Stray Bullets (34 page)

Bad move, Parish thought. Thankfully St. Clair kept following her instructions and looked straight ahead.

“Let’s find out what you do remember,” Armitage said. Parish could
see his knuckles turning white. “Did you drive your Cadillac to pick up Suzanne when she got off shift at five?”

“Must have. I did it every day.”

“Do you remember seeing her run toward you to get in the car?”

It was close to a leading question but Parish let it go. She didn’t want to appear to be protecting this witness.

“Not really. November, it’s dark already.”

“Did you hear any gunshots?”

Trapper splayed out his hands in front of him and gave another exaggerated shrug. “It was a long time ago. I keep the car radio on real loud.”

Armitage was getting stonewalled. Parish wondered how much longer he’d beat his head against this wall.

“Did you know Dewey was out of jail when you picked up Suzanne on November fourteenth?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Did you expect he was going to be at the Tim Hortons?”

“Can’t remember.”

“Did you bring your gun with you?”

“Can’t remember.”

Armitage walked back over to his table and picked up a set of papers. He was calm. Without all his big theatrics, Parish thought, he was a better lawyer.

“Do you recall that the police found an unregistered handgun in your apartment?”

“Right. Sure do. It’s why I’m in jail.”

“There was a forensic report done on it. Have you seen it?”

“I’ve seen it.”

“It was dusty. There were cobwebs in the barrel.”

Trapper crossed his arms. “My place is real dirty. Drove my wife crazy that I was such a slob.”

He yawned and put his hands up to his mouth. As if he were bored with this, just a first-degree murder trial about the killing of an innocent four-year-old boy. The jury is going to hate him, Parish thought.

“Okay,” Armitage said. He was back behind the podium. “Let’s get right to the heart of the matter. On the night of November fourteenth, did you see Larkin St. Clair in the parking lot of the Tim Hortons, just across the street here on Elm?”

Parish sneaked a look at the jury. They were all staring at Trapper. Even Larkin couldn’t resist looking over. She poked him in the side and he turned his head away.

Trapper raised his chin in defiance. “I have no recollection,” he said.

“Dewey Booth? Did you see him?”

“No recollection.”

“Did you fire a gun at Dewey?”

“No recollection.”

Parish heard a strange rattling sound in the court. She looked over and saw Armitage was shaking the podium, anger dominating his face.

“You have a very clear recollection!” he shouted. “Because you didn’t have a gun, and this man”—he pointed viciously at the defendant—“Larkin St. Clair was firing at you, wasn’t he?”

“Objection.” Parish was on her feet so fast she didn’t even remember rising.

Armitage thrust the podium to the side and strode right up to the witness box. “And that’s why you jumped in your car and took off, isn’t it?”

“He’s cross-examining his own witness again!” Parish shouted.

Rothbart looked stunned, confused.

“Because you were unarmed and Larkin was firing like a madman. Wasn’t he?” Armitage growled. “You were scared for your life, just like you’re scared right now.”

Parish couldn’t believe how Armitage had lost it. It looked terrible on him. Or did it?

Maybe this was deliberate. His only way to convey the message to the jurors: these old friends are all a pack of murdering liars. With a dead four-year-old boy, shots fired just blocks from where the jury was sitting, and Kyle’s grieving family in the front row, that was probably all Armitage needed to get a conviction.

“I’ve heard enough of this.” Judge Rothbart’s baritone bashed down on Armitage like a weapon.

Armitage snapped a look at the judge, then turned to the jury. He shook his head in disgust and made his way, step by step, back to his seat. “No more questions,” he said. “That’s the case for the Crown.”

Nancy Parish was used to talking to herself, so, logically, it should have made doing her jury address—essentially a speech to a silent audience of twelve—easier. But it didn’t.

She’d done many of them and each time was struck by how strange the experience was. Talking away to twelve people who for days and weeks on end you had watched, and who’d watched you, but whom you’d never spoken to. A dozen strangers who couldn’t talk back, no matter what you said. Limited to nodding, shaking their heads, making and breaking eye contact. The silence of it all was forever intimidating.

