Street Legal Page 6

  Horse scratched his head. “I’ll try to find out what’s going on. Your name is Blaine Johnson?”

  “Blair Johnstone. Johnstone with a t and an e. Man, someone get me a freakin’ lawyer.” He turned toward Carrie. “Hey, lady, help, this is right outa Kafka.”

  “I’ll arrange to see you.”

  It looked like a real snafu, a time-consumer, something you’d hate to get on legal aid. But it would seem a big mistake had been made, and she’d try to help him out.

  As Horse escorted Blair Johnstone back to the cage, a man holding his beltless pants with one hand stormed from the interview area, followed by a lawyer Carrie vaguely knew, B.J. Festerton.

  “I’m going right to the top on this one,” Festerton said, hurrying after his client, almost running. “Heads will roll. I’ll argue the appeal tomorrow, we’re taking it to High Court.”

  “You couldn’t argue your way out of a crowded bus.”

  Harry Squire, Carrie realized — she’d seen some demonstrators outside.

  Squire went through his pockets, then said to Festerton: “Do you have a quarter?”

  Festerton handed him one.

  “Thanks. Your services are no longer needed. Now, where’s the nearest pay phone?”

  “No phones here,” said Horse. “You can call from the Don Jail. The wagon’s waiting.”

  Squire looked dispirited.

  “Who do you want to call?” Carrie said.

  “A lawyer called Tchobanian,” he said.

  “I’ll ask him to see you.”

  “I watched him in court,” Squire said. “Seems to know his stuff.”

  “He’s good,” Carrie said.

  She realized she was getting a cold stare from Festerton. She returned her best wide-eyed, innocent look, and went into the locked area.

  Cristal gave her the Pepsodent smile again as he joined her in one of the cubicles. He took a wooden chair in one hand, turned it and sat on it backwards, straddling it, all this done in one fluid motion. Athletic. He probably worked out, lifted weights or something.

  Cristal was silent throughout as Carrie recited the Crown’s particulars. She found herself speaking somewhat sternly, disappointed in him: she assumed now he wasn’t any innocent bystander, though God knows what his role was. Big Leonard Woznick — Cristal said he was like a father to him. More like a Godfather maybe.

  He fiddled with another of his rouleuses, but didn’t light it for a long time.

  “It’s okay,” she said. She wondered where he’d picked up the habit of smoking rollies. Not jail, but it somehow suggested a man who had been alone a lot.

  He tried to blow the smoke away from her, but it filled the little room. She could take it, she was strong. Just a little second-hand smoke passing from his lungs into hers.

  “They’ll be trying to connect you with organized crime. They think you’re not as innocent as you appear to be.”

  “I am guilty of many t’ing, Mrs. Barr, but not murder.”

  She thought about this. It’s true, he’d said nothing about not being a criminal. “Okay, do you want to tell me now what were you doing up there? You don’t have to, you can think about it.”

  A slight grin this time, no blinding flash of teeth. “Do you want me to lie? Would it make it easier?”

  “No. Frankly, I don’t want to be caught by any surprises at the trial.”

  “I work for Leonard Woznick. It’s true, he does some t’ings for Billy Sweet.”

  “What things?”

  “He is in the business.”

  “Please be plain.”

  “Drugs. Washing money. Big Leonard sent me to that place to pick up some product.”

  “Product.”

  “Heroin. Does it matter? I am a bad guy. I am a dealer.” His eyes hard into her. “But I am not a killer.”

  Carrie nodded, sad that the veil of innocence had dropped — she had really hoped he was that rarity, an innocent like Mr. Moodie caught in a web of suspicion. But she was content at least that he was being straightforward, not holding back.

  “They were all dead when I walked into the room. I ’ave never seen any of them before. I ran downstairs, and suddenly I am grab.”

  “None of the guns can be traced to you?”

  Cristal shook his head, then leaned close to her. “I t’ink someone tried to set me up.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “The police, they knew exactly when I will be walking down those stair.”

  “Well, there was an off-duty cop, he just happened to be . . .”

  “How did he happen to be?” Cristal’s eyebrows went high, emphasizing the question.

  “He heard a shot.”

