Stray Bullets (32 page)

“‘Whatever happens inside this courtroom today, I’m confident I made the right move.’”

“You mean making the deal with Cutter and his client Booth?”

“Exactly.”

“Great,” Stone said. “That’s no big deal. Come on, let me use it.”

“No, no, no. Let’s see what happens in there.”

Inside the courtroom, Booth was sitting in the back, next to his lawyer and Cutter’s partner, Barb Gild. An older, well-groomed bald man wearing an earring sat next to Booth. Must be his father, Armitage thought.

Seeing Cutter again made Armitage feel ill. The guy would do anything to win. And getting his client out of this mess was just the kind of ego boost the bastard lived for.

Gild had sworn Booth’s affidavit. Armitage had subpoenaed her to court, just in case Booth denied he’d signed the legal document. If that happened, he’d toss Gild up on the stand and bury Booth. Then he’d charge him with perjury and murder. Get him and St. Clair convicted. Wouldn’t that be nice.

In short order, court started, and soon he was on his feet. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, and Your Honor. Today, the Crown calls as its first witness Mr. Dewey Booth.”

Booth stood up. The jurors turned their heads in unison and watched him saunter through the rows of spectators, cut between the two counsel tables, and hop energetically up onto the witness stand. He was a little punk, Armitage thought. Cutter must have dressed him up, because he wore a white shirt with a blue tie and straight blue pants. The clothes all looked as if they’d been bought yesterday.

“Hello, Mr. Booth.” With all his other witnesses, Armitage had immediately come out from behind his counsel table to talk to them. But now he stayed put. He wanted to send a message to the jury that he wasn’t close to Booth in any way. He didn’t bother to say, “Good morning,” but kept it to a straight hello.

“Yeah,” Booth said. “Hi.”

Phil Cutter might have dressed his client up for court, but he couldn’t repackage the punk’s arrogant smirk and the “fuck you” attitude that radiated from every pore.

Armitage asked Booth about his background, walked him through his criminal record, inquired about his friendship with Larkin St. Clair and his relationship with Suzanne Howett.

“Suzie was my chick, then I got a three-year bit in Kingston,” Booth said. “She came out for visits for about a year and a half, then she dumped me.”

“How did that make you feel?” Armitage asked. He had to be careful. Thanks to Parish there had been no prelim, so he didn’t know what Booth was going to say.

“Like shit.” Booth looked over at the jury. “Sorry, I mean real bad.”

“Angry?”

“Yeah. Especially when I heard she was going out with Jet.”

“Jet. That would be Mr. Trapper.”

“Mr. Trapper.” Booth measured the words out one at a time in a way that sent a shiver down Armitage’s spine. He could only imagine what the jury thought.

“Take us to November fourteenth. Where were you that day?”

“About noon I hooked up with Larkin.” He pointed at the defense table. “We hung out at Kensington Market for a while and then drifted over to the Timmy’s.”

Armitage looked back at St. Clair, who was staring straight ahead at the judge.

“Larkin, that’s Mr. St. Clair, the accused?”

“Larkin, yeah.”

“And how do you know him?”

“We met in juvie and been best buds ever since.”

Armitage looked over at the jury, but none of them looked back. They’d all zeroed in on Booth. “And Timmy’s. That’s the Tim Hortons? On Elm Street?” he asked.

“One and the same,” Booth said in a slow drawl.

“Why did you go there?”

Booth looked remarkably comfortable. As if he were enjoying himself. Probably because, for once in his life, he was in court and only a witness, not the accused. “I’d found out Suzie was working there and that Jet picked her up every night.”

“Suzie, that’s Suzanne Howett, and Jet, that’s Mr. Trapper?”

Booth gave Armitage a laconic look. “One and the same.”

Armitage could feel the kid’s cocky attitude starting to grate on his nerves. Time to get to work. “Mr. Booth, did you have a gun with you?”

“Me? No.”

“How about Larkin St. Clair?”

Booth nodded vigorously. “Uh-huh. He was packing.”

Armitage was relieved. It looked as if Booth was sticking to his story. He turned to the defense table and pointed to Larkin St. Clair.

St. Clair sat, stony still. Looking straight ahead.

“Just to be absolutely clear,” Armitage said. He pointed at the defendant. “You are talking about that man, the accused, Mr. Larkin St. Clair. Correct?”

“That’s right.”

