The Brutal Heart

CHAPTER 3

Half an hour later, I’d finished reviewing the media stories on Ginny Monaghan, and I was dressed and trying to find a lipstick that wasn’t a stub. Taylor came back, ready for school, to give me a final inspection. “Cool,” she said. “And that lipstick I gave you for Christmas would be perfect with that scarf.”

“The lipstick in the gift with purchase?”

“It was full size,” Taylor said. “Anyway, since you weren’t using it, I kind of borrowed it back. Want me to get it?”

I held up the stub in my hand. “Anything’s better than this,” I said.

Taylor went to her room and came back triumphant. “Here,” she said, handing me the lipstick. “It’s called Tiger Eye – great colour, eh? And Mr. Mariani’s outside with a ton of plants for you.”

I took the lipstick. It was muted but managed to pick up the deep red in the scarf. “Perfect,” I said. “Taylor, how do you know these things?”

Taylor scrunched her face in dismissal. “Everybody knows that stuff.”

I filled in my lips and threw the lipstick into my handbag. “I owe you,” I said “Now, let’s go help Ed unload.”

He was standing in the driveway with the trunk of his Buick popped and a tray of Martha Washingtons in his arms. The blossoms were dark red rimmed with silver. “Halos,” I said. “My favourites.”

“Wait till you see what I have for you out back.”

Taylor picked up her backpack. “Can I look after school? I’m already late.” She kissed Ed on the cheek, and he beamed.

“Aren’t you and I about due for another evening of Barry’s paella and some serious art talk?” he said.

“Definitely,” Taylor said. “Except not this Saturday because it’s Marissa’s birthday party and not Friday because Isobel and Gracie are coming over to watch scary movies, but any other time is good.”

“I’ll look forward to it,” Ed said. We watched her bounce off. “She’s growing up,” Ed said.

“High school next year.”

“It all goes so quickly.” Ed’s smile was rueful. “Gather your Marthas while ye may.”

“That’s exactly what I’m doing,” I said. I buried my nose in the foliage and inhaled the pungent scent of new growth and potting soil. “I love the smell of spring.”

Ed’s moon face split with a smile. “My grandmother called this the unlocking season: the ice cracks; the water begins to run; the sap flows; the ground warms; people throw open their windows and set out the porch furniture, and we’re part of our neighbours’ lives again.”

“Whether they want us to be or not,” I said.

Ed laughed. “True enough. ”

Ed and I didn’t dally over the Marthas. Courtroom C was small, so we knew that if we wanted a seat we’d have to be there early. As we entered the courthouse foyer, I glanced up at the Florentine glass mosaic that greeted everyone who came into the building.

Ed followed my gaze. “The God of Laws with his handmaidens, Truth and Justice,” he said.

“Let’s hope they’re on the job today,” Zack said.

His voice caught me by surprise. “Where did you come from?” I said.

“This new chair of mine is called the stealth model,” Zack said. He was wearing his barrister’s robes and he was with his client.

It wasn’t in Norine MacDonald’s job description, but when it came to transforming bikers, slackers, punks, and hookers for their court appearance, Zack’s executive assistant was a whiz. Zack said admiringly that Norine could make Darth Vader look like a guy who deserved a second chance, but Francesca Pope had clearly proven to be a challenge.

Francesca’s clothes had been chosen to make her look respectable and responsible: a navy pantsuit, a crisp white blouse, and black walking shoes with a hard shine, but although it was a warm day, Francesca wore winter gloves and her thick grey hair was erratically hacked, as if someone had attacked it with dull scissors. She was calm, but her lips were moving silently in an internal monologue that seemed to absorb her. Zack introduced us matter-of-factly. “Francesca, this is my wife, Joanne, and the gentleman with her is our friend, Ed Mariani.”

Francesca regarded us without interest. When Ed said hello, she nodded, but when I started to extend my hand, she shook her head violently. “I don’t shake hands,” she said. Her voice was surprisingly rich and assured, a singer’s voice.

I withdrew my hand. “Well, good luck this morning,” I said.

She nodded. “Thank you.”

Zack touched her arm and smiled encouragement. “Time for us to go in,” he said.

Francesca started to follow, then her face became animated. “Look over there,” she said, pointing towards the door. The three of us turned and saw Ginny Monaghan coming in with Sean Barton. A couple of media people were pursuing them with cameras. Francesca stared at the group. Then she said, very loudly, “I know who you are.”