  “Below? In the bowling alley. You must go there and see if you can hear.”

  It was an odd thing, Carrie thought, the officer being right on the spot. No, don’t go looking for stray dogs, it’ll muck up a perfectly good defence.

  “The matter of bail, that has been discuss?”

  “You should be entitled to a cash or property bond, with sureties. Unless they can allege harder facts. You could never be convicted on what they have so far.”

  “But they will ’ave more? Bail would be good, Mrs. Barr.”

  She wondered if he was planning to skip.

  “Okay, M. Cristal, tell me about yourself.”

  6

  “If you don’t mind me being blunt, Mr. Tchobanian, how much is this going to set me back?”

  “Chuck, they call me Chuck.” His mind raced. Harry Squire, he had to be worth a couple of million. Fifteen hundred dollars a day? The trial could take years. Don’t get greedy, you’ll lose the fish off the hook. “I normally bill a little higher, Harry, but let’s say . . . a thousand a day. As I see it, there’s a principle at stake here.”

  “It’s more than a principle. Democracy is at issue. When are you going to get me out of here?”

  “Not to worry, Harry, we’ll get that bail review heard tomorrow morning.”

  Chuck put down the phone, got up with a happy grunt, and ambled into the coffee room. Leon and Ted were there, munching on deli food, salads and sandwiches.

  “I brought you some dead animal on pumpernickel,” said Leon.

  Chuck peeked through the Saran. Pastrami. He put it in his briefcase. “I’ll have to eat on the go. I’ve just been talking to Harry Squire.”

  “Oh, God, the biggest porno pusher in Canada,” Ted said. “There go the tattered remains of our image.” He looked wan, hungover, cranky. Must have been a hell of a night. Chuck hadn’t managed to get him alone yet.

  “Image?” said Chuck. “What’s this image? An image is what my wife’s ad agency uses to sell aftershave lotion.”

  “I think an effective argument can be made that pornography involves a profound form of misanthropy —” Leon began.

  Chuck waved him off. “Don’t get all preachy, Leon. I’m billing a K a day. Bucks. Dollars. Negotiable notes with the queen’s loving countenance on their faces to back them up. That’s the kind of image I’m into.”

  Leon said after a pause, “Of course, there’s also a valid question of prior censorship involved here.” He was piling into a plate of sprouts, a vegan, he ate like a rabbit.

  “And what’s Lisa going to say about you championing the cause of schmuff?” Leon said, his mouth full of greens.

  “Schmuff?”

  Leon swallowed. “Smut.”

  “Aw, she’s just going through a militant phase.” He thought about Lisa for a moment, suddenly aware of some unhappy implications. “Anyway, she doesn’t have to know about it.”

  “Hold on,” said Leon. “She doesn’t have to what?”

  “Hey, even Harry Squire is innocent ’til proven guilty. It’s a free society, people can do any damn thing in the privacy of
their . . . You’re right, she won’t understand. Listen, you guys, we go back a long time, longer than Lisa — whom I love, don’t get me wrong — we’re like the three musketeers.”

  “You want us not to tell her,” said Leon, “is that the point you’re desperately trying to make? Be a man, Chuck. You’ll be in the news in any event.”

  “Jesus, I’ll have to talk to her. Okay, I’ll break it somehow.” He gathered himself together. “I’d better go over and sew him up.”

  As he was about to leave for the lockup, he said, “Hey, Ted, you got a second?”

  No point in involving Leon in this just yet. He waited until Ted joined him in the corridor outside the waiting room, then said, “You’re up to your ass in alligators, buddy.”

  “Yeah, I nearly blew it. Just got drunk, loose, and late, that’s all.”

  “Eating out all the time gets costly.” Was that it, he wondered, the sex? Could it be that good? Carrie was probably a little prudish in bed, but Chuck didn’t think she was frigid. And she loved Ted. Maybe, he thought, it was also the money, Melissa’s claim to half of Dr. Cartwright’s five million bucks. But he refused to accept that. Not Ted.

  “When’s it going to end, Ted?”

  “I don’t know. It’s confusing.”