“On the afternoon of November fourteenth he was with you at the Tim Hortons on Elm Street, and he, Mr. St. Clair, had a gun with him. Correct?”

“One hundred percent.”

“Did you see the gun?” Armitage asked.

“Yeah,” Booth said. “I told him to bring it.”

“You did?” This was new. Armitage had practically memorized Booth’s affidavit, and this wasn’t mentioned in it. “Why?” he asked instinctively. But the moment the question was out he realized he didn’t know the answer. Not a good move with a witness like this.

“Jet. I didn’t trust the guy.”

Armitage didn’t like that answer. Where was Booth going with this? Best to steer away. He’d gotten in the key point he needed: St. Clair was the one with the gun.

He poured a glass of water and drank it. Armitage wasn’t thirsty, but he wanted to put some time between that last set of questions and the new ones he was about to ask. He picked up a different binder and opened it. This was another way to signal to the jury that he was heading in a new direction.

“Last week we heard from a witness, Mr. Vikram Mohammed. He said that before shots were fired, you were having a coffee inside the Timmy’s with Mr. St. Clair. Do you recall that?”

“Sure. Two double-doubles, medium. Like we always get.”

“Mr. Mohammed said you told Mr. St. Clair you wanted to go outside for a cigarette.” This piece of evidence had troubled him. He was concerned that it would show Dewey as the one who planned this whole thing. He waited to see what Booth’s answer would be.

“I might have.”

“Did you say this to Larkin?” He looked down at his notes to
emphasize to the jury that he was giving a direct quote. He didn’t need to look. He’d memorized what Mohammed had said. But this way was more effective. “‘I need a fucking cigarette.’”

“Sounds like me.”

“Why did you need a cigarette at just that moment?”

“I saw Jet’s Caddy drive up. I was planning to go talk to him. I wanted Larkin behind me, as backup.”

This wasn’t in the affidavit either. Not good. But he had to keep going. “What happened?”

“Jet pulls into the corner of the lot in his stupid Cadillac, and I see my girl, Suzie, running from the other side of the building toward him.”

They were at the crucial point. He walked out from behind the counsel table for the first time and moved about halfway up to the witness box. This put the jury by his side. “What did you do?”

“Me? I see Jet get out of the car and start walking toward me. ‘Long time no see,’ I say. Even have my hand out to shake his. Instead, he yanks out a gun and,
pow
, fires right above my head.” Saying this, Booth ducks down, like a sheriff in an old Western movie shoot-out. “I turn back and see Larkin. He’s about to fire to protect me and he tumbles to the ground. It was slippery. Bullet flies off to the side. I hear the father screaming that his son’s been hit. There’s a few other shots, and I run out into the back alley and take off.”

Armitage felt the blood beating against his temples. He was dying to barge up to the witness stand and throttle the arrogant little liar. Without saying a word, he marched back to the counsel table and grabbed Booth’s affidavit. The asshole.

He rushed right up to the clerk below Judge Rothbart and handed him a copy of the affidavit. “The Crown seeks to have this witness declared hostile,” he said.

“On what grounds?” Rothbart asked.

“Contradiction of a previous signed and sworn statement.”

“Let me see that,” Rothbart said to the clerk. He was drumming his fingers hard.

“The affidavit is all on one page,” Armitage said.

Rothbart read it carefully. “Ms. Parish?” he asked at last.

Nancy Parish looked up from her copy of the affidavit that she’d been reading.

“Objection,” she said. “He can only cross his own witness if there has been a clear contradiction. This witness’s affidavit doesn’t say anything about Jet and a gun.”

“Exactly,” Armitage said. “That’s my point.”

Rothbart read the document slowly. At last he looked up at Armitage. “It’s also your problem. This witness never touches on the question of whether the man named Jet was armed or not armed. Looks as if he was never asked the question.”

“That’s right, nobody asked me,” Booth piped in.

Rothbart gave him a withering stare. “No comments from you, sir.”

But it didn’t matter. The damage had been done. Armitage could see now that the affidavit was full of holes. All it said was that St. Clair brought a gun to the Tim Hortons and that he shot at Jet. Nothing about his slipping on the ice. And not a word about whether or not Jet had a gun or fired first, which gave Larkin the chance to say he only acted in self-defense. Rothbart had picked this up back at the pretrial. That’s why he thought Parish was going to waive the prelim.