“That’s Ginny Monaghan,” Zack said. “Her picture’s been in the paper a lot lately.” He touched Francesca’s elbow again and steered her towards the courtroom. Francesca moved in the appropriate direction, but her head was still turned towards Ginny, and her face was dark with anger.

Ed nudged me. “What do you suppose that’s all about?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But I don’t think Ginny’s going to get Francesca’s vote.”

Court wasn’t scheduled to start for fifteen minutes, but the room was already crowded. “Full house,” Ed said sardonically. “Never underestimate the public’s appetite for prurience.”

I raised a mocking eyebrow. “Of course, our interest isn’t prurient.”

“But we’re professionals. These other are…” He peered at the public benches. “Good grief. Who do you suppose all these people are?”

“Well, I recognize some of them,” I said. “They’re lawyers, and like my husband, they’re courtroom junkies. If Zack doesn’t have a case, he drifts in to watch somebody else’s.” I pointed to the front row. “There’s space up there. Shall we give it a shot?”

We made our way up and discovered that, in true Canadian fashion, the spectators had presumed the empty front row was reserved. We took our places, and within seconds, Ginny Monaghan joined us. Her closely tailored pantsuit was the colour of dark honey and her creamy leather handbag matched her silk blouse. She was the epitome of assured success. She was also incredibly alone.

She brightened when she saw us. “Right on time,” she said. “I’d planned to save you a place, Joanne, but it seems you beat me to it. And you brought Ed.”

“To support you in any way I can,” Ed said with a little bow. He lowered himself onto the bench and breathed with the pleasure of a big man who is finally off his feet. “As long as I can render my support from a seated position,” he added.

I gestured to the lawyers’ tables, where Sean was riffling through the papers he’d shaken from his briefcase. “I thought you’d be sitting up there with Sean,” I said.

Ginny shook her head. “In this court, we don’t sit with our lawyers. In fact, unless they’re testifying, the parents don’t even have to show up. Sean says a lot of lawyers are happier if their clients stay home. It seems parents have a tendency to micromanage their cases. I’ve promised to be a model client: legs crossed demurely at the ankle, hands folded in my lap, mouth zipped.”

Sean’s table was close, and when he heard Ginny’s voice, he turned, winked at her, and gave Ed and me the thumbs-up sign. Obviously, he wasn’t bearing a grudge about being passed over for partner, and I had my own reasons for being relieved.

Jason Brodnitz’s lawyer, Margot Wright, was sitting at the table across from Sean. Even in her barrister’s robes, Margot was a man-magnet. She was a true blonde, with shoulder-length, softly curling hair, creamy skin, and a dust of freckles across a nose that a romance novelist would describe as saucy. She had made flame-red lipstick and nails her trademark, and that morning, she was, as always, riveting, but it gave me no pleasure to acknowledge her charms.

One night at a banquet for a retiring judge, Margot and I had had an encounter in the ladies room. She had been drunk. After she’d told me more than I cared to know about Zack’s romantic adventures before we met, she assured me that like every woman before me, I would be dumped.

Later, when she defended an old friend of mine, I came to respect Margot as a lawyer, but in my personal pantheon, she was still a question mark. Contemplating her history with my husband was not pleasant, so I turned back to Ginny.

“So what happens?” I said. “I don’t know much about custody trials.”

“Jason and I testify. Then it’s on to the girls’ teachers, whom I’ve never met; the principal of their school, whom I’ve also never met; the girls’ basketball coach, with whom I showered after a fundraiser for their school gym. Then the experts Jason and I hired to produce favourable assessments of our parenting skills testify. Then the court-appointed social worker reports on her talk with the girls. After hearing all that, the judge makes her decision.”

“Your daughters don’t have to testify,” Ed said, and his relief was palpable.

“No,” Ginny said. “We at least spared them that.” Her shoulders slumped, and for a beat, her mask of invulnerability slipped. Then the court clerk entered.

“All rise. Court is now in session. Madam Justice Susan Gorges presiding.” Madam Justice Gorges, a petite woman wearing the black and red robe of a Queen’s Bench judge, strode into the court.

“Do you know her?” Ginny whispered.

“No,” I said. “But Zack says she runs a tight ship.”

“Good,” Ginny said. “Because nobody wants this to drag on.”

