Children in the Morning (32 page)

“Hi.”

“It’s good to hear from you, Normie. How are you doing?”

“Not too great.”

“Oh. I’m sorry to hear that. But let’s see if we can sort things out.

Can you tell me what it was that started you feeling not so great?”

“Yeah. But I just realized . . .” How was I going to say it?

Oh no! I heard footsteps coming towards the room. The door opened. It was Mum.

“Who’s that, sweetie?”

She obviously heard the phone ring. And I knew she would find out who it was. But I would deal with that problem later.

“Mum,” I said, “don’t be in the room! I’m talking to my psychiatrist!”

She looked really surprised but then she just said: “Oh, I see.” And she left and closed the door. I heard her footsteps walking away.

Meanwhile Dr. Burke wasn’t saying anything. I thought maybe he had given up, and put down the phone.

“Dr. Burke? Are you still there?”

“Yep, I’m here.”

“Sorry we got interrupted. Anyway, well, I’m going to seem really horrible.”

“Oh no, I’m sure you won’t, Normie.”

“It just that Mr. Delaney didn’t do it! Didn’t kill Mrs. Delaney.

The judge found out, and let him go.”

“Well! That’s a bit of news, then.”

206

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“But you remember what I said? I said I thought he was bad! And he isn’t. So I was saying mean things about somebody who is good after all.”

“I remember our conversation very well, and I didn’t think you sounded mean at all.”

“Really?”

“Really. You know, I don’t recall you saying you thought he killed his wife. You felt something wasn’t right, that maybe he was bad in some way. But that could have been anything. People have bad and good in them. You didn’t say anything about the death of his wife.”

“That’s right! My dreams or the things I saw, they weren’t about him pushing Mrs. Delaney down the stairs.”

“No, and I never got that impression from you. But even if you had thought that, there would be nothing wrong with thinking it, would there? The police believed he had done it, and so did the da, I mean, the Crown prosecutor. Before people understand what really happened in something like this, some think the person did it, and others think he didn’t. That’s the way we are; we’re all allowed to have different opinions! And when they’re more in the nature of feelings, people definitely go their own ways with those! Does that make sense?”

“Yeah. I mean, yes. That’s all it was with me. Nothing to do with Mrs. Delaney dying.”

“Right. Is there anything else troubling you, Normie?”

“No, that was it.”

“I’m really glad you called me. And I hope you’ll call again if there’s anything I can do to help you.”

“I will. Thank you.”

“You’re welcome, Normie.”

“Bye.”

“’Night, my love.”

†

Mr. Delaney came to our house the Monday after that. Father Burke was there, and even though they thought they were being too smart for me to catch on, I knew Father was there to talk Mum into telling 207

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Dad about Giacomo and the baby. But — ta-
da!
— Mr. Delaney made an announcement.

“Problem solved! Giacomo ain’t gonna bother nobody, no more!”

Mum gawked at him and didn’t say anything, till she caught on that I was there in the living room, and she told me to go upstairs. I went up, pussyfooted over to the register and sat down, hoping they would go into the kitchen.
Offer him a snack, Mum!
I begged her in my mind. But they stayed in the living room, so I couldn’t hear. I almost gave up when I finally heard them go into the kitchen.

Mum was saying: “How did you do this, Beau?” So I knew I hadn’t really missed anything. Whatever it was, he hadn’t told her.

And he still wasn’t going to. “Maura, you don’t have to know, and you don’t want to know. I handled it. It’s over. End of story.”

“Well, then, you have my heartfelt thanks. And you’ll have my payment of your bill!”

“No bill. Just a favour from my family to yours, a return favour!”

“I don’t know what to say, Beau. I’m . . .” Then she sounded as if she was crying. And then it was the baby who was bawling his head off.

“We’re on the same crying schedule, I guess,” she said.

“You’ve been listening to the same hurtin’ songs. Go take care of him. I’ll have a beer with Brennan here. I see he’s weaned himself off the ginger ale.”

