Authors: Gabriel Boutros
Either way, it wasn’t his problem. He wasn’t about to jump into a murder trial that was due to start in less than a month. Once he had won over the jury in Cooper Hall’s trial he was going to take some well-deserved time off to recharge his batteries, and maybe mend some fences with Jeannie.
The next day was Wednesday, and Bratt was back in court for the reprise of the fraud trial. As Brenton’s final arguments dragged into the afternoon Bratt received a note telling him that the jury in Nate Morris’s trial was still deliberating. He slipped the note into his pocket and tried to concentrate on his own case.
Brenton gave a detailed recitation of the facts that had been alleged against Hall, delivered in the prosecutor’s inimitably slow and phlegmatic style. Most of Bratt’s mental energy was used up trying to look like he was paying attention while his esteemed adversary droned on and on, reminding Bratt of how painfully dull
much of the trial had been.
Bratt let his eyes roam around the courtroom, and they stopped at the long legs of Sergeant-Detective Nancy Morin sitting in the first row of the gallery. She wore a blue suit jacket over a skirt with a fashionably high hemline which revealed that she did some serious running when she wasn’t sitting in court.
Her light brown hair was cut just above her ears, revealing a strong, but graceful neck. Once upon a time Bratt might have found her athletic build a bit too muscular for his taste, but in the two months of this trial she had managed to radically change his tastes. Now their mutual attraction was evident to anyone who watched them interact in the courthouse hallways.
His gaze lingered on her legs and a small smile formed on his lips as he recalled the sparks that had flown when he had cross-examined her over a month earlier. He had tried attacking Morin on everything from her personal honesty to her professional competence, but she hadn’t backed down an inch. Her pale, greyish-green eyes had flashed angrily at him as she stood her ground against his onslaught. Her defiance had actually excited him, to the point where he lost track of his questions more than once.
His grin widened at that memory, and then he realized that she was looking straight back at him, also smiling. He felt unexpectedly embarrassed and snapped his gaze back to Brenton.
That was really smooth,
he chided himself.
She’s really gotten to you, Bobby
.
Bratt tried to keep his attention on Brenton’s monologue on the off-chance that he might miss something of interest. He had no reason to fear, though. The details and minutia
e of the Crown’s evidence that was being dumped on the jury seemed to have lost all meaning to anyone other than Brenton himself.
What passed for Brenton’s style was anything but dramatic or exciting. His calm, ploddingly analytical arguments betrayed his conservative, English schooling, and Bratt was glad to notice that they did nothing to keep the jury’s interest or attention. Among the twelve sworn citizens, some eyes wandered, while others slowly shut, only to blink rapidly open again, as Brenton reviewed the countless graphs and charts that had been prepared by the Crown’s best forensic accountants. Yawns were barely stifled as Brenton carefully listed offshore bank accounts and dummy numbered companies, in the hope that the jury would understand how they all linked together like a chain that should come together to imprison Hall.
Bratt had no doubt that this chain of transactions could fatally encircle his client. His arguments tomorrow would aim at the chain’s weakest links, those officers of Hall’s companies who had testified for the prosecution. For much of the trial’s two months he had poked and prodded and questioned them until he was certain they had lost all credibility in the jury’s eyes. When it was his turn to plead he would remind the jury, in a much more dramatic and entertaining style than Brenton, of how unworthy of its trust these men were.
Once the testimony of these witnesses was set aside, the Crown’s case against Hall became purely circumstantial.
Bratt loved that term, “
purely
circumstantial.” He was sure some American TV writer must have coined it. Any lawyer knew that circumstantial evidence could often be more accurate and more damaging than a dozen eyewitnesses. Eyewitnesses were notorious for forgetting or misconstruing the most basic facts. They regularly bent the truth to make themselves look more important or their testimony more relevant.
Despite that, most jurors felt only a roomful of eyewitnesses could assure them that an accused was guilty. Show them a solid case made up entirely of circumstantial evidence, and chances were they’d still have lingering doubts.
And Bratt knew that those little doubts were what acquittals were made of.
The following morning a clean layer of snow that had fallen overnight covered the trees on the hillside adjacent to Bratt’s apartment building. The previous day’s bright sunshine had been replaced by a heavily overcast sky. According to the incomprehensible rules of Montreal winters, that meant that this day would be warmer than the day before. With the rise in temperature all that glistening snow would soon melt into piles of mud-like slush. Municipal snow-clearing crews were in the midst of their seemingly annual work slowdown, and the streets and sidewalks would be an adventure to negotiate.
The taxi carrying Bratt straight to court from his apartment made its way slowly through the clogged and sloppy streets. Despite the depressing weather, his mood remained upbeat. Two months of deathly boredom had been replaced by a feeling of near-giddiness in anticipation of finally addressing the jury. Instead of the countless hours he spent slumped in his chair yesterday, praying that Brenton would pack it in before one of the jurors became suicidal, today Bratt was to be the center of attention.
He saw himself standing, with just the lightest touch of cockiness, in front of the jury and making his brief, but brilliant, final arguments. His well-chosen words would seem to fly by, compared to the previous day’s marathon. He would display the casual, self-effacing charm for which he was well-known, seemingly almost embarrassed at his own hard-to-conceal cleverness and wit.