Ginny was the first to testify. Not surprisingly, for a woman whose moves had been scrutinized since she was a seventeen-year-old bounding across the basketball court, she was a good witness. Head high, spine straight, she delivered her testimony clearly and factually. Sean phrased his questions about her work schedule in a way that allowed her to talk about the projects involving women and children that had been among her initiatives as minister of Canadian heritage and the status of women. She confronted the fact that the girls lived with their father head-on, explaining that she had given the twins the option of moving to Ottawa, but that they’d decided to stay in Regina and start high school with their friends. They had chosen a private school with an excellent reputation for academics and sports. Ginny had attended the school herself, so she had agreed. She said she came back to Regina as many weekends as she could manage, but cabinet business often kept her in Ottawa. Then she pointed out that Jason had become a stay-at-home father through necessity rather than choice. Business reverses had forced him to close his office and work from home. “Like many couples,” Ginny said, “our child-care decision was dictated by finances. I didn’t choose to stay away from my girls any more than Jason chose to stay home with them. It just worked out that way.”

Sean finished by asking Ginny how she would characterize her relationship with her daughters. Surprisingly, Ginny seemed taken aback at the question. “I’m not a milk-and-cookies mother, if that’s what you mean. But Em and Chloe are strong, independent girls. They can get their own milk and cookies.”

When Margo approached the witness box, she and Ginny eyed each other warily, taking each other’s measure. Successful and assured, they were, in every essential way, alike, but that didn’t keep Margot from going for the jugular.

“Ms. Monaghan, you say you’re not a milk-and-cookies mother. No one would dispute the fact that the work you do is important or that it’s time-consuming. That said, women in our generation are fortunate. We have options. We can be prime minister; we can be milk-and-cookie mothers.” Margot glanced at Madam Justice Gorges. “We can even be Queen’s Bench judges.” After Susan Gorges favoured her with what might have passed for a smile, Margot continued. “Ms. Monaghan, no one questions your right to be politically active, but you’re here today seeking custody of your daughters, so the court has a right to know how involved you are in your daughters’ lives.”

“They’re fourteen years old,” Ginny said. “They have lives of their own.”

Margot permitted herself a small smile. “Still, fourteen-year-olds aren’t allowed to live on their own.” She paused. “Of course, they don’t live alone, do they? They live with their father. My client has made a home for Emma and Chloe.”

“A home that I subsidize.” Ginny shifted her gaze to Jason Brodnitz. “My ex-husband has suffered some serious business reverses. I also pay for the girls’ school.”

Ed leaned towards me. “Did you know that?”

“No,” I whispered. “And judging from the fire in Margot’s eye, she didn’t know it either.”

Margot might have been taken aback, but she recovered quickly. “You wouldn’t dispute the fact that my client is the parental presence in the home.”

“Because he has the time,” Ginny said coldly. “And, Ms. Wright, I am present in my daughters’ lives: I talk to them every night.”

“From four thousand kilometres away.”

“If the need arises, I can be in Regina in five hours.”

“Did you come home when Em broke her arm?”

“No. It was a clean break.”

“And you were in Puerto Vallarta with a male friend.”

“Yes.”

“Did you come home last year when Chloe had her appendix out?”

“Yes.”

“On a direct flight from Ottawa?”

“No. I stopped in Toronto overnight.”

“Were you alone?”

“No. I spent the night with a friend.”

“A male friend?”

“No. Female.”

Margot shook her head. “girls’ night out, huh? How about when you’re in Regina? Are your daughters with you then?”

“Yes. They stay in the apartment with me.”

“And you’re there with them all night.”

“As a rule, yes.”

“I understand there was an incident when Em awoke in the middle of the night vomiting and you weren’t there.”

“Chloe called me on my cell, and I was home in twenty minutes.”

“Were you with a lover?”

Years in politics had taught Ginny how to sidestep landmines. “As I said, I was home in twenty minutes.”

Jason Brodnitz fared better in the witness box than his ex-wife had. Slender, physically graceful, grey hair cut very short, he bore an uncanny resemblance to the actor Richard Gere. Jason might have suffered business reverses, but the lightweight, single-breasted suit he was wearing hadn’t come off the rack, and he moved to the witness box with the assurance of a man who expected to do well.