If there’d been a prelim, all this would have come out. And Armitage would have been prepared for it. But instead, here he was with his key witness, stunned into silence. Flat-footed in front of the jury.

Nancy Parish had risked fifteen years of Larkin St. Clair’s life by waiving the preliminary inquiry for just this moment. Because of that move, Armitage hadn’t been able to vet Dewey Booth’s evidence before the young kid testified in front of the jury. It had worked. Armitage’s deal with Phil Cutter was blowing up in his face.

He stared dumbly at the affidavit in his hand. Teetered on his feet. Armitage’s considerable size, which he used to his advantage in court, suddenly made him look more vulnerable. Like a tall cedar tree, moments before it was felled.

The rules about cross-examining your own witness were very restrictive. The Crown could only attack the witness on explicit contradictions in his testimony, and Parish intended to hold Armitage to the letter of the law.

“Okay, Mr. Booth,” Armitage said, recovering his breath. He pointed over to the defense table. “You and Larkin aren’t just friends, you’re best friends, aren’t you?”

“Objection,” Parish said, jumping to her feet. “He’s cross-examining his own witness.”

Rothbart looked down at Armitage. “Defense counsel’s right.”

Armitage paced. “Mr. Booth, how long have you known the defendant?”

“Since I was fourteen years old.”

“Are you friends?”

“Best friends.” Booth gave Armitage a cheeky grin.

“You’d do anything for him, wouldn’t you?”

“Objection.” Parish slammed back to her feet. “Cross-examining again.”

“Sustained,” Rothbart said without hesitation.

Armitage was bobbing his head up and down. His face was red with fury and frustration. He stopped, turned, and stared at the back of the court. Frozen.

Parish looked around and saw that Armitage was glaring down at Phil Cutter and Barb Gild.

“Mr. Armitage,” Rothbart said from the judge’s dais. “Do you have any further questions for this witness?”

Armitage snapped his head around. He stomped up to the witness box. For a moment Parish had a flashback. Seven years ago, in youth court, when she’d seen Armitage toss Larkin St. Clair up against the wall after an important case of his collapsed.

Booth must have remembered it too. He ducked down as the big Crown Attorney approached him. Was Armitage actually going to attack him? For the first time in her professional career, Parish was afraid during a trial.

At the last second, Armitage veered over to the court registrar’s table. “Give me exhibit 4B.”

The registrar, a tiny man with short fingers, fumbled with it for a moment, found the gun, and passed it to Armitage along with a pair of thin plastic gloves. He snapped them onto his big hands, grabbed the gun, and went right up to Booth. He held the weapon near his side.

“Do you recognize this gun?” Anger dripped from every word. Parish wanted to object again but she couldn’t. His tone was all cross-examination, but his words were not.

“Yep. I think it’s the one Larkin, my best friend, had.” Booth’s sarcasm was in lockstep with Armitage’s anger. He flicked his hand toward the defense table. Parish kicked St. Clair under the table to make sure he didn’t look at the witness stand.

“You ever hold this gun?” Armitage asked.

“Probably.” Booth was as surly as ever.

“Here, take this,” Armitage said. His voice softened. And despite what he’d said, he still held the gun close to his chest.

Booth looked confused. “The gun?”

“No, Mr. Booth, the words. ‘Here, take this.’ Did you hear your best friend Larkin St. Clair say those words?”

Parish felt a chill crease her whole body. This type of moment happened in every trial, when some small fact that everyone had overlooked now, in a different context, took on a whole new meaning. Oh no, she thought.

“Why would he say that?” Booth asked, sounding confused.

“I get to ask the questions,” Armitage said. Still spooky calm. “On the night of November fourteenth, at just after five in the afternoon, in the Tim Hortons parking lot on Elm Street, did Larkin St. Clair say to Jet, also known as Mr. James Trapper, ‘Here, take this’?” As he spoke, Armitage lifted the gun above Booth’s head.

Parish could see by his eyes that Booth now understood the import of the words. “No,” he said, defiant.

“You told us Larkin shot this gun.”

“Okay.”

“I’m asking you again, did St. Clair say, ‘Here, take this,’ to Jet before he pulled the trigger?”

Now Parish could object. Armitage had gone over the line into cross-examination. But she was afraid to. Didn’t want to draw even more attention to this, the worst piece of evidence in the whole trial.