I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel (35 page)

Smitty motioned me to join him at the gentlemen barristers' urinals, and over a joint piss he offered to treat me to lunch. “Just the two of us? Mrs. Moore's close presence would cause me an irregular heartbeat, and Leroy can be hard on the digestion.”

We agreed to meet at Chez Antoine, and I told Ophelia to get a head start tuning up Gabriel for the witness stand. We didn't want him over-rehearsed, but on a loose leash, one that could be tightened if he became too discursive or belligerent or wandered onto perilous political terrain. I had little confidence that he wouldn't pull something. I felt him incapable of tact. The one thing he'd been doing right with the jury was making eye contact, though in a challenging way that might have unnerved them.

Antoine's was a new restaurant on Robson Street (known widely as Robsonstrasse back then, when it had a vaguely German flavour). But this was French, new, tricked out with Lautrec posters but otherwise attractive, with an upper outer terrace overlooking the sidewalk, a next-door flower shop, and, across the street, Danceland, proudly offering “The Best Twisting in Town.”

Smitty was on the terrace under a patio umbrella, fondling one of his Cubans as he engaged with a sour-looking elf in chef's whites. “This, Antoine, is the young talent you have heard me praise so unreservedly, Arthur Beauchamp. Treat him like Charles de Gaulle.”

“I spit on de Gaulle.” He didn't offer me his hand, and swept away.

Smitty explained that Antoine had run a starred restaurant in Algiers popular with the
pieds noirs
and the
OAS
. “A fascist bunch, really. Terrorists. He had to flee after independence. Marvellous chef, however. Good food
ne sait rien de la politique
, however liberal may be one's appetite.”

He put out his cigar as an
amuse-bouche
appeared – escargots in
tiny pots of garlic butter. A waiter joined us, rattling off the day's specials.

“While we consider the entrées, François,” said Smitty, “I think we might be interested in
salades vertes et huîtres Balzac
, and may we double up on the escargots?”

I hadn't expected this to be a quick lunch anyway. I wondered if Smitty had more on his plate than the shells of his escargots. Probably he was just doing me a courtesy, entertaining the prospective loser.

“But our immediate, overriding need is for a matched pair of martinis, François, and they must be dry enough to burn the throat. Sliver of peel with mine. Would that satisfy you, Arthur?”

“Exactement la même chose, merci.”

“A simple table wine … let's say the fifty-seven Château Tour Haut Vignoble, which you might open early to let it sniff these lovely summer breezes.”

Nor was it going to be a dry lunch. Those vital items of business attended to, we moved on to the more mundane matter of murder, which Smitty opened by raising his martini. “To justice, wherever she may be hiding.” We clinked, drank. That delicious tickle of juniper on the tongue.

The starters arrived and I nibbled mine while Smitty attacked his, eating, swallowing, talking, eating.

“I have assessed you, young Arthur, as uncommonly perceptive, so you are likely aware that you are dead.”

I choked on my martini.

“I have also assessed the jury – I am rather a hand at this – and they all seem to defer to the foreman, Mr. Ozzie Cooper. He played three games with the Boston Bruins one season, enough to give him godlike status in this idolatrous dominion. And I have learned he has a brother on the federal force. He has made up his mind. Mind you, out of twelve persons good and true, there's always the chance of a resister – some fierce libertarian distrustful of authority – or a nincompoop nursing a grievance over a speeding ticket. But the eleven other good Canadian burghers, who respect our
famed Royal Mounties above politicians, journalists, lawyers, and maybe even Gordie Howe and Tim Horton, will bully the poor fellow into submission. No question of that, old boy.”

Smitty was playing with his cigar, threatening to reignite it. “Another pair of these – what do you say?” He held up his near-empty glass. Mine, I saw, had been drained.

“How much of this is bluff, Smitty?”

“Look here, old chap, I think you deserve better than to lose your client to the hangman. You will not be able to live with yourself. These are still your salad days – well short of your thirties, are you not?”

“Twenty-six in a few months.”

“Truly? All the more remarkable. As I have observed, you have a keen instinct for what we do, and skills rare among many who have toiled for decades in the trenches. You may yet strop those skills to razor sharpness. Or you may not. A death sentence can be particularly devastating to a young counsel, can destroy pride and confidence, and even one's career – especially, if I may be so bold, if he is haunted by his own irreversible errors.”

Irreversible errors? My hand shook as I lowered my glass. My lamb tenderloin arrived like a reprieve. We tucked into our food in silence but for a few appreciative exchanges about the fare. The empty Haut Vignoble was removed and replaced by a fresh one. Finally Smitty struck a match and cranked up his cigar with a few quick puffs, their exhaust catching the breeze, whipping past my nose. His sigh was either of sadness or contentment, I couldn't tell.

“Something happened between Dermot Mulligan and Gabriel Swift on the banks of the Squamish. I believe a homicide was the end result of a confrontation. I am not comfortable with Lorenzo's testimony, but I won't say he lied. My duty was to proceed without qualm or question to put forward his evidence as it was presented to me.”

“Your case fails if the jury disbelieves him.”

“To do so they will have to disbelieve Knepp as well, who pummelled you quite hard. Part of the game – it happens to all of us.
But he's a polished witness whose square-chinned looks and boyish smile have captivated the ladies of our jury. Miss Kempthorne, the travel agent, was virtually swooning. You lack even a molecule of corroborative proof that he is a liar. Or any of them. And you did it to yourself.”

I had to admit guilt. “I made an unwise deal with Gene Borachuk.”

He nodded; Borachuk had obviously told him about it. My promise not to cross Borachuk about the assault in the Squamish cells had been a bad trade. The backgrounder on Lorenzo had paid off poorly.

The wind corralled more cigar fumes and spun them toward me, causing my eyes to water. I played with a twig of mint on my plate, unable to look at Smitty for fear he'd think I was crying.

