Snow Job (58 page)

Arthur settled himself into the witness chair under the black, unforgiving glare of his long-time nemesis, Wilbur Kroop, retired chief justice of the B.C. Supreme Court. How he had ended up chairing the Royal Commission on Bhashyistan was a distressing mystery, the final appointment of the imploding Conservative government. Maybe it was intentional. Get Beauchamp.

C.P.G. Barclay, the commission counsel, rose and carried on in his unflappable manner, taking up where he’d left off the day before. “Mr. Beauchamp, you have conceded that on January fifteenth, two months ago, you received, posthumously, an email from Mr. DiPalma.”

“I have not hidden the fact.” One has to be honest.

“As I understand the law, Mr. Beauchamp, death terminates solicitor-client privilege under special circumstances.”

“Only when disclosure may prevent imminent harm. That is not the case here. Alive or dead, Mr. DiPalma and his reputation are entitled to my silence and protection.”

Clugg and Klein weren’t talking either, though Arthur could hardly feel he was in good company. Morbid irony resided in DiPalma’s suicide — an act encouraged by his certainty they would sell him out. Arthur too had expected they’d dump everything on DiPalma. They might yet, subject to advice of counsel, of course.

Meanwhile, their former boss, Crumwell, had been fired without even a nominal golden handshake, and was in the Seychelles, avoiding subpoena.

“I will ask once again that you reveal the contents of Mr. DiPalma’s email.”

“And I will refuse again, Mr. Barclay.” How could Arthur possibly assent to a precedent that could loosen the bonds of confidence between lawyer and client? How could he live with himself?

“I hesitate to remind a barrister of your reputation of the consequences.”

Commissioner Kroop, who’d been staring at Arthur like a hungry vulture, finally lost patience with this gentlemanly discourse. “The sender of that email is
dead
. Dead as a doornail.”

Arthur looked unflinchingly into the black tar pits of his sunken eyes. “The sender of that email was a client who had entrusted me with his words. An ancient code of ethics demands I honour that trust. Need I add that the solicitor-client relationship, unlike a marriage, doesn’t end when death us do part?”

A ripple of laughter, but there was also a nervous sucking of breath in this packed hearing room, with its electric air of tension.

“Dead as a dodo bird! There was a state funeral! Posthumous honours!”

“Privilege outlasts death.” Quoting none other than the heroic deceased himself, his last words.

The retired chief was seething, red spots glowing on his cheeks and jowls. But he found control, began with measured words. “Mr. Beauchamp, I have been granted special power to hold witnesses in contempt of court. I would be saddened to have to do so here.”

But why that tiny, pursed, evil smile? It would not be the first time Kroop had held Arthur in contempt — he’d jailed him back in the old days, over some unremembered drunken insult. After a few days in the slammer, Arthur had gone nearly mad with thirst, had practically crawled on his knees for forgiveness. He’d sworn he would never again so debase himself.

“Should I find you in contempt, Mr. Beauchamp, I warn you …” Kroop’s voice began rising. “No, I
promise
you, that you will enjoy the hospitality of Her Majesty for as long as it takes
for your contempt to be purged!
” A shout that rattled the hanging portrait of that very queen.

Kroop must have guessed — all too correctly — that there was something in DiPalma’s email that was bound to embarrass Arthur.
You’re going to look like a donkey if this gets out … this time the tomato juice will be on
your
shirt
. But of course it was the principle that mattered.

Again, with what seemed enormous effort, Kroop regained control, but the veins on his scalp were engorged and throbbing. “Very well, Mr. Beauchamp, your silence leaves me with no alternative but to try you for contempt, and it is with extreme anguish I do so.”

“I’m sorry to cause you so much pain, Mr. Commissioner.”

Kroop’s face grew redder and redder, until it seemed about to explode …