I wasn’t an expert, but it seemed to me Margot had done a better job of preparing her client than Sean had. She made no attempt to present Jason as anything other than what he was. She dealt with the question of his financial difficulties head-on, and he was matter of fact in explaining that while his client base had diminished after he’d made some bad investments, he was turning the situation around. Like his ex-wife, Jason had missed his share of large events in the lives of his daughters, but Margot offset that by encouraging him to talk about the events he had attended: the vacations he’d shared with the twins, and the daily routine of life in the Brodnitz house. The life he described wasn’t Father Knows Best, but it wasn’t neglect. The only tense moment came when Margot asked him about his own romantic life. Before answering, Jason shot his wife a glance that seemed pleading. Then he said that he and his ex-wife had been living separately for several years and that he had the normal instincts of a healthy man his age. Sean’s cross-examination was perfunctory, but Ginny didn’t seem troubled by the lack of rigour. When Jason returned to his seat, Ginny seemed to relax. “Well, it could have been worse,” she said.

When Madam Justice Susan Gorges declared a recess for lunch, Margot and her client exchanged smiles. He helped her off with her barrister’s robe; she flung it over the back of her chair, revealing a smart red suit that showed off her terrific legs; and she and Jason headed for the exit.

Ed touched Ginny’s arm. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” he asked.

“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Ginny said. “Sean wants to talk to me about what’s happening this afternoon.”

Ed smiled “Well, a Mariani rain check is redeemable any time.”

“I’ll remember that,” Ginny said, and she seemed surprisingly touched.

We ate at Java Deposit, a coffee place that had once been a bank on the main floor of an office tower near the courthouse. The building was full of lawyers, including my husband’s firm, and whenever court was recessed for lunch, Java Deposit was packed.

As Ed and I came through the door, a server with a sneer pushed his way towards us. There was, he said, a small table vacant inside the vault, but if we wanted it, we’d have to move quickly.

We moved. After we’d elbowed our way to our table, explored the menu, squirmed to make ourselves comfortable on our dainty wrought-iron ice-cream chairs, and settled in to wait for the reappearance of our server, we looked at each other.

“Why did we come here?” Ed asked.

“Because Falconer Shreve’s new offices are upstairs and they have some art you ought to see.”

“Reason enough,” Ed said. “I never thought these words would pass my lips, but let’s eat fast.” He sighed. “So why did Falconer Shreve move? Their offices in those two old houses were charming.”

“I agree, but the firm has plans to expand, and the old place just wasn’t big enough for extra people.”

“So is Zack pleased with the move?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t affect him much. When he’s not in court, he works at home most of the time now.”

“And you work at home too.”

“As much as I can manage,” I said. “Zack and I like being together. So everybody’s happy, especially Pantera, because it turns out he’s afraid of elevators.”

Ed’s eyes widened. “Am I missing something here?”

“Pantera goes nuts if he can’t be with Zack, so he always went to the old office. The day Falconer Shreve moved here, Pantera trotted off happily with Zack. For some reason, the elevators spooked him. Zack brought in a dog trainer, but nothing helped, so Pantera retired.”

“I take it Zack isn’t planning to follow suit.”

“He keeps promising he’ll cut down,” I said. “At the Bar Association Christmas party, someone told me that the average time between a trial lawyer’s first case and his first heart attack is twenty years. Zack’s already had five years grace, and his paraplegia doesn’t increase the odds in his favour.”

“Still, he took on Francesca Pope’s case, and I would have expected a kid from Legal Aid to handle that one.”

Our server came, and Ed and I ordered the special. As the server began pushing his way towards the kitchen, Ed was lugubrious. “I don’t hold out much hope for the Italian wedding soup. That takes a knowing hand.”

“Well, nobody can screw up bruschetta,” I said.

Ed sniffed. “That remains to be seen.”

“What do you know about the Francesca Pope case?” I said.

“Not much,” Ed said. “One of the students in my Documentary Theory and Production class started to do a piece on it, but he hadn’t finished when he decided to drop out, move to Alberta, and make his fortune in the oil fields. All I know is that the mayor and a clutch of civic leaders were in the warehouse district congratulating one another for their gentrification project when a scuffle broke out and Francesca Pope broke His Honour’s nose.”

“And, of course, with Francesca’s invariable bad luck, the cameras were rolling,” I said.

“I saw the footage,” Ed said. “Zack’s client looked pretty disturbed.”