“He couldn’t take it. His system went into shock, and they had to pump it out of his stomach. So, have a brew with him. Hold on, Dominic, I’m coming!”

I heard her footsteps leaving the kitchen. The fridge door opened, and there was the popping sound of a can being opened.

Then Father Burke spoke up. “What did you do, Beau?”

“Don’t ask, Brennan.”

“I’m asking: what did you do?”

“Well, I couldn’t help noticing the resemblance between you and the baby and your, well, rapport with him. The little fellow’s whole face lights up when you walk in the room. I mean, clearly, he thinks you are his father!”

“Don’t be saying that.” Father Burke’s voice was really quiet.

Mr. Delaney went on: “We had a little joke going when I was here 208

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before — or maybe it wasn’t entirely a joke — about you being so blitzed one night, maybe you and Maura —”

“Your joke, not mine. I don’t really think —”

“Doesn’t matter. Nobody else thinks it either, except Giacomo, his lawyer, and one other person, whose lips are sealed.”

“What in God’s name have you done?”

“Ever hear of dna testing?”

“Well, I certainly know what dna is. But what kind of test are you talking about?”

“Paternity testing.”

“I thought that was done by blood types.”

“This is new, and it leaves the old abo blood-type testing in the dust. There’s a lab in New York. I don’t know anyone there, of course, but I know somebody who does. A lab tech here in Halifax. I know her very well, and she owes me for a favour done many years in the past.

This is a woman with a great love of children, and a great devotion to motherhood; she would hate to see a good mother lose her child in a custody dispute. She has an equally great devotion to the Catholic Church and its priests and sisters. She understands that a priest is only human and can make mistakes. And that those mistakes can show up in a lab report, and disappear when the report is destroyed. To make a long, very technical story short, she got two dna test reports from the New York lab, and doctored them to show that Brennan Burke and Dominic MacNeil are a genetic match.”

“My God, Beau! The woman could be sacked from her job. Not to mention all the other ethical and legal —”

“The fake papers were shown to Giacomo and his lawyer, Pacchini, and then destroyed. Giacomo and Pacchini are leaving town tomorrow. It’s over.”

“Christ have mercy on us all, Delaney. If Giacomo
is
the father, you have wrongfully deprived him of his rights as the father. You of all people, a man bringing up ten children, should appreciate that!”

“The best interests of the child are paramount to me. Every single time. And I know whereof I speak. Peggy and I had a little foster daughter, Betsy, years ago, who just didn’t thrive in our home. She had problems, maybe a form of ” — Mr. Delaney said something like
ott-ism
— “Whatever it was, we couldn’t give her the help she 209

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needed. There was a treatment centre in Ontario that was working wonders with kids like Betsy. It broke our hearts to let her go, but she was better off there than with us. Peggy and I nearly went nuclear over it. But I know it was the right thing for Betsy. Best interests of the child, not of me or Peggy or you or Giacomo.”

“Well . . .”

“Listen, Brennan, this is on my conscience, not yours. My loyalty is to my client. She has what she wants; she doesn’t have to know how it was done. And think about this: if Giacomo ever got that child to Italy, and made him part of his family, there’s no guarantee Maura would ever get him back!”

“So . . . Maura really has no idea what you did.”

“She hasn’t a clue. You heard me. I told her I handled it. Period.”

I heard someone get up for a minute, then sit down again. Maybe he thought he heard somebody. But I was as quiet as falling snow.

Mr. Delaney said then: “Brennan, I know you’d do anything for her.

Not publicly maybe, but privately. I
know
. So you and I and a total stranger in a lab have solved this for her. Don’t lose any sleep over it.

I’m not going to.”

I don’t really know what goes on with babies and labs and tests, and I didn’t learn much from the dictionary when I finally found

“genetic,” but it sounded as if we wouldn’t have to worry about losing our baby. Father Burke would be glad later, even if he sounded upset at first. Because Mr. Delaney was right: Father Burke would do anything for Mum, and for all of us, because that’s what good priests do.

