Indefensible (27 page)

Friday, 1:15 a.m.

J
amie Gainsford settled back in the seat of his Lexus. He'd been driving for an hour and a half. His thermos sat untouched in the console. Anticipation hammered his veins.

He was at the beginning of a long drive to Nova Scotia—but near the end of a much longer, more convoluted journey. One that began in South Africa on the coast of the Indian Ocean and would end in the heavy woods of Nova Scotia. Some might view where he left as more desirable than where he was going: from an open, warm coast to a dark, forested cabin. For him, though, his destination represented freedom. Completion.

For the past thirty-four years, he'd fought himself. He'd followed the road defined by the norms of society but secretly crept down a path only few dared to venture. Each time he strayed, his need escalated. Until now the dark, secret path was the only road for him.

From one end of the world to another. From re
spected mental health professional to soon-to-be-reviled pedophile and killer.

These were all labels. He'd used many in his professional capacity, compartmentalizing the various disorders he treated. They were designed to make sense of a world that he now realized he could never make sense of.

Why else would he be the way he was?

Why had he developed an obsession about his cousin?

Why was he able to commit these acts and not feel remorse?

Why was his need for Lucy Barrett consuming him?

He had no answers to this.

Perhaps that was the reason he could accept his fate with equanimity, that he could accept the labels society would give him after he was gone.

He could no longer attempt to understand. He could only be.

It was dark, the highway stripped down to travelers who were on urgent business. He always liked highways, especially at this time of night. Long, endless lines that avoided the mess caused by humanity.

He'd spent his life trying to help others free themselves of their baggage. Now he was going to allow himself to be free.

Just him and Lucy.

His body broke out in chills.

He stepped on the accelerator.

Friday, 9:23 a.m.

R
andall stared at the peeling walls of the holding cell in the bowels of the provincial courthouse. He leaned his head back against the wall. The cold concrete seeped dampness into his hair.

The air was dank. It smelled of the various crimes of its previous inhabitants: urine from a pissed-off gang member, vomit from an alcoholic who'd mixed his regular poison with an unexpected gift of hashish, sweat from a rowdy university student who realized he'd really done it this time.

He glanced at his watch: 9:24 a.m. His stomach grumbled. He craved a cup of coffee. A good cup of coffee. The past eighteen hours had been the stuff of nightmares, although he knew he hadn't yet experienced the Technicolor version. That was awaiting him after his arraignment, when they'd send him to the correctional center.

Last night he'd spent at the police station, slumped in a hard chair in the interview room. Sleep had come
at around three in the morning and had been sketchy at best. Every hour a constable would open the door and check on him.

He'd been grilled off and on since his arrest by Ethan Drake and his cohorts. They'd given him water and power bars. Nothing more. Nothing less.

Drake's barely suppressed anger fueled Randall's resolve to say nothing. Randall had been advised of his right to remain silent by Eddie over the telephone, but his real reason for keeping quiet was that he was worried he'd inadvertently inculpate his son by exculpating himself.

He couldn't even tell Ethan to go catch the real killer—because he was scared they'd haul in Nick. And Nick, despite his bravado, would never survive the criminal justice system. It didn't matter that the courts assumed you were innocent until proven guilty. The rest of the system operated on the opposite principle, and it was up to the accused to fight the bias of guilt. And Nick, who could barely get through school and couldn't even cheat on a simple math test without getting caught, would never succeed in fighting that bias.

A sheriff stopped at each of the cells, checking its occupants. Randall watched him through the bars. This man had woken up next to his wife, shaved, eaten breakfast while catching up on the baseball scores, settled a squabble between his kids, promised to catch his daughter's swimming lesson later in the day, left his three-bedroom one-and-a-half-bath split-level suburban home and then grumbled about rush hour traffic while worrying about paying for the new transmission in his
wife's car. This man had a life that Randall desperately envied.

This man had the power to use the Taser that was tucked in a side holster. On him.

The sheriff nodded to him through the bars. “You're up in another hour, Barrett,” he said cheerfully.

 

If it hadn't been for the fact that she was directly involved in the criminal matter that had brought all the media in the Maritimes to Spring Garden Road, Kate might have enjoyed the carnival atmosphere. Reporters, photographers and police officers crowded the lawn in front of the old provincial courthouse. A jazz trio busking on the corner added a festive note.

Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted Nat taking a photo of her.
You'd better get my good side,
she thought. She hurried into the building, coffee in one hand, briefcase in the other. A long line of spectators and media personnel waited to go through the security check. Lawyers did not need to go through the screening, so she skirted around the queue, and flashed her bar society membership to the sheriff. “Do you know which courtroom has arraignments?” she asked.