“She was disturbed. She was off her medication. The mayor and his cronies were in her neighbourhood, or what used to be her neighbourhood, and the mayor had kicked her backpack out of the way because it would have looked unsightly in the pictures.”

“If the mayor thought a backpack was unsightly, I wonder how he feels about a murder in one of his shining condos,” Ed said. “The dead woman’s fellow condo owners certainly aren’t happy.”

My pulse quickened. “Do you know someone who lives in the Pendryn?”

“Yes, our friend David Schaub. Barry and I were at a party there not too long ago. It’s quite an experience. There’s all that drama about entering through the freight elevator, then the doors open and you step into a dream. The whole place is open-concept, twenty-four-foot vaulted ceilings and skylights, a huge stretch of the original brick in the living room, and two very large, very private balconies. The view of the city from the bedroom just about stopped my heart. As, of course, it should for $629,000.”

“That’s pricey for Regina,” I said.

“The building caters to a very special clientele.”

“What do you mean?”

“People buy into that particular building because of the privacy. Most of the other warehouses that have been converted are close to Albert Street, but the Pendryn is the only building in a three-block area that’s been restored. There’s a courtyard with a pool and an exquisite little Japanese garden, but it’s cut off from the rest of the neighbourhood by security fences topped with razor wire.”

I made a face. “Not very neighbourly.”

“The people who live in there aren’t eager to see the welcome wagon. They’re willing to pay for the privilege of doing what they want to do – no questions asked.”

“By other tenants?”

“By anybody. I have a nagging suspicion that there’s more to Francesca Pope’s case than meets the eye.”

“Based on what?”

“Based on the fact that your husband is representing Francesca. Zack’s the most expensive trial lawyer in the province. And you know the old journalists’ axiom: follow the money. It would be interesting to know who’s paying the tab.”

I glanced at my watch. “If we ever get served, you can ask Zack yourself. He usually stops by his office over the lunch recess, and we’re going up to Falconer Shreve to look at the art anyway.”

Ed squirmed on his chair. “No food. No service. And chairs that seem to be intended for dolls. Let’s cross this place off our list, shall we?”

“Consider it done,” I said.

Falconer Shreve’s offices were on the fifteenth floor. The elevator was mirrored, and as Ed caught sight of himself reflected repeatedly from every angle, he sighed. “I understand Pantera’s misery about being in this elevator. These Andy Warhol repetitions of my bulk make me want to howl too.”

“We’re the only ones in the elevator,” I said. “Go for it.”

The elevators opened directly into the firm’s reception area, where hard-polished floors gleamed and walls painted the gentle shade of old silver perfectly complemented two large, eye-catching works: a shimmering metallic drape by Miranda Jones and an intricately painted Ted Godwin tartan.

At her low glass desk in front of the tartan, Denise Kaiswatum was simultaneously signing for a package, taking a telephone call, and smiling reassuringly at a frightened and unhappy-looking woman. When the courier left, Denise hung up the phone, directed the unhappy woman to the client waiting room, and gave Ed and me an apologetic smile.

“You just missed Zack,” she said. “He came in to check his messages, then he and his client went back to court.”

“Is it all right if I give Ed the art tour?”

Blake Falconer came out of his office. When he spotted us, he came over. At Zack’s party, Blake had looked careworn, but he seemed restored this morning. He was past fifty, and his reddish gold hair was greying, but he kept it scrub-brush short and his skin was ruddily freckled and youthful. He extended his hand to Ed. “Good to see you again,” he said. “I was hoping we’d get a chance to talk last night, but Ginny Monaghan seemed to be enjoying your company, and we try to keep our clients happy.”

“Very wise,” Ed said. “And luckily, I have no need of a lawyer. I’m just here to see the Falconer Shreve collection.”

“I can take you around,” Blake said. “I know nothing about art, but I’ve been with land developers all morning, I could use a break.”

Blake hadn’t exaggerated when he said he didn’t know anything about art, but as he filled us in on Falconer Shreve’s future plans and pointed out the new pieces, he was thorough if not inspired. That changed when he led us into the boardroom to see the Joe Fafard ceramic group portrait of the founding members of Falconer Shreve. “I must have seen this a hundred times since it arrived, but it gets me every time,” he said and his eyes were moist. “Anyway, that’s us – the way we were the year we graduated from the College of Law.”

