Barrington Street Blues (2 page)

“No idea. I've barely looked at the file.”

Johnson claimed to hate working as a lawyer but, in reality, the law courts were mother earth to him. He was tall and thin with light brown hair and a bony face; his lips were set in a permanent sneer. Every guy has an old friend that his wife doesn't trust, someone she thinks is going to lead her husband astray in the world of wine, women and song. Or, as we know it today, sex, drugs and rock ‘n roll. To all appearances, Ed Johnson filled that role nicely. But in fact, behind the seen-it-all, done-it-all façade, Ed was as tender-hearted as anyone I'd ever met. And, as far as I knew, even his own wife had nothing to worry about.

Ed was still talking about the Leaman case. “Well, I don't imagine you're talking big bucks for lost future income. It wasn't two brain surgeons who shot each other's lights out in the Foreign Daft parking lot.”

“No, from what I understand, the families just want —”

“Don't tell me.” He put his hand up. “Let me guess. It's not about the money. It's the principle of the thing, right? The families just want justice. So, is it going to be more trouble than it's worth, or what?”

“Could be. But I've got Ross Trevelyan working with me. He's a certifiable workaholic, so I won't be knocking myself out.”

“Yeah, I heard. Rowan finally managed to reel him in. Well done.”

Rowan was Rowan Stratton, the senior partner at my law firm, Stratton Sommers. Rowan had been trying to woo Ross away from Trevelyan and Associates, his father's firm, for years. Ross was the son of John Trevelyan, one of the city's most eminent barristers, who had recently been appointed a justice of the Nova Scotia Supreme Court. John was considered Supreme Court of Canada material, and the betting was that he would soon be elevated to the Court of Appeal, where he would sit until a place opened up on the country's top court in Ottawa. The Trevelyan name was like gold.

“I thought Ross would be full of shit,” I said, “but he isn't. He offered to help me with the Leaman case, among others, and he's doing all the discoveries for Rowan on the Sherman Industries file. So it's worked out well.”

“Better him than you. I don't envy you trying to pin those two shootings on Wally Baird's detox. So they released Leaman; they thought he was all right. What else were they going to do, keep him in for the rest of his life? Defence counsel will stop at nothing to keep the floodgates closed on that one. And it definitely won't be about the money for them. Because there won't be much of a claim. They'll just want to avoid setting a precedent for every Tom, Dick, and —”

We heard a whisper hiss its way through the ranks of the boy sopranos on the other side of the choir loft. They straightened up and fell silent as the choirmaster appeared before us.

The Reverend Brennan X. Burke was tall, stern, and immaculate in his clerical suit and Roman collar. He had black eyes, black hair flecked with grey, and an Irish-looking mouth, from which emerged a voice tinged with the accent of the old country whence his family had come when he was but a lad.

“Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Good evening, Father!”

“Welcome to the first rehearsal of the St. Bernadette's Choir of Men and Boys. Let us bow our heads and pray.
Exaudi nos, Domine sancte, Pater omnipotens
. . .”

“It's still in Latin?” Ed whispered. “I thought they switched —”

I kicked Ed somewhere between the ankle and the shin to instill in him the proper attitude towards prayer, and he lapsed into silence. Burke communed with God in Latin; that's all there was to it.

St. Bernadette's was a small neo-Gothic church at the corner of Byrne and Morris streets in the southeast part of Halifax, near the harbour. The light of a spring evening shone through the stained-glass windows, giving the church the appearance of a jewel box. More to the point for us, the acoustics were magnificent, which made it the ideal location for the choir school run by Father Burke.

We sight-read our way through a musical history of the Catholic Church, from thousand-year-old Gregorian chant to the multi-layered sound of the Renaissance to the
Ave Verum
of Mozart. The choir director listened to voices and the way they blended, and shuffled people around to get the sound he wanted. I was surprised at how good the younger boys were; their sight-reading and vocal abilities spoke well for the choir school. Johnson and I had the croakiest voices in the loft — no surprise there — and we were the subject of damning looks from the priest as a result.

