begins cautiously. ''But with regard to this Tripp business, we must insist that you discontinue representation of your client immediately. Do you understand?''

''It's too late.''

''No, it's not. According to my watch you still have time to go in there, withdraw from the case, and walk away. We'll clean up everything else.''

''I know. That's why I'm doing this.''

''I promise you right now that you won't ever--''

''FUCKING UNGRATEFUL PUNK COCK-SUCKER--''

Click off the cellular and their voices are sucked away, leaving nothing but the meltwater chattering down to the sewer drains in the street. Look out beyond the huddled rooftops of town at the snow falling slow and straight. Watch it gather over the whole midnorth.

The courtroom is nearly asleep already. The clerk's head hangs from its neck, the hacks from the Toronto dailies buttress greasy skulls on arms sliding off the back of the gallery's bench. Even McConnell sits folded in upon himself, which is a change from his usual spinning turn to cast a damning look my way. It seems that with the first evidence of winter every vent that might have afforded the faintest lick of circulation has been closed and the heat cranked up to a level consistent with our sister courtrooms in equatorial nations. The result is a haze of vaporized perspiration, carbon dioxide, and flatulence that hangs over the room in an occasionally visible smog.

Although Goodwin and I arrive late, Justice Goldfarb is even later. Glance at my watch but immediately forget the position of its hands so that I have to glance again. Where's Tripp?

Here he comes, shuffling with birdlike jerks as though still shackled at the ankles but he's not. It takes him what feels like the length of a foreign-language film to reach the chair next to mine, and when he lowers himself into it his head lolls onto his shoulder in my direction as though to receive a welcoming kiss. Instead I lean over his way and whisper, ''You ready?'' into a wax-clogged ear.

''Today's the day.''

''Yes, Thom. Are you okay?''

''I'm okay,'' he says, looking around him and behind him, moving from face to face in the gallery.

''Good. Listen, I'm going to be right behind you when the time comes, all right? Just hang in there.''

''Uh-huh.''

But with the arrival of Tripp's newfound consciousness has come an aching lethargy for Bartholomew Crane. And as the clerk stands to call ''All rise!'' as Justice Goldfarb cuts through the jellied air in her black funereal robes, it's all I can do to half lift myself out of my chair before the call of ''You may be seated'' from above permits a falling back into place.

But I'm the only one who stays up. Fingertips splayed out for balance on the table before me, my voice a sound made from outside myself.

''Your Honor, I'd like to request a change in the scheduled procedure this morning, if I could, so that my client may--''

''I'm afraid I can't permit that, Mr. Crane.''

Goldfarb shaking her head, palms raised to stop me from going any farther.

''I'm sorry?''

''You'll have to sit down now. If you don't mind.''

I look over at Goodwin for a clue but his eyes are lowered to his lap where he concentrates on pinching at the crease in his pants. Tripp turns to me, though, the taut lines of his face falling away.

''I don't understand, Your Honor.''

''Your principals from Lyle, Gederov contacted me from Toronto a few moments ago. It is their view that there is sufficient reason to question your competence in continuing this trial.''

''But my client and I have duly elected--''

''And I felt that, given the extent of the Crown's evidence and what I expect you are about to propose, they may well be right.''

Her lower lip pushed up into a wrinkled fist.

''No. Don't do this. Please, Your Honor, you can't let--''

''Sit down, Mr. Crane.''

''--can't let him go--''

''Sit down, Mr. Crane.''

I tumble back into my chair and almost miss the mark, bouncing off the armrest with a metallic squawk.

''Until alternative counsel is made available for the accused, this court is adjourned,'' Goldfarb is saying to the jury now, and they look back at her with a variety of seasick expressions. ''So it's the old routine again, people. Don't discuss any of this with anyone until we can get this show back on the road.''

Blink up to see the bailiff coming over to haul Tripp away but taking his time about it, gut sucked in, a thumb hooked over the butt of his pistol. Can't hear Goodwin offering an understanding word somewhere off to the side, can't move my head back from where it hangs over the smudge of papers on the desk. Nothing at all but a weight on my shoulder that is my client's hand resting next to my cheek in silent comfort.