It was the dog end of a wasted summer. As a fitting finale, a Crown Prosecutor had dropped the ball in the case against the con artist who’d swindled my seventy-five-year-old client.
The creep who had wiped out her retirement savings reacted to his “not guilty” verdict with a smirk. By now, he’d be in his Porsche Boxster heading for a golf foursome. My client was still in shock from the vicious grilling by his lawyer. No golf club for her. She’d be lucky to afford Kraft Dinner in her one-room apartment. And she could forget the satisfaction of seeing that shit-heel go to jail. I’d given her a hug and cab fare home. My goddam car was on the fritz again.
Sometimes the life of a victim’s rights activist is just plain crap. You care too much about your clients. You long to give the prosecution a kick in the pants. You take the defence tactics personally.
I wasn’t happy when I found myself nose-to-nose with the swindling scumbag’s lawyer. Sheldon Romanek stood like he owned the place on the wide stone steps of the Elgin Street Court House. He breathed deeply, filling his lungs with the Friday afternoon traffic fumes and the swirling, end-of-August dust and grit. I marvelled. Such a dumpling. So harmless looking with his dirt-green suit, gunky tie and dangling shoelaces. Sheldon was forty-five, but on a good day he could pass for sixty. A jury member might easily imagine him bumbling through the park with his beloved grandchildren. But Sheldon was single, without friend or family as far as anyone knew. A persistent rumour around Court had it that his heart belonged to a collection of arachnids he kept in his bed. That might have been the mutterings of the defeated.
He grinned at me.
I said, “Hey, Sheldon, if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes, I’d never guess you were the embodiment of evil.”
“You win some, you lose some, MacPhee,” he said, adjusting his comb-over.
“As long as you can sleep nights.”
“I sleep like a baby.”
“You know about babies?”
He leaned forward. “You want some advice?”
“From you? Hell, no.”
“No charge for the insight. Here’s my secret: I win my cases.” His grin showed nicely greying teeth. Whatever Sheldon spent his money on, it sure wasn’t dentists.
“You mean let the bastards walk.”
“Rule of law in this country, MacPhee. Innocent until proven guilty.”
“Sure. Let the fraud artists and drug dealers run free and happy.”
“By all means, fall back on to your knee-jerk, left-leaning conspiracy theories, if it makes you feel better.”
“You know what I fall back on, Sheldon? Principles. You might consider picking up a six-pack of them for the weekend.”
“My principle is called victory.”
“At any cost.”
He chortled. “At least I don’t have the shame of letting my clients down. Give that a try.”
“Give this a try,” I said, raising my middle finger.
“Funny. You used to be a smart girl, MacPhee. You did some gutsy defence work a few years back. Forget the lost causes. Get back to the law.”
I didn’t dignify that with a response. I don’t dismiss running an advocacy agency for victims of crime as a lost cause. Even if that pretty much summed up every one of my recent files. On the other hand, I was getting sick of steering some poor soul through the justice system, only to watch the Crown cut a deal.
Maybe I was just spoiling for a fight.
Sheldon turned as a pair of Assistant Crown Prosecutors scurried down the stairs, avoiding eye contact with him.
The evil gnome actually winked at me.
“If you bottom out, you could always work with them,” he said.
For historical reasons, I am persona non grata at the Office of the Crown Prosecutor, so that wouldn’t be happening. I’d had enough of Sheldon. I adjusted my backpack and headed down the Courthouse steps.
“I might be able to find a place for you,” he shouted after me.
“Not a chance.”
“Call me if you want a real job, MacPhee.”
“You kidding? I love what I’m doing.”
No longer quite the truth, but damned if I’d admit that to Sheldon Romanek.
I was still smouldering as I approached my office a few blocks down Elgin Street. I’d stopped long enough to get a late afternoon caffeine fix at the Second Cup. Despite the fall nip in the air, I’d chosen an iced latte. I had stuff in my life that required a clear head. For instance, finding a new office location, since our landlord had decided to renovate the building and given us notice to quit the premises, such as they were. And more to the point, figuring out if I was wasting my time trying to hold Justice For Victims together. Period. No one seemed to believe my services to crime victims did much good. Not that I care about the opinions of others. Still, our contributions from private benefactors had shrivelled to zero, our clients were rarely in a position to pay for services, and government funding was harder to come by at every level. Alvin Ferguson, my so-called office assistant, was supposed to handle grants and fundraising. But Alvin had not been a peak performer in recent months. At least he used to come into the office occasionally to lick stamps and make long distance calls to his extensive family in Sydney, Nova Scotia. That was before he and my neighbour, Mrs. Violet Parnell, discovered hot air balloons.