He smiled and pointed down the hall to number four. “But you can't take your coffee in there.” She gulped it down, then walked into the courtroom, her coffee-induced bravado fading quickly. Like the rest of the building, the courtroom was designed in an earlier era, with a gravitas befitting its function. Olive-brown paneling met cream-colored walls that stretched to a vaulted ceiling arching overhead. On a dais at the front of the courtroom sat a massive desk where the judge would
preside. Below the dais, the court clerk provided an effective barrier between judge and counsel. Facing the judge's desk was the counsel's table, shaped like an L. Green velvet drapes gave the room an air of dignified formality.

Fortunately, Kate was the first lawyer in the courtroom. She strode over to the L-shaped table, conscious of the eyes of the spectators in the wooden benches at the back. Eddie had told her to take a seat by the corner of the L so she could see both the judge, the Crown counsel and the accused.

Just as she sat down at the table, trying to appear as if she did this regularly, the Crown prosecutor bustled into the room, carrying a massive document box crammed with files. She dumped it on the table, yanked out a group of folders and began scribbling notes while lowering her neatly suited bottom into the chair. Most Crowns have to shoot from the hip, Eddie told her this morning. They don't have the luxury of time to prepare.

Kate tried to catch the woman's eye, but the Crown prosecutor didn't look up. She scanned the files methodically, her eyes darting behind her glasses, making notations, flipping pages, checking facts. Kate opened her own file and pretended to look busy.

At 9:28 a.m., three more lawyers rushed into the room. One of them sat next to the Crown, murmuring a greeting as he opened his briefcase. The other two walked to the end of Kate's table that faced the accused and claimed their seats. She glanced over. And wished the floor could swallow her.

Curtis Carey sat next to a frizzy-haired lawyer from Legal Aid.
What are you doing slumming in the criminal
courts?
his expression said. She mustered a smile, although the last thing she wanted was to have a lawyer she knew—intimately—witness her inexperience. She mouthed, “Barrett.”

His eyebrows rose. He reached over and scribbled on her notepad: “Welcome to the dark side.” She glanced at him. But he had turned his attention to his files. Was his message a joke about practicing criminal defense law? Or was it a reference to her defending a man accused of domestic homicide?

“All rise,” the court clerk intoned. The door reserved for the judges swung open, and Judge Norbert Miller strode in. A small man with a large nose and balding head, he perched behind his desk like a weary eagle.

Randall's case was near the bottom of a long list of accused. Kate watched the Crown present the charges for an assortment of garden-variety criminals, listened to her describe the facts, including reading for the court record the obscenity-laced threats of one drunk. Kate's admiration for the Crown prosecutors of the world rose a notch even as her apprehension grew. The criminal court was its own little planet, the procedure alien, the culture insular, the language coded.

 

The court bailiff escorted Randall up the narrow, low-ceilinged concrete stairwell that looked like it had been imported from a prison in Siberia.

When they entered the main level of the old courthouse, the high gracious ceilings, dark wood trims and bustling people jarred him. He rubbed his hand over his eyes. No sleep and little food were catching up to him.

He swayed. The bailiff took his elbow and propelled
him toward courtroom number four. Where justice and mercy battled it out amidst the punks, drug dealers, skinheads, drunks, mentally ill, and the drug addicted

 

“Regina versus Barrett,” the court clerk announced. The entire spectators' gallery swiveled on the hard wooden benches to watch the bailiff escort Randall Barrett into the courtroom.

He looked terrible. His eyes were bloodshot, his face unshaven, his bruises a ghastly combination of purple and yellow. Exhaustion dragged at his face. But he walked in with his back straight, his gaze level.

Kate willed him to look at her.
I'm here,
she wanted to say.
I'm here.
She quelled the pang she felt at the sight of him.

When he saw her, his shoulders relaxed a fraction. The Crown prosecutor stood, peering down through her glasses to read the charge against him. Her voice rang in the courtroom, the earlier midmorning slump chased away by the excitement of a murder charge.

Then the Crown began reading the facts and Kate listened carefully, but she could not dispute what was being said. When the Crown described how Elise was thrown over the balcony, the row of benches in the back—which had had its share of fidgeters during the course of the morning—exploded with whispers and exclamations. A fine sheen of sweat glistened on Randall's forehead. Judge Miller barked a sharp “Order! Order!,” glaring at the reporters. He turned to Kate. She rose to her feet.

“Your Honor, my client is seeking bail. To that end, I
would like to request a date to appear in Supreme Court. As soon as possible,” she added.

“Very well.” Judge Miller turned to the court clerk. “Set a date to appear at the Supreme Court. Preferably Monday.”

The clerk peered at her calendar. “Monday, 9:30 a.m.,” she announced.

“And Your Honour,” Kate said. “I have received nothing from the Crown. If they are going to charge a man with murder, I need more than a charge sheet.”

The Crown glared at her. Kate ignored her. The police had something that triggered Randall's arrest. She just didn't know what.

Judge Miller exhaled. “Counsel, the Crown is not required to disclose until the bail hearing has been set.”

And that was it. Randall was led out of the courtroom. He didn't, as Kate expected, look back. She watched him go. He would be sent by wagon to the correctional center. There, as part of the prison population, he would await his bail hearing.