“Had you been able to trap Knepp and Jettles in that one grievous lie – and let's assume it was a lie – you'd have cast a pall on their entire testimony. Your undertaking to Borachuk has queered that line of defence. It's now Swift's word against theirs.”

That's what he meant by my being haunted by irreversible errors. Even if unwritten, a lawyer's undertaking is like God's writ; I could no more break or bend it than I could a steel rail. I'd face disbarment for even attempting to renege.

“Okay, thanks for the report card, Smitty. What does all this come down to?”

“It's already a nasty trial, Arthur. With nasty repercussions. Innuendo, exaggeration, gossip. An internationally celebrated writer/scholar – one of the few we cultural outlanders can boast of. His legacy at risk, his name shamed in death, his lucid, provocative critiques of our moral dilemmas buried in the compost of slander. The abusive ex-principal, the panties-wearing adulterer – all grist for the spiteful flesh-eaters of academia. Eight honorary degrees, had he not? And such a writer.”

I felt a little overpowered by that speech. Weakly: “You've read him.”

“Of course. But who am I to speak of our distinguished late friend with any familiarity? You were his student, I believe.”

“I had that honour. In short, Smitty, what are we talking about here?”

“A plea to non-capital murder. Saving the posthumous reputation of a major thinker and writer. Saving the life of a bright but troubled young man. A sentence of life imprisonment, yes, but parole will be available after twenty years. Your fellow can walk out of there in his early forties if he impresses the parole board. Meanwhile, he could take correspondence courses; the penitentiary has excellent programs – he'd easily earn a degree.”

Smitty carried on, a long, hypnotic flow: not only would a life and a reputation be rescued, but also the career of a praiseworthy young talent. Then he evoked the black-robed spectre of The Hammer, who would persuade any doubters on the jury to convict, and would weep no crocodile tears as he imposed the mandatory death sentence.

“I can assure you, Smitty, unequivocally, that Gabriel Swift will never plead guilty to murdering Dr. Mulligan. He would rather die.”

“Ah, well, that is too bad. I lost a client to the rope many years ago.”

“I'm aware.” The notorious Emily McCubbin, who poisoned her husband as a reward for his many adulteries. “I studied the transcript.”

“What it does not show is that I'd wangled a life sentence for non-capital. She declined it. Only hanging I've ever attended. They do rather depress one.”

It's your turn
, was what I was hearing.
Make me an offer
.

“Maybe …” I had trouble saying it. “Manslaughter.”

Smitty's response was to sit back, eyes closed, pondering perhaps, or simply enjoying his cigar.

I repeated to myself that complex word.
Manslaughter
. Killing without intention, without malice aforethought. The maximum sentence, life imprisonment, was reserved for the most grievous cases. Death by drunken brawl might merit five. Death of a renowned thinker would be more costly. Then I tried to picture myself recommending it to Gabriel, and I flinched. “Possible, not likely.”

Smitty set the cigar in his ashtray, giving it a rest, as the waitress collected plates. “The
profiteroles au chocolat
are made not here but in heaven. You may find the berries gratin healthier, though that seems such an irrelevancy.”

I said I'd pass. He chose the profiteroles and insisted I join him in a snifter of
VSOP
Hennessy. I asked for a coffee as well – I was fairly woozy with drink. Smitty, in contrast, seemed perfectly lucid. I wondered what the Attorney General was paying him that he could afford such lunches; this would run to at least forty dollars.

“Manslaughter,” he said, swirling his cognac. “A tough sell.” To his employer, I assumed – Robert Bonner, the Attorney General. “But I must say you showed some very deft footwork with Lorenzo in setting it up.
I shot him as he flailed
becomes
I shouted at him
. I rather liked that.” Another swirl, a sip. “Bob would want a substantial sentence, I warn you. Not life, but up there. Twenty, twenty-five years.”

This was Smitty's backup position, obviously. I resisted a powerful urge to offer my hand on it. Done – twenty years. Depression relaxes its grip, worries scatter to the winds. It's on to further challenges, the Palmer brothers, organized crime, trials featuring the immoral and the simply evil, clients I wouldn't care a hoot about …

I pictured Gabriel looking at me with astonishment and disillusion as I put such a plea deal to him. I did care a hoot about him, that was the whole damn problem with this case. I found him stimulating, challenging,
homo sui generis
. I wanted a friendship that would survive this case, survive his imprisonment, survive our stressful roles as counsel and client.

I explained I'd set the afternoon aside to confer with the accused. Smitty had François bring over the phone. He called the Criminal Registry, asked them to pass word to his Lordship that “counsel were in discussions” – code for settlement negotiations. A similar message went to Leroy Lukey, who undertook to advise Ophelia. Word soon came back that Hammersmith proposed returning the jury to their hotel until Monday. We agreed.

Smitty and I were able to relax then and enjoy several more cognacs while I peppered him, Wentworth-like, with questions about his many notable cases.

After parting from Smitty at around half past three, I found myself in front of the flower shop, literally scratching my head – as if that would somehow jump-start memory. I had no idea where I'd parked the Bug that morning. A two-hour zone, that's all that came back; now I would have to shell out yet another buck for a ticket.

It didn't strike me that I ought not to be driving anyway until, twisting to look at a pair of ankles, I almost sat on a tray of peonies. The ankles belonged to the flower shop saleslady, who asked if she could help me. Odd what one remembers – often the trivial – and what one doesn't. I have no recall of ordering roses for my mother (where did that impulse come from?), but the next day she called Gertrude to thank me.

The first lounge I hit was The Library in the Hotel Vancouver, whose bookish decor I felt might help me analyze that altogether too cordial plea-bargain session. I felt I should level off, so I had a coffee with my shot of rye.