Who was I to criticize? My latest client was out of cash, out of luck, out of hope. Having a victim’s advocate hadn’t done her a scrap of good. She hadn’t blamed me. But I blamed myself. Maybe I’d lost my way in this whole advocacy process.
My family was pressuring me to get back to the practice of law, where you could make a dollar and not get shot at. And they didn’t know I’d dug into my own limited savings to keep JFV going.
Still, nothing could entice me into a corporate practice. Not even the copy of Litigation For Fun and Profit which my sister Edwina had presented me for my thirty-sixth birthday. And I had no intention of turning to family law. Family law gives me hives. Before my husband Paul died, I’d spent a few years doing criminal law, mostly legal aid cases. I’d enjoyed it. But how could I return to defence after working with victims? Maybe that creep Romanek was a reminder from above to continue with the good fight.
I was so deep in thought I almost mowed down a young couple on the sidewalk. I did the kind of double-take you see in second-rate comedies. I’d almost knocked over Bunny Mayhew, my all-time favourite legal aid client.
“Wow, Camilla. I haven’t seen you since your Legal Aid days. Boy, do we miss you.”
“Bunny.” I couldn’t keep the grin from racing across my face. “You look terrific.”
But then Bunny always looked great. He couldn’t help it. Part of it was his crooked little boy smile, the stray lock of sandy blonde hair falling over his hazel eyes. His air of utter inept vulnerability was like an aphrodisiac for most women. I was aware of this effect and not totally immune.
“You remember Tonya?”
“How could I forget?” Bunny’s long-time girlfriend Tonya also looked good. Why wouldn’t she? She was five ten, with curves out to here. Her tan looked real. Her legs and arms were nicely defined, and currently she sported copper, auburn and burgundy highlights in her shoulder length dark bob.
Tonya had been in court for each of Bunny’s hearings: Bail Court, Plea Court, Trial. Radiating hope, trust and undying love. Tonya was a solid citizen. She had a good income from her small hair salon, The Cutting Remarque, and a recent college diploma in Business Admin. Tonya kept her figure trim, her customers happy, and paid her taxes, or at least some of them. Traditionally, Tonya posted bail for Bunny.
Tonya was part of the reason Bunny never got convicted. But only part. Mainly, it was Bunny himself. The child of an alcoholic mother, father unknown, he’d been cursed with dyslexia, ADHD and a tendency toward unauthorized borrowing. He’d dropped out of school in Grade Ten. So what? He was still the best damn client ever. He lacked the anger and sense of entitlement of so many petty criminals. Plus he was the only guy I’d ever met who looked good in an orange jumpsuit from the Regional Detention Centre. Sure, over the years, he’d been charged with 138 burglaries, but no one’s perfect.
Judges liked Bunny too. Next to him, the burgled homeowners and other witnesses appeared sleazy and capable of insurance fraud. Honourable police officers looked like bullies. In my opinion, Bunny Mayhew represented the best the Canadian criminal classes had to offer.
Bunny squeezed Tonya’s hand. “Guess what, Camilla?”
I hate guessing. “What?”
“I’m going straight.”
“Get away.”
“It’s true,” said Tonya.
“That’s great news. Quite a surprise. What brought this on?”
Bunny looked shyly down at his feet.
I said, “It seems like a major career change.”
Bunny patted Tonya’s flat belly. “Gonna be a family soon, Camilla.”
“Not that soon,” Tonya said.
I didn’t ask how Bunny was going to get over his compulsion to liberate paintings and original bronzes. It would have seemed rude to mention it. I hoped Bunny and Tonya had a plan.
“Show her your ring, babe.”
Tonya lifted her finger and flashed a spectacular marquise diamond.
Tonya frowned. “Bought and paid for. With after-tax money.”
“Amazing.” Especially the bought and paid for and aftertax parts. “This is the best news I’ve had all week.”
“Thanks, Camilla.” Bunny said.
“I wish all three of you well.”
Bunny blushed. “We’re thinking about getting married. Maybe next year. Right, babe?”
“We owe you a lot,” Tonya said. “For keeping Bunny out of prison.”
“But that was years ago.”
“We never forgot what you did, Camilla,” Bunny said.
Tonya said, “Come by the shop some time, and I’ll fix your hair.”
Bunny gave Tonya an affectionate nuzzle. “She’s an artist. Aren’t you, babe? Tonya can do miracles.”
As the short, dark, dumpy sister of three tall, elegant blondes, I take such comments in stride.
Tonya glanced at her Gucci watch, possibly bought and paid for. “We’re going to be late.”
“Coming, babe.”
“Good luck,” I said.
My black mood had lifted. I was still beaming when I opened the door to the office.
Oh, did I say office? I must have meant voice mail hell.