She became aware of a set of eyes watching her. Curtis Carey quickly looked away, his expression inscrutable.

There was nothing left for her to do. She packed her briefcase, bowed to the court and slipped out of the room through the same door Randall had come in.

A sheriff intercepted her in the hallway. “There's a mob of reporters waiting for you out front, Ms. Lange.”

Kate stiffened.

“Let me show you out the back.”

The sun was bright, warming her skin as she strode
to her car. Seeing Randall being escorted by the bailiff had been disorienting. A man who had always been a leader, who was always one step ahead, no longer in control.

Of anything.

Friday, 1:22 p.m.

“W
hat the hell is going on?”

Kate glanced up from her work to see Nina Woods standing in front of her desk.

“Just working on the settlement for the Naugler case.”

“Don't bullshit me, Kate. I know who you're representing.”

Kate raised a brow, knowing Nina would correctly interpret the minuscule movement: she was throwing down the gauntlet to her boss.

Nina's eyes were hard. “You cannot do this. I will not permit it.”

“Why not?”

“He'll drag the whole firm down. McGrath Barrett can't afford another scandal!”

“Randall Barrett has not been convicted of anything, Nina.” And that was the crux of the matter for Kate.

“You and I both know that even the perception of wrongdoing will seriously impact our firm.”

“Have we lost any clients yet?”

Nina's mouth tightened. “Yes. And we cannot afford to lose any more. We'll have to start laying off associates if things continue like this. If they haven't already fled for greener pastures.”

“We can't just abandon him, Nina. He needs us to stand by him.”

Nina's lips twisted. “There won't be anything left if we do that, Kate. The firm is on shaky ground. He's dragging us all down. Including you.” Her tone softened. “You have your whole career ahead of you. You don't want to get dragged down by a man like Randall. He'll just take what he wants and then move on.”

Kate prayed that Nina did not see the stab of fear that shot through her at her words.

“He asked me to be his defense lawyer, Nina. I can't say no.”

Nina crossed her arms. “I forbid you to act as his counsel.”

Nina Woods had just said the wrong thing to her. Kate was not going to be bullied by this power-hungry woman who believed she was entitled to take what she wanted. Kate had gone through too much and been forced to confront her worst fears. What had Nina Woods accomplished in her life in comparison?

Kate raised a brow. “Or else?”

“Or else you're fired.”

“I see.” Kate tapped a finger against her chin. “Are you sure you really want to do that, Nina? You might get away with choking Randall out of the partnership, but I don't think you can get rid of me, too. After all,
I'm the one who caught the bad guy and saved McGrath Barrett's ass. Not you.”

Nina Woods' nostrils flared.

Too much Botox?
Kate couldn't tell, but the woman sure as hell looked as if her face were carved of marble.

“And,” Kate added, “I think ‘perception' might swing the other way if people find out the partnership choked off Randall's income so now he can't afford to hire a defense lawyer—and then fired your own associate for trying to help him out.” Kate's voice softened. “Just think how you could spin this—managing partner Nina Woods assigns Kate Lange to handle partner Randall Barrett's defense pro bono. Sounds pretty good, don't you think?”

“You think you're very clever, don't you?”

Kate shook her head. “On the contrary. But it doesn't take a rocket scientist to deduce this whole thing stinks.”

Nina's white-blue eyes flickered over Kate. The coldness of the partner's gaze was almost palpable on Kate's skin. “Fine. You can represent Barrett pro bono.”

Kate tried not to allow her triumph to show.

“Although I think you are jumping off a very steep cliff. Have you ever done criminal defense work, Kate?”

Kate kept her gaze steady, but inside she was thinking,
Nice one, Nina.
She knew how women like Nina operated. They got to where they were through hard work and sacrifice, ramming through the old boys' club until they'd proven their worth. They wore their sacri
fices as a badge of honor and they weren't about to let anyone—especially another woman—get off easy.

“Didn't think so.” Nina smiled. “Well, Barrett will get what he deserves.”

“What he deserves is to be paid for the legal work he's done.”

Nina shook her head. “Don't blame the partners. It was his clients who wouldn't pay him. Anyway, what happens between the partners is our business, so don't push me, Kate. You get to represent him, although I seriously question both your judgment and Barrett's. I will not be calling another vote on the issue of Barrett's income. He's got plenty of assets.” With that, Nina Woods pivoted on her heel and strode out of the room.

Kate exhaled and lowered herself to her chair. She closed the Naugler file folder and pulled out Randall's.

All she had hoped for was that she could stay on Randall's case. She hadn't expected that she could convince Nina to let her bill her time as pro bono.

Score one for Kate Lange.

But she wouldn't gloat. Nina had exposed Kate's weakness to the light of day and given her a glimpse of what she was in for.

She supposed she should thank Nina for that.

But she couldn't bring herself to.