I turned to Ed. “They called themselves the Winners’ Circle.”

“Because we were perfect in every way,” Blake said. “Or so we thought.”

“Zack told me that when he was invited to join the Winners’ Circle, he was like a drunk discovering Jesus,” I said. “Dazzled. Born again.”

Ed leaned in to look more closely at the witty figures of the founding five. Fafard had worked from a photograph taken on the day they’d graduated. They were wearing their academic robes: it had been windy and the robes swirled. “My God, Fafard’s good,” Ed said. “You can feel the wind at their backs.” He looked more closely at the young faces. “You can see the hope.”

Ed gazed at the expensively appointed boardroom. “It appears the Winners’ Circle realized its promise.”

Blake shrugged. “Appearance is not reality,” he said. “Let’s go look at the big man’s office.”

“Saving the best till last,” Blake said, but when he tried the door, it was locked. “Shit,” he said. “I should have remembered that Zack has a client who refuses to leave the office until she knows her possessions are safe. I’ll get the key from Norine.”

Francesca’s backpack with her bears was on one of the client chairs. Everything in Zack’s office had the high sheen of money and attention; Francesca’s bears were refugees from a sadder, crueller world. For a time when she was little, Mieka had collected Care Bears. With their cotton-candy-coloured furry bodies and the cartoon portraits proclaiming their identity and their special caring mission on their tummies, these emissaries from the cloud-land of Care-a-Lot had always struck me as too cute by a half. There was nothing cute about Francesca’s bears. Their fur was mildewed, patchy, and filthy; their faces and feet had been eaten away by rot or rats; and most of them were missing eyes or noses.

As he gazed at them, Ed’s face was suffused with pity. “What’s the story there?”

“That’s her treasure,” Blake said thoughtfully. “Zack says when the mayor kicked Francesca’s backpack, she felt as if he was kicking her children.”

“So she was trying to protect them,” Ed said.

“We all do terrible things for love,” Blake said. “At least Francesca still has her bears.”

“Blake, how did Zack end up with her case?” I said. “It’s not the kind of thing he usually handles – it’s not high profile, and I’m guessing it’s not big money.”

Blake’s answer was a beat too quick. “Just doing a favour for a friend,” he said. He took Ed’s arm and led him to the Ernest Lindner watercolour of a moss-covered stump behind Zack’s desk. “Give this one a closer look,” he said. “I didn’t see much here at first, but Joanne got me interested.” He turned to me. “This is called high realism, right?”

“Right,” I said.

“Lindner was fascinated by the process of decay and regeneration in the natural world,” Blake said. “At least that’s what Joanne told me.” His smile was bashful, the schoolboy found out showing off, but I wasn’t deflected.

“So who was the friend who got Zack to take on Francesca Pope’s case?” I asked. “One of your developers with a heart of gold?”

Blake averted his eyes. “No. The friend was me.” He glanced at his watch. “God, look at the time. I’ve got a meeting. Have fun.” He kissed my cheek and pressed the key into my hand.

As Blake passed Ed, he patted his shoulder. Then, except for the lingering woody scent of his aftershave, Blake was gone.

“There’s a man living a lie,” Ed said.

“What do you mean?” I asked. I was surprised. Ed was careful with language and careful with assessments. “Blake’s had his problems, like all of us, but I would say he’s a lucky man.”

Ed’s face was troubled. “Maybe once upon a time,” he said. “Not any more.” Ed pointed to the intricate whorl at the heart of the fallen tree in Lindner’s watercolour. “Look at that,” he said. “Even with trees, destiny unfolds from the heart.”

Unlike Zack, I tend to drift off during trials. As a citizen I’m grateful that the wheels of justice grind exceedingly fine, but as a spectator, I’m aware only that at times they grind exceedingly slow. I knew that the outcome of the Monaghan-Brodnitz custody deliberations would alter the lives of Ginny, Jason, and their daughters, but that afternoon with the sun slanting through the courtroom windows, the air warming, and the lawyers wrangling about procedure and reading the law into the record, I found my eyes growing heavy. The parade of witnesses who marched up to be sworn in did nothing to stir my blood. In their civilian lives, these good people might have been witty and incisive, but the demands of testifying stripped them of individuality and muffled their voices in a thick fog of clichés and buzzwords. As an earnest young social worker who didn’t look old enough to flip burgers explained in jargon-riddled detail the difference between being an enabling parent and an empowering parent, Madam Justice Gorges’s sigh of impatience was audible. I wasn’t surprised when at a little after four, she declared that court was recessed.