(Monty)

Two weeks after the verdict, the Nova Scotia Barristers’ Society went ahead with an event it had been planning before news of the Delaney murder charge torpedoed the whole thing: a dinner and award ceremony to honour Beau for his exemplary work as a lawyer, and as a volunteer with various community organizations. This was an annual event, during which several members of the society were recognized for their achieve-ments and service to the community; the Community Justice Award went to the most notable of the group. This year it was Beau, and now 210

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that the criminal charges were out of the way and Beau exonerated, the ceremony could go ahead. Maura and I were both attending, so there was no reason not to go together. I drove to her place on Dresden Row, and we walked to the nearby Lord Nelson Hotel for the dinner.

“We should have called Brennan for this,” I said to her. “Did you mention it to him?”

“No. I haven’t seen him.”

“Haven’t seen him since when?”

“Quite a while. Couple of weeks maybe.”

“Why? What’s up?”

She shrugged and made a point of peering ahead of her to the hotel, as if looking for a new subject of conversation. As usual when anything in Maura MacNeil’s life changed, I wondered what was going on. But we had social obligations right now, so I let it go.

We entered the banquet room and took our places at one of the long white-draped tables. There were speeches over dinner, and the other honourees gave their little spiels and sat down. When it was Beau’s turn, he looked convincingly humble, but it must have been a very moving experience for him to be accorded such respect and appreciation after the soul-destroying ordeal of a very public trial for the murder of his wife. Somebody thought he was enjoying it a bit too much; I heard a lawyer I didn’t know whisper to his companion:

“He’s really lapping this up.”

Maura heard the comment too, but disagreed, and said softly: “To me he looks deeply grateful. As if he needs this somehow, this adulation. More than the rest of us maybe.”

And there was more of it to come. A large video screen flashed on, showing last year’s ATV News documentary. People could watch it or not, as they milled around with drinks in their hands after the meal. I chatted with people, and only gave the show half of my attention, until I heard the now-infamous phrase “Hells Angels.” I tuned in as a reporter questioned the rcmp about the death of one of Delaney’s clients. She asked whether there was a Hells Angels link to the killing of Travis Bullard, and whether he had been shot more than once. The Mountie played his cards close to his chest, and said more details would be released later on. But the details never were made public. The reporter tried again to establish the biker link, and Beau seemed to confirm it: 211

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“He travelled in some rough circles, yes.”

“And so he ended up being shot to death one night in Truro.”

“That was the longest night of my life!” Peggy Delaney exclaimed.

“My God, I thought, if they —”

“It’s a scary world out there,” Beau interrupted, “but those of us who work in criminal law can’t go through life second-guessing every client we take on. We have a job to do.”

The talked turned to the other unsavoury characters a criminal lawyer has to defend, including child abusers, and Beau assured the viewers that defence lawyers lose sleep over these cases just as other people do.

I had the feeling there was something not quite right in what I had heard, and I made a mental note to follow it up. But I would have to wait, because I was being swept along with a bunch of fellow lawyers on their way to the hotel's lounge. I tried to set aside my mis-givings as I joined the crowd of revellers in the bar.

Everybody wanted to buy Beau Delaney a drink, to celebrate his award and his acquittal on the murder charge. Beau was not a drinker.

I had never seen him have more than two drinks of anything, whether it was a beer or a glass of wine at dinner. Given his size, two drinks would not come close to causing him any impairment, but he limited himself nonetheless. He liked to stay on top of things. Tonight, however, the booze was flowing in his direction, and he must have felt it would be churlish to turn an offering away. There were seven or eight of us at the table, most of whom did their best to keep up. So, almost inevitably, the conversation turned into a dispute between the two sides of the criminal bar, those who try to put the defendants away, and those who try to put them back on the street. The argument was over the value of deterrence in sentencing: should the court mete out a stiff punishment to deter further criminal behaviour on the part of the offender, and send a message to other potential offenders that this is what they would face if they stepped out of line?