  Chuck spoke softly but fiercely. “You better get your head on straight, man. You’re treading on a minefield. Get rid of that dame.”

  “I . . . I’ll have to talk to her.”

  Chuck wanted to hit him right in the chops. “Don’t hurt Carrie. I’ll kill you.”

  Ted seemed stunned. “Hey, Chuck, don’t get . . .” Then he spoke abruptly. “You’re right. You’re absolutely right, I’ll end it.”

  “You mean that.”

  “Yeah. I don’t know what’s been getting into me.”

  “Or vice versa. I lied for you, pal: Carrie came onto me like a freight train. Don’t make me hate you for doing this.”

  “Thanks, Chuck.”

  Ted grabbed his arm as Chuck turned to go.

  “I’ll end it. I mean it.”

  “Okay.”

  Just then three officers of the Cool Aid Society came noisily in, shouting greetings to Ted and Chuck. They were the favourite official office characters and looked wild: two men with unkempt beards and a woman with an Afro as big and busy as a jungle canopy. Parjanya was her name — she had about ten rings stuck in one ear. Roy, who was nearly seven feet tall, was their intellectual leader. His T-shirt read: I GOT OFF BY GETTING OFF. Elmo, who was shirtless, exhibited an ample, hairy kitchen, which flowed over his belt.

  Grinning, he bumped Ted with his stomach. “I’m bellying up to the Barr.”

  Ted gave him a playful combination, a light one-two to the mid-section.

  “What’s up, you guys?” said Chuck.

  “Is the lion in?” said Roy. That’s what they called Leon, he was their hero. Cool Aid was one of Leon’s pet projects, peer help for kids on drugs. “We got a problem, a hassle down at Ex Park, a strip search, they went right up his winkie with a flashlight. But he was clean. We wanna sue those ass-poking porkers.”

  It was only then that Chuck noticed the landlord standing in the doorway. Robert Barnsworth, manager of G & C Trust, and he was looking upon the three freaks in the waiting room with a mixture of disgust and trepidation.

  Ted led the Cool Aiders inside. Chuck turned to Barnsworth, guessing he’d come about the overdue loan payment.

  “Do you have a moment?” Barnsworth said. A small man in rimless spectacles, he had a fussy air.

  “Well, I’m on my way to court.”

  “I shall briefly make my point. We sent a mortgage up the other day, a Mr. and Mrs. Jessup. They were rather disturbed by the, ah, atmosphere here, and we recommended they go elsewhere. Your office does seem a little, shall we say, informal in its approach to matters. It doesn’t quite do, Mr. Tchobanian. And I must say, some of your clients look like rough trade indeed.”

  Chuck took his elbow and patiently shepherded him out. “Sorry, Mr. Barnsworth, things have been hectic around here.”

  He led him into the elevator, and made soothing noises all the way to the ground floor. As they exited, Barnsworth finally mentioned the overdue loan payment.

  “Yes, we’re late,” Chuck said. “We’ll rectify it.”

  How? he wondered. Their general account was alarmingly low. They’d better get some big fees in fast. Harry Squire to the rescue.

  As Chuck headed out the front door of the C & G Trust building, he almost bumped into his wife, who was coming in.

  “Lisa.” Chuck, caught off guard, stood there for a moment, staring at her.

  He saw she was holding a sign, stiff cardboard stapled to a lath. He couldn’t make the words out, it was upside-down, facing away.

  “You’re not in the office today?” he asked. Lisa worked in an ad agency, indispensable there, one of their best artists.

  “I took the morning off. I had more important things. You having lunch? Want to take me?” A short, feisty woman, plump and bubbly, she seemed in a good mood.

  “Gee, Lisa, I was just running out to court, a little emergency . . . What’s this?”

  He turned the sign around. Upside-down letters spelled JAIL HARRY SQUIRE.

  “W.A.P. — Women Against Pornography — called me this morning. They finally got Harry Squire busted.”

  “Uh, yeah. Honey, I can’t join you for lunch. I’ve got this client . . .” He couldn’t tell her, not yet. “A rich . . . ah, broker, it’s complicated, wash trading, a curb market in worthless shares.”

  “Sounds boring. Okay, darling, I’ll see you at home for dinner.”