The scene that greeted me after Ed dropped me off at home was a familiar one. Taylor and Gracie Falconer were sitting at the kitchen table, deep in conversation, with a carton of Ben and Jerry’s Cherry Garcia between them. I liked all of Taylor’s friends, but Gracie was a favourite. Bouncy with mischief and energy, her skin ruddy and sprayed with freckles, Gracie’s sunny exuberance lit up a room. She was fun to have around.

“So what are you two up to?” I said.

Gracie held out her spoon. “Pounding calories,” she said. “I refuse to read what the carton says about the percentage of fat in this, but after basketball, I am so hungry.”

“How’s your team doing?” I asked.

“Great. Of course, we have the miraculous Brodnitz twins to save us from disaster and show us how the game is played. At least that’s what Coach tells us four hundred times a practice.” Gracie dug her spoon viciously into the ice cream and raised her voice. “ ‘Young women, if you’re serious about the game, watch Em and Chloe. They know how to win. They always respond to the challenge. They never give an inch until the final buzzer sounds. They’re fearless. They pay the price without whimpering. They always give 110 per cent because they know no one ever drowned in sweat. And they know how to focus.’ ”

Gracie had a talent for mimicry, and as she ripped through the hoary sports clichés, Taylor chortled. I laughed too. Encouraged, Gracie carried on barking in high coach mode. “ ‘Em and Chloe don’t look to me to tell them what to do. They’ve assumed responsibility for their own games. That’s maturity. That’s what makes a winning athlete.’ ” Gracie pulled her spoon out of the ice cream and licked the fudge meditatively. “The coach totally worships those girls, but they’re not human. Even when they get hurt or they get a bad call or the crowd yells at them, they remember to focus, focus, focus. I think they’re robots.”

“Maybe they just hold everything inside,” Taylor said.

Gracie nodded. “That’s exactly what they do. A couple of weeks ago, I forgot my watch after practice. When I went back to the change room to look for it, Chloe was sitting on the bench crying. She’d taken this really punishing fall during the game, and I asked if I could help. She just about took my head off! She said she was fine, she didn’t need anybody. Then she jumped up and hobbled off.”

When I came out of the shower that night, Zack was already in bed, working on his laptop.

He patted the spot beside him on the bed. “Take a look at this,” he said.

I got into bed and slid over. The Care Bear website was on the screen. There were postage-stamp-sized pictures of each bear and, at the bottom, a note. I read it aloud. “Wherever the Care Bears go, and whatever the Care Bears do, in their soft, fuzzy, and funny way, they share their special gift of caring with everyone they meet.” I shuddered. “That makes my teeth ache.”

“Mine too,” Zack said. “But my job is to be Francesca’s advocate and her adviser. I’m supposed to understand what she wants and what she needs, and I haven’t got a clue.” He turned off his laptop and moved it to his night table. “I’ve been able to figure out ways to make justice serve the needs of psychos, sickos, and run-of-the-mill sons of bitches, but Francesca has me stymied.”

“What’s going to happen to her?”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can convince the judge that locking Francesca up is not in her best interests or in the best interests of the community, but my client is going to have to control herself.”

“Has that been a problem?”

“Not in the courtroom – at least not yet – but there was another incident in the courthouse when we came back for the afternoon session.”

“What happened?”

“I’m still trying to figure that out. After I took Francesca back to the office to show her that her bears were safe, we had to deal with lunch – not a simple matter as it turned out. Francesca can’t eat indoors because the artificial light makes her head buzz, so Norine ordered some sandwiches for us to take to the park. Anyway, Francesca and I had a nice time, listening to the traffic and the birds. She was relaxed, and she was lucid. I thought she was in great shape to prove to the judge that she could live safely in the community.”

I hugged my knees to my chest. “So what went wrong?”

“I honestly don’t know,” Zack said. “When we were coming back into the courthouse, we ran into Ginny and Sean, and Francesca went nuts. She started screaming.”

“What was she saying?”

“Two things, over and over. ‘I know who you are,’ and ‘I know what you did.’ Sean tried to hustle Ginny away, but Francesca clawed at him. The security guy was on his way over. I didn’t want that, so I told Sean to get Ginny out of there. Once they were gone, Francesca calmed down.”

