The Guilty (12 page)

“Hey, great leader and shining beacon of justice, you don’t look as h
appy as you’re supposed to be.”

Bratt considered briefly telling him to get lost, then decided that a friendly ear to listen to his tales of woe
might not be such a bad thing.

“Come on in, doctor, and bring your notepad. I’
ve got a lot of venting to do.”

Kalouderis came in and sat down at his
favorite spot, stretching his legs out along the sofa.

“I thought the patient was supposed to be t
he one lying down,” said Bratt.

“You didn’t call dibs,” Kalouderis responded with a smile. “So, tell me your problems, and please make them interesting. I’m usually not a very
good listener when I’m sober.”

Bratt wondered where to begin. He wasn’t quite ready for an existential discussion about his role as a lawyer or the morality of his courtroom tactics. As for the conflict that these tactics had caused between him and Jeannie, he had never liked talking about family problems, always keeping a clear dem
arcation between work and home.

He considered talking about the problems he was facing preparing Small’s
defense, but these were the kinds of things that came up fairly regularly in a criminal practice, and were probably too commonplace to keep his friend’s interest.

That left Nancy. He looked at Kalouderis’s slightly sarcastic smile and decided that this was about as f
ar as he was ready to open up.

He told his friend about the wedding reception, while tending to paint himself as a surprised innocent in the whole matter. He wasn’t used to being dumped on the first date, and his ego fought with his heart over what his
next step, if any, should be.

“She really had no business taking her anger out on me. We could have just left and
gone somewhere else,” he said.

“Do you think she was re
acting as a woman or as a cop?”

“That’s the problem. Those are two species I’ve never been able to understand. So, imagine how inscrutable they
become when they’re combined.”

B
oth he and Kalouderis chuckled.

“Well, maybe it was to be expected,” said Kalouderis. “After all, two fellow police officers were killed. You couldn’t expect her to turn a
blind eye to what the guy did.”

“Why not? It’s not like she even knew them. They were anti-gang and she works white-collar crime. Besides, remember that nut, Castle, the guy who shot Dougal McDonald? I didn’t have any problems defending him. It’s not like I said, ‘Oh, no. You shot another lawyer, so I can’t have anything to do with you.’ An
d I knew McDonald fairly well.”

“Yeah, you knew him just enough to hate his guts. What if it had been a lawyer that you liked? What if it
was somebody from this office?”

“I guess that would depe
nd on how much he was billing.”

The two friends laughed again, able to enjoy the tasteless joke in the privacy of Bratt’s office. Bratt wondered why they could make jokes over what had happened to McDonald, while Nancy had been brought close to tears just by the sight of Nick Tortoni.

Maybe we do need a bit of sensitivity training,
Bratt thought.
Then again, maybe laughing at some of the less pleasant aspects of this job is the only way we can do it.

“Anyway,” continued Kalouderis, “from what you told me she really had the hots for you. So, if you already told her how sorry you were and you got her out of there right away, I don’t think she’s going to continue holding it against you. Why not call her?
Even apologize again.”

“Maybe I should forget about her. I don’t want her thinking I’m
desperately chasing after her.”

“No, you certainly wouldn’t want her to think
that
,” said Kalouderis, sarcastically. “Anyway, maybe you
should
forget about her. But, if you’re not going to, then call her, for Christ’s sake, and quit pining over her like a lovesick teenager.”

They talked for a while longer before Kalouderis went back to his own office, waving his finger at Bratt, who was still considering whether to take his friend’s advice. Bratt opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a little plastic folder full of business cards. He flipped it over to the back, to a separate section for various police officers whom he had dealt with on occasion,
some of whom he actually liked.

He pulled out S/D Philippe St. Jean’s card. The lead investigator in the Small case wasn’t a personal
favorite of Bratt’s, although he held a grudging respect for the veteran detective. St. Jean had conducted Small’s videotaped interrogation and Bratt had an idea of what it had been like before even seeing it. Where other cops often tried bullying and intimidation to extract confessions, St. Jean put on a much more amiable face. He tried building a rapport with suspects, getting them to like and trust him and, hopefully, admit their crimes once they were convinced it was in their own best interests to do so. Those who knew the detective were aware there was little similarity between the easy-going, almost warmhearted guy who conducted the interrogations and St. Jean’s true bulldog personality.

Bratt held St. Jean’s card in front of him, but his mind turned to the card that rested in the front poc
ket of his shirt. Nancy’s card.

It’s almost noon,
he thought.
I guess if I call her up now I won’t look too desperate.

He dialed the number of the fraud squad and punched in her personal extension, unsure if she was even on duty.
It rang several times, then she picked up.

He sensed some hesitation on the other end of the line before she finally said,
“
Bonjour, Robert
.”

I’m really going to have to get call-display,
Bratt thought.

“Good mor
ning, Nancy,” he said tentatively. “How’ve you been?”

“Well, my weekend was a bit of a bust, if you’ll pardon the pun.
” There was silence for a few seconds, as if she were deciding whether to continue the conversation. Finally she asked, “How about you?”

“Mostly I’ve been feeling pretty bad about the other night. I realize it wasn’t the best idea I’ve had.”

He waited for her to respond, but was met with more silence.
Well, she hasn’t hung up yet; that must mean something.

“I guess it was more than just a bad idea. It was totally,
ridiculously
stupid of me. And I, I guess I was hoping you’d forgive me.”

“Wow, Robert. I don’t think I’ve ever heard you grovel before. You actually sound sincere, too.”

“I guess I’m even surprising myself,” he said. “So, what do you think? Can you forgive me?”