Every lawyer had a different theory about the best way to approach a jury. Some were long-winded, technical, and methodical. Others relied on emotion. Her favorite jury address story was about a crusty older lawyer who, after all the evidence was in during a very questionable sexual assault case, simply stood before the jury and said, “If that’s rape then I’m a horse’s ass. I ain’t and it ain’t,” and sat down. The jurors laughed, and it only took them half an hour of deliberation to acquit his client.

But there was nothing funny about this case. A young boy killed by a stray bullet. A family broken. The peace and sense of well-being of the city shattered. Despite all this, she had to convince the jury to hold fast to the notion of reasonable doubt and acquit.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” she said, standing squarely before the jury box. “There is one thing I am certain we can all agree on about this case. Me, and all twelve of you, believe it or not.” That got one or two smirks from the jurors. A good start.

She turned toward the Crown. “I think even my friend Mr. Armitage will agree with me. Can you imagine that?”

This got a few full smiles. Good.

“We can all agree that my client, Mr. Larkin St. Clair, is probably guilty.”

A dozen jurors’ eyes snapped to her. After a moment a few grabbed glances back at St. Clair, their faces sad, as if to say, “My goodness, your own lawyer betrayed you.”

She broke her position and walked with deliberate slowness to the end of the jury box nearest the judge. “He’s probably guilty. I can see why you’d conclude that after hearing the evidence in this case.”

She turned and walked to the other end of the jury box. “‘Probably guilty’ makes your job very easy. What does it mean that he is probably guilty?”

She turned again. When she’d gotten back to the middle, she turned to face the jurors. “‘Probably’ means”—she paused and looked at each of the twelve silent faces—“
not
guilty.”

Her emphasis on the “not” was strong, the only time she raised her otherwise calm voice. And it had the intended effect. Some jurors looked at her, surprised, but a few gave her a little nod. Looking relieved. As if to say, “Yes, that’s what I was thinking, he’s probably guilty, but what does that mean for the verdict? It means that probably is
not
proof beyond a reasonable doubt.”

She walked back to the easel with the outline of the Tim Hortons and the parking lot, then, one by one, placed the marked-up clear acrylic overlays on top, pausing each time to review the key evidence of each witness. At last, when she had all five in place, assembled together for the first time, she moved the easel right in front of the jury box.

The jurors hunched forward in their seats, like bidders at an art auction, getting their first glimpse of a rare piece of work they’d been dying to see for ages.

She said nothing, let the five colored contradictions speak for themselves.

“Excuse me, Ms. Parish,” a voice said behind her.

It was a strict rule of jury addresses that the lawyer should never be interrupted by anyone in the court. She was so focused on the jury, she had no idea who was talking to her. She looked around the courtroom.

“Ms. Parish, I apologize,” Judge Rothbart said. He was strumming his fingers on his hand at a frenetic pace. “But when the jury is done viewing, don’t forget to turn the easel so the court can see it too.”

Oh my, what a gift, she thought. By being so anxious to see the completed chart, he was practically giving the evidence the judicial stamp of approval. What song is he strumming to himself? she thought. How about “Let the Sunshine In”!

“Certainly, Your Honor. I was intending to do so once the jury has a little more time with it.”

As she swung back around, she caught Ralph Armitage’s eye. Sitting
behind his counsel table, he looked as if his head was about to explode in frustration. Because the defense had not called any evidence, she got to address the jury last, and he had no opportunity to reply.

He’d made his jury address in the morning. It had been a good one, emphasizing the key parts of the evidence—the forensics had proved beyond any doubt that the gun found at Larkin St. Clair’s aunt’s place fired the bullet that lodged in little Kyle’s brain. He played the video of St. Clair in the Tim Hortons parking lot, stuffing something down his pants, and reminded the jurors that the gunshot residue found on St. Clair’s hands was consistent with someone who had recently fired a gun. He emphasized that St. Clair cut his hair to change his appearance and ran from the scene as evidence of his consciousness of guilt.

But now all he could do was listen and fume.

She had the floor. This was her moment.