  Chuck scurried away. He would work it out with her over dinner. Ethically, he’d explain, one just can’t turn a client away. The presumption of innocence, darling, it’s basic. Every person, however scummy, has the right to a fair trial, a right to counsel of his choice . . . No, that wouldn’t work, an appeal to principle and reason, not with Lisa. She had been so apolitical when he married her, so innocent, so . . . non-troubling.

  Life shouldn’t be this complicated.

  ***

  Edwin Moodie was in the waiting room when Carrie returned from court, his bulk spread across an upholstered chair which seemed to be a little insecure, and wobbled as he shifted. He looked up at her, then averted his eyes bashfully, kneading his thick fingers.

  “Those two computer salesmen are here again,” said Pauline Chong.

  Carrie saw them sitting there, clones in business suits and briefcases. Ted was all for getting computerized; Chuck was against it, a waste of money.

  Carrie scribbled a note for Moodie and handed it to him. “This is the address of a cartage company I spoke to.”

  “Thank you.” His eyes went to the paper — he seemed to be studying it intently. He probably couldn’t read very well.

  “Everything all right? You have a place?”

  “Yes, on Jarvis Street. The Eagle Hotel.”

  She thought she’d seen it. One of those dingy joints with a big beer parlour and little sordid rooms.

  “Police have stopped bothering you?”

  “Yes, thank you.” So polite, he must have been raised well.

  He seemed rooted to his chair. “Well, on your way, Mr. Moodie. Kelver Moving and Storage. Just a couple of days a week, but it’ll put food on the table. They’re good people, and they know all about you.”

  The chair groaned with relief as he stood. “There’s stuff nobody knows about me.”

  What did he mean by that? “I hope it’s good stuff.” She saw him to the door. “Ciao.”

  He turned. “I ate already.”

  “So long, Mr. Moodie, that’s what I meant. Good luck.”

  As he turned to go, Trixi Trimble came in wearing a too-revealing halter top and hot pants. Mood
ie’s little blue eyes bugged at the sight of her, and his pencil moustache twitched.

  “Hi, there, cutie,” she said. “What’s your name?”

  “Um, Edwin, I’m . . . I’m . . .”

  “Shy, right?” She winked at him. “Mr. Edwin Shy.”

  Moodie couldn’t find words. He became beet red. He fumbled his way out the door.

  “He’s quite a gentleman once you get to know him,” Carrie said.

  She was about to lead Trixi to her office when one of the computer people said, “Mrs. Barr, we thought we’d drop by and try a little demonstration on you.” They had brought in one of their machines, which sat between them, bulky, expensive-looking.

  “I’ll see what the others think.”

  In her office, Carrie handed Trixi some forms for the secretarial course she had been urging her to take. Trixi looked good, healthy and perky, no needle marks.

  “Honey, thanks, but I don’t know if I can afford the tuition, you know?”

  Carrie wrote her a cheque for three hundred dollars.

  “This will get you going.”

  “You are an absolute doll, hon. I won’t forget it.”

  “Stay straight.”

  “I promise on my deathbed.”

  Trixi gave her a kiss and a hug, and Carrie escorted her to the waiting room. Chuck, who’d just come in, was dismissing the computer-sales team.

  “Gentlemen, I don’t think we have time to look at that thing right now,” he said, herding them out.

  He grumbled to Carrie: “Computers — always something new to waste money on. You pay fifty grand for a bunch of machines, and in two years they’re obsolete and they’re pushing some other kind of junk at you. I’m in a rush: I’ve got to prepare a bail review for Squire tomorrow. He didn’t even blink at the fee. A thousand a day.”

  “Let’s see the retainer,” said Carrie.

  “I’m not going to insult Harry Squire by insisting on cash on the barrel like a criminal. Have to soften him up. Did you make a hit with the hit man?”

  “Get your money in, Chuck, rule number one.” That had been one of her father’s problems, he actually lent money to clients. Then she remembered: hadn’t she just done the same? Three hundred dollars to Trixi; she’d never see it again. “Cristal is paying fifty thousand, in advance, though I have to go to Montreal to pick it up.”