“I don’t know,” she said, her voice sounding suddenly perkier. “Maybe I should let you grovel some more.”

“If that’s what it takes.”

“No,
dear Robert,” she said with the light laugh he so enjoyed hearing. “That’s enough groveling for you. I can’t stay furious with you forever.”

“You had every right to be furious.”

“Oh, I know. Of course what really made me angry was sitting through that God-awful trial for two months having naughty little fantasies about you. Then you almost went and ruined everything.”

“
Almost?
So things can be fixed?”

“Yes, things can be fixed. Anyway, I was probably too hard on you. After-all, you’ve been a defense attorney all your life, so you just didn’t know any better.”

“Ouch,” Bratt said jokingly, feeling the weight of the past two days slide off his shoulders.

“
So,” she continued, “if we just pretend that whole evening never happened, I suppose I wouldn’t mind trying again.”

“How about tonight,” he suggested.

“I’m glad you’re not wasting any more time. I don’t know if I should trust you to decide where we’ll go.”

Bratt tried to think of the best spot to take her. He quickly ruled out the many chic, self-important eateries lining St. Laurent Boulevard that he usually frequented. Unlike other dates, he didn’t think it was necessary to try to impress Nancy with all the members of the trendy set that he knew. What he wanted now wa
s to finally be alone with her.

“I know a quiet little place on Park. We’ll probably have the place t
o ourselves on a Monday night.”

“Some place quiet for just the two of us sounds perfect. There’s h
ope for you yet, Robert Bratt.”

A few minutes after Bratt got off the phone, Kouri arrived carrying plastic-wrapped sandwiches and cups of coffee. He went straight toward Bratt’s window and motioned for him to join him there, but Bratt didn’t move. With his mind full of thoughts of that night’s dinner with Nancy, he wasn’t curious about whatever it was that Kouri wanted hi
m to see.

“Some sort of demonstration,” Kouri said, motioning out the window. “They’r
e heading for the courthouse.”

Their office was a
long block away from the
Palais de Justice
, down Notre Dame Street, and Bratt had seen many a group of demonstrators march in that direction. He found the whole thing much less fascinating than Kouri seemed to. The junior lawyer continued to gawk out the window.

“Unless there’s a whole bunch of naked women taking part, Peter, it’s just another demonstration. They get them a
ll the time at the courthouse.”

Kouri turned away from the window and brought the two lunches that he was still carrying to Bratt’s desk.
 

“Well, there are a lot of women out ther
e, but none of them are naked.”

“The day the nudists’ rights group storms the court gimme a call. Until then, forget about it and let’s get back to work on the pl
ight of our friend, Mr. Small.”

Around four that afternoon, the two lawyers sat down in front of a small TV in Bratt’s office to watch the videotape St. Jean had couriered over to them. On the tape, the homicide detective and Marlon Small entered a pale-yellow room which contained two chairs and a small table bolted to the floor.

Kouri, to whom everything seemed to be new and exciting, noted that the chair St. Jean sat on was soft, padded vinyl, while Small’s chair looked like hard, molded plastic. Bratt retorted that this was a clear example of the psychological gamesmanship the cops resorted to in order to break down their suspects. Kouri didn’t se
em to catch the sarcastic tone.

On the screen, the lawyers saw a wide-angle view of the room at first, but as St. Jean spoke the wall-mounted camera’s focus closed in on Small. Bratt noticed that his clothes were nearly identical to those he had worn when they met at R.D.P., except that the police had removed the bandana before taping. Small held on to it now like it was a security blanket and throughout the interview he nervously twisted and pulled at it. He didn’t look nearly as cocky as he had
when they met him the previous Saturday

St. Jean spent several minutes making sure that Small understood his rights before beginning the questioning. Bratt knew this detailed procedure was not so much for the suspect’s benefit as it was for any judge who might view the tape later. Small wasn’t paying much attention to St. Jean, his eyes flitt
ing nervously around the room.

“If you are eligible,” St. Jean read from a small plastic card, “you may also apply for legal assistance through the Provincial Legal Aid Program. Do you understand that, Marlon?
You can get a lawyer for free.”

Small said nothing in response,
so St. Jean continued reading.

“This part is really important, so pay attention. You may retain free of charge an
d immediately, a duty counsel-”

“I need a smoke, man,” Small interrupted. “
Can’t somebody get me a smoke?”

St. Jean looked mildly exasperated with Small’s indifference
to what was happening to him.

“Like I was saying,” he continued, “you may retain, free of charge and immediately, a duty counsel, and obtain preliminar
y legal advice without charge.”

“Gr
eat, can I have my smokes now?”

“In a minute, Marlon,” St. Jean said. “Just let me finish this bit. You want to know your rights, don’t you? You haven’
t even spoken to a lawyer yet.”

“
I don’t need a lawyer, I need a cigarette. What the fuck do I need a lawyer for, anyhow?”

St. Jean exhaled slowly, as if he had some bad news to tell Small, but couldn’t figure out how to do it.

“Just let me get this done, OK? It’ll be a couple of more minutes, then you can have your cigarette.”

This didn’t seem to assuage Small much, and he continued to fidget in his chair, looking wide-eyed at the bare walls around him and rubbing the bandana in his hands. St. Jean went on to explain Small’s right to silence, and Bratt’s mind lowered the volume on his words to concentrate on the face of the agitated suspect. He continued to scribble notes, describing Small’s expressions and body language. Bratt suspected that, more than anything Small might say, it would probably be how he looked and behaved that a jury would find incriminating.