But all was forgiven when we adjourned for a post-choral pint. Brennan Burke and I had become friends over the past year after I defended him — successfully — on a murder charge. He and Johnson had met the odd time, usually when the priest came to hear our blues band perform. We left the church and got into my car. There was no discussion of where to go; it was a foregone conclusion that we were headed for Grafton Street. The Midtown Tavern & Grill, with its familiar red and green sign and its unpretentious appearance, was an institution in the life of the city. Three draft were on the table before we'd settled in our seats, and the waiter didn't waste our time telling us about himself or about anything with raspberry
coulis
in, on, or around it.

“Can you believe the sound coming out of that little Robertson fellow?” Burke remarked. “He's only nine years old. A little hellion but he's cute as a button.”

“You're fond of young boys, are you, Brennan?”

“I am, Ed.” Burke took out a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and blew the smoke away from the table. “Young girls, too. And grown women. I tolerate a few obnoxious middle-aged male companions as
well. You sounded great, I have to say. A bit rough around the edges, but I may have a solo for you if I can catch you after an early night.”

“Could happen.”

“How long have you and Monty known each other?”

“Long time,” Ed replied. “When I met Collins I wanted his parents to adopt me.”

“I can't imagine why they didn't.”

“Neither could I at the time. Though it might have had something to do with my debt load in law school.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah, I was a little out of the adoptable category by the time I met them. I hear they took in a kitten instead.”

“So, why Monty's parents?”

“Well, look at him! Did you ever see anybody more placid than this guy?”

“I don't know. I've seen him a little perturbed on occasion.”

“Notable because so rare, am I right? His mother was always in pearls, and his father always had his head in a book. ‘I dropped in to borrow the car, all right, Dad?' ‘Sure, dear, go right ahead.' Dear! To his twenty-two-year-old son.”

“He called us all dear. He was a sweetheart.”

“See? What did your old man call you, Brennan?”

“‘You little gobshite,' most of the time. But he meant well.”

“My old man called me ‘kumquat.' And he didn't mean well.”

“He called you a fruit?”

“No, he called my brother a fruit. He called me ‘kumquat' because he's such a dumb fuck he thought it meant something dirty. Probably still does. Ole Vinny ain't never going to be asked to serve on the Greater Halifax Literacy Council.”

“Is your father here in town?”

“I hope not. So. Monty's working on a suicide case. Those guys can't be buried in consecrated ground, right?” Father Burke started to reply, but Johnson kept on: “I wonder if you can ratchet up the damage claim because of that. Mental anguish for the family.”

“I've met the wife. I can't quite see her wailing and gnashing her teeth over a religious rejection.”

“Then you're not doing your job, Collins.”

†

“Moooooo.” I looked up the next morning to see Ross Trevelyan standing in the doorway to my office. “Our milch cow just walked in the door.”

“Oh?”

“The girlfriend and, unsuspected until now, the wee tiny daughter of Graham Scott. Graham Scott who, his parents insist, was getting off drugs —”

“Scott was on drugs too?”

“
Off
drugs, Monty,
off
drugs. Unlike Leaman, Scott was going clean and was practically on the road to medical school when his untimely death occurred outside the Fore-And-Aft.”

“You say he had a daughter? How old?”

“Two.”

“Well!”

“And —
and
— any day now, the girlfriend is going to be delivered of a second little calf who'll never know her daddy.”

“No!”

“Yes. Dependency claim for millions. Two little girls who lost the guidance and financial support of a father who was almost certainly going to win the Nobel Prize for medicine. So, Monty, do you want to meet them, or would you like me to handle it?”

“You go ahead. Thanks, Ross.”

“No problem. And his parents are coming in this afternoon. You may have heard of them. Alastair Scott is a clergyman, but they live well. They're sitting on a pile of old money. I'm going to be in court and may not be back in time for their appointment.”