“It is most lovely to see you, Mr. Kennicott.”

“Excellent to see you as well, sir,” Daniel Kennicott said, reaching out to shake hands with Lloyd Granwell, senior partner at the law firm of Miller, Ford. The man who had recruited him to come work there and had been his mentor during the five years he’d been a lawyer.

“And how is life these days at Metropolitan Toronto Police Services?” Granwell asked, leading Kennicott to the spot in his spacious corner office where they always sat in the two soft leather, high-back chairs around a square marble table.

Five years ago, they’d been in the very same seats.

“I’ve decided to leave the firm,” Kennicott had said. “I want to become a police officer.”

“Shall I contact Chief Charlton and enquire about a senior post?” Granwell had said without even flinching. As if it was the most normal thing in the world for his best associate to turn his back on his six-figure salary and promising legal career.

Granwell was a power broker, who had direct and personal contact with all the leading politicians, businesspeople, media folks, and anyone with real authority. He loved making things happen.

“Thanks, but that’s the last thing I want you to do,” Kennicott had said. “I’m going to be a beat cop. And hopefully stay under the radar.”

“I wouldn’t count on that. Your brother’s very public murder is still a fresh wound in this city. I’m afraid this decision of yours will be too tempting a story for the local news publications.”

Granwell had been right, of course. Charlton made a big deal about how Kennicott was the first lawyer turned cop in the city’s history and the press ate it up. Now, every year the papers did one of their terrible anniversary-update stories, charting his rise through the ranks and noting that Michael’s murder was still unsolved.

During that conversation, Granwell extracted a promise from Kennicott that he’d come back here for a chat once a year. In exchange, a spot would be held open for him at the firm. This was now their fifth annual get-together.

Granwell’s corner office was pristine. The dark hardwood floors were covered in an exotic collection of Persian rugs. The walls were filled with stunning French impressionist art, the most prominent being a magnificent Monet painting of his lily gardens at Giverny. The large oak desk that dominated one end of the room was always empty except for one of his antique fountain pens and ten blank pieces of fine Florentine writing paper. Always ten. Always blank. Granwell refused to use lined paper, and he believed that any story that could not be reduced to ten pages of text was poorly told.

He always wore a combed cashmere gray suit, initialed fine cotton white shirts, Georg Jensen silver cuff links, and hand-made French leather shoes. He had no computer. No phone. No copier. He never carried a wallet. Had no credit cards. He had two secretaries—and he insisted on calling them secretaries, not legal assistants—who he kept busy at least sixty hours a week. He didn’t “take exercise” and yet was always trim. His only concession to modernity was a CD player, discreetly hidden on his large bookshelf, from which opera and classical music played. This afternoon it was Beethoven’s
Moonlight
sonata.

“How is this latest trial proceeding?” Granwell asked, after one of his secretaries had brought in the silver tea service and poured them both drinks in the Royal Albert bone china. “Terrible business. This shooting of that little boy at the coffee shop.”

“The case is almost done,” Kennicott said. “The lawyers are addressing the jury today.”

“Tragic for the family. Tragic for the city. I am given to understand you were the first police officer to arrive.”

Kennicott looked past Granwell through the big windows. The office had a magnificent view of the Toronto Harbor, the lagoon formed by the Toronto Islands, and Lake Ontario beyond. It was a warm April day, and a few boats were taking what looked like their first sails of the season. Jo Summers, the Crown Attorney who it looked like he wasn’t going to see again, loved to sail. She lived on one of the islands that lay right in front of him. It seemed so close from up here, he felt like he could almost reach out and touch it. He fixed his eyes on a big boat gliding past and its billowing blue jib.

“It was a terrible night,” he said. “Dark. November. The first time it snowed all year.” For some reason, even though Granwell was so much older, and so extremely formal, Kennicott found it easier to talk to him than anyone else he knew. “The poor father. The look of horror on his face. I found the little boy’s pulse and it was so weak.”

He kept his eyes on the blue sail. He watched it round out through the gap between the islands and the shore and head out into the lake beyond. The blue sail matching the blue water.