“Did you ask her why she’s so angry at Ginny?”

“No, because I didn’t want another outburst. But I did tell her that she was going to have to control herself if she wanted to keep living on her own on the street with her bears.”

“How does she live, Zack?”

“Handouts. Her new neighbours give her money – guilt, I guess. The gentrification of the neighbourhood has pushed people like Francesca out of their little warrens.”

“So she gets by.”

“Yes,” Zack said. “She gets by.”

“And you’re acting for her pro bono.”

Zack met my gaze. “No, the file is being billed at the usual rate.”

“So who’s picking up the tab?”

Zack’s smile was wry. “I’ve been waiting for that question. If you’d asked me yesterday, I could have told you I didn’t know, and that would have been the truth.”

“But now you do know,” I said.

“Yes, Blake called just before you got home. He said you’d been by the office, and that you might bring up the subject of billing. Blake thought you should know that the person who was paying for Francesca’s defence was Cristal Avilia.” Zack shifted his body so we were face to face. “I know it’s hard to believe, but I honestly wasn’t aware of this till this afternoon.”

“How could you not know?” I said.

Zack shrugged. “Law firms have people who take care of billing. That’s their job. My job is to get the best possible outcome for my clients. Period.”

“And nobody ever told you that a woman you’d been intimate with was paying the shot for a case you were handling?”

“Blake was the only person who knew there was a connection between Cristal and me. As long as the money was handled according to Hoyle, it didn’t matter. Money laundering is a huge issue for law firms and for the Law Society, so we’re careful. If a client wants to pay cash, both the client and a representative from the firm have to sign the receipt. If a client pays by a cheque, a credit card, or debit card, the account number can be traced. And it’s not just the Law Society who has an interest in this. It’s us, the partners. The money for legal services has to be accounted for. If it isn’t, we breach our partnership agreement.” He looked at me hard. “Too much information?”

“No,” I said. “Not enough information. Blake brought the case to you, but you were the one who knew Cristal. Why didn’t she get in touch with you herself?”

“Because I’d stopped seeing her, and Blake hadn’t.”

“Blake was seeing Cristal too?”

“Yes.” Zack reached down and rubbed my foot. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

“I don’t know what to say. Gracie was here this afternoon. The idea of her father spending time with a high-priced escort is pretty repellent.”

“You know what Blake’s marriage to Lily was like,” Zack said. “He had this aching love for her, and half the time he didn’t know where she was or who she was with.”

“So he found solace with Cristal.”

“Apparently.”

“And he was still finding solace with Cristal when she died.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t get it,” I said. “Lily’s been dead for almost two years. Blake’s alone. He’s good-looking; he’s successful; he’s charming. Without even trying, I can name a dozen women who’d be delighted to be with him. Why would he still be paying for sex?”

“I don’t know. I don’t know if he even had sex with Cristal.”

“Then what was he paying for?”

Zack dropped his eyes. “Intimacy? Blake’s relationship with Lily just about killed him. If he hadn’t had Gracie, I suspect he would have just checked out.” Zack ran his hand across his head. “Jo, I’m not a shrink. Blake and I are probably as close as two guys can be, but even when I could see that Lily’s infidelity was destroying him, I never brought up the subject.”

“So he carried all that inside him,” I said.

“Apparently not,” Zack said. “He told me this afternoon that he talked to Cristal about it. I guess he talked to Cristal about a lot of things. Go figure. Blake’s surrounded by people who love him, and he still has to pay for a friend.”

“Zack, did Blake say why Cristal paid for Francesca Pope’s defence?”

Zack’s face relaxed. “Actually, that’s a question I can answer. According to Blake, Cristal wanted to help Francesca because Francesca was being dicked around by men. Cristal said she knew what that was like.”

“So she was just being a good Samaritan?”

Zack shook his head. “No. Francesca wasn’t a stranger to her. There’s a little shed at the back of the warehouse next to Cristal’s condo. It’s one of Francesca’s favourite haunts. It’s abandoned, so nobody cares that she’s there.”

“Francesca and Cristal were neighbours.”

“Oh, I think it went beyond that,” Zack said. “According to Blake, Cristal gave him a very large retainer and told him she’d pay whatever it took to keep Francesca free.”