“I'll see the parents.”

“Great. Meanwhile, I'll draw up the contingency agreements.” We were required to register with the court the agreement between us and our clients to take thirty percent of whatever we recovered in our lawsuit against the treatment centre. Which, as Ross had pointed out, could now be millions.

Ross was in his late thirties. Short, trim, and handsome with thinning dark hair and a winning smile. He was one of those people who look better with eyeglasses than without; his tortoiseshell frames gave
him an air of distinction. I had never met anyone who worked harder. He confided to me when he joined Stratton Sommers that he had never felt appreciated when he was toiling away in the middle ranks of his father's prestigious law firm. He was ready when Rowan made his latest offer of a partnership. I walked out to the waiting room and told Darlene, our receptionist, that I would be seeing Mr. and Mrs. Scott when they came in later in the day.

†

I had not even opened the Leaman and Scott suicide file yet, but, as I expected, Graham Scott's parents were not looking for information from me. They were determined to set the record straight about their son, and all I had to do was listen. Canon Alastair Scott and his wife, Muriel, were both tall and slim with blondish hair beginning to turn white. He appeared in a well-tailored business suit, but I could easily picture him in clerical collar and vestments. He was an Anglican priest with a doctorate in divinity. Muriel Scott wore a pale blue dress with a light tweed jacket and a string of pearls. I knew they were friends of my senior partner, Rowan Stratton. I doubted they had even been aware of the Fore-And-Aft before their son was found dead there.

“Our son has been portrayed in the press as a drug addict and a criminal,” Canon Scott began as soon as we had introduced ourselves. “In fact, he was not an addict. He was a recreational user of cocaine, not crack cocaine, and he was able to go for long periods of time without it. He had a minor criminal record, for drug possession and common assault. Graham got in with an unfortunate set of companions in high school. I don't put the blame entirely on others of course. Graham was responsible for his own actions, and should have known better. Indeed he did know better. Notwithstanding all this, he got through high school without repeating any grades and, with some interruptions and backsliding, he managed to complete three years of a science degree at Dalhousie U. Graham told us he was planning to go back this September and finish his degree. After that, medical school. It was his dream — to be more accurate, it was his intention — to become a cardiologist. There is no doubt in my mind that eventually he would have achieved that goal.”

“Graham comes where in the family? You have other children, I know.”

“He's — he was the third of four. Boy, girl, boy, boy. None of our other children got into trouble, but Graham was a bit of an adventurer. I always felt he would sink the lowest and, in the end, rise to the greatest heights.”

“Canon Scott, Mrs. Scott, where was Graham living just before his death?”

Muriel Scott answered. “He had recently moved back in with us. He had been rooming with some friends, but that arrangement was a trial to him. I think he saw moving home as a way to begin getting his life back in order.”

“Did he ever speak to you about Corey Leaman?”

“Never heard of him, until this happened,” the canon said.

“So you don't know whether he was acquainted with Leaman before his death.” They shook their heads. “Did he talk about his friends, the people he went around with?”

“The only friends he talked about to us were people we knew, youngsters he had been with at the Halifax Grammar School. These other people, he never alluded to them.”

“How old was Graham?”

His mother started to speak, cleared her throat and tried again. “Graham died one week before his twenty-second birthday. He had his whole life — I know it's a cliché, but Graham had such a future ahead of him. Despite the trouble he'd been in, and the rough characters he'd taken up with, he never lost his essential goodness. His quality.”

“Now, about Graham's girlfriend. And his child.”

“Yes?” They both spoke at once.

“Did you know the girl, and your grandchild?”

They exchanged a glance. Eventually, the father replied: “No.”

“Had you been aware that he had a child?”

The exchange of glances, the shaking of heads.

“Have you since met the girlfriend and the little girl?”

“At the wake and the funeral for Graham,” his mother answered.

“And since then?”

“No.”

“Did she tell you, or were you aware, that she is expecting a second child?”

Silence. Not even an exchange of glances.