He would guide the jury easily to the conclusion that the Crown witnesses should be ignored and the circumstantial evidence rejected, so that everyone could happily return to their regular lives, feeling good about themselves and a job well done.
Bratt looked out of the taxi window as he approached the tall, featureless building that was the
Palais de Justice
. Its flat, slate-grey exterior matched the dull winter clouds overhead. The taxi pulled out of the early-morning traffic and stopped at the curb in front of the Notre Dame Street entrance. On the sidewalk, pedestrians balanced themselves like tightrope walkers as they stepped across the melting ice and over unplowed snow banks. Their faces expressed frustration and worry at the precariousness of their footing.
Bratt opened the car door,
stretched one long leg out and smoothly stepped over the slush-filled roadway. Then he gingerly stepped across the still-frozen sidewalk and headed in the direction of the courthouse. A city worker was busy salting the cement steps to prevent any potential accidents. Bratt saw several fellow lawyers, over-stuffed briefcases in hand, inching carefully up the stairs ahead of him. He smiled cynically as he imagined all the lawsuits they would gladly file if they ever took a spill on government property.
He gripped the handrails tightly, tucked his chin into his upturned collar against a sudden draft of cold wind and followed the trail of salt up the stairs and through the automatic revolving door.
Once he was inside the cavernous, but dimly-lit, atrium his glasses immediately fogged up from the warm air. The large lobby area hummed softly with the sounds of the usual collection of lawyers and policemen, litigants and witnesses, and unemployed courthouse regulars who depended on the daily drama of the law for some free entertainment on these cold winter days.
He moved forwa
rd, resigned to the fact that everyone around him would be nothing but a blur for the next minute or so. He passed the information desk and the Espresso counter, squinting over his now useless glasses, nodding and smiling at the half-seen faces that floated by. He may not have been able to recognize them but he assumed that they all recognized him.
When he reached the escalator a large, blurry figure brushed up against his left arm.
“Better wipe those glasses clean before you get to the TV cameras, Bobby-boy,” Leblanc said, breathing heavily from the effort of catching up with Bratt. “They’ll ruin your carefully-groomed image of sophistication.”
Bratt turned toward the familiar voice, accepting a tissue that the latter was holding out. “J.P. Coming up to enjoy some of my brilliant oratory?”
Leblanc laughed. “Please, haven’t you got enough groupies and hangers-on filling up the courtroom? No, I’ll just worship your greatness from afar.”
Bratt wiped his glasses with the tissue as he stepped off the escalator. “Well, you’ll miss a great show, if I do say so myself.”
“Yeah, but Brenton isn’t exactly a hard act to follow,” Leblanc said, turning to walk away. “I might make it up to see you if I don’t get stuck behind the Legal Aid guy at the bail hearings. Kick ass.”
“You know I will.”
Bratt navigated his way down the crowded hallway. Spotting the TV cameras posted outside the doors of the courtroom about thirty feet ahead he quickened his steps in anticipation.
As he approached the courtroom the cameras turned their bright lights toward him. Microphone-toting journalists stepped up and smiled at him. Bratt smiled back, his warmest, most sincere smile and came to them like a
favorite son, home after a long absence. He would gladly pause long enough to answer all their questions, no matter how long it took. Twice during the trial Judge Smythe had needed to send the constable out to drag him away from the cameras.
Once past the media scrum and inside the courtroom he paused, like a warrior looking
over the field before a battle. He saw that Brenton was engaged in an all-too-friendly chat with Nancy Morin. As Bratt approached, Brenton smiled stiffly and returned to the prosecution’s table, grudgingly conceding defeat on at least this point.
Morin turned in her chair and looked up at Bratt, smiling unabashedly. She wore a sharp gray suit, which, in Bratt’s eyes, looked anything but business-like.
“Good-morning, Nancy.”
“That’s Sergeant-Detective Morin, sir. I happen to be on duty.”
“If you’re going to be that officious you should wear a uniform.”
Morin smiled mischievously and said, “If you don’t like what I’m wearing I could always take
it off.”
Bratt laughed nervously. He was always surprised to find her more aggressive in her flirtation than he was. He was more old-fashioned than he cared to admit and her brashness put him on the defensive.
Morin must have sensed his discomfort, because she quickly changed the subject. “All set to give your big speech.”
Bratt smiled, feet planted on more familiar turf now. “You just wait and see. If you thought
I was brilliant earlier in this trial...”
Morin laughed, well-used to Bratt’s vanity as well as his
humor. “Well I’m absolutely dying with anticipation. I only hope I can survive the wait.”
“What wait?”
“Oh, nobody told you?”
Bratt shook his head, mildly concerned now.
“Juror number six lives on the South Shore,” she explained, “and he’s stuck on the Champlain Bridge behind nearly half a dozen fender-benders. We’ve got a good hour wait ahead of us.”
Bratt only nodded at this news, trying to hide his disappointment. Despite his years of experience, he always got an adrenalin rush before making his closing arguments to a jury. This unexpected delay was going to be torture for him. Morin was still looking up at him, smiling and unaware of how bothered he was by the interruption in his plans, so he decided he’d make the best of it.
“Well now,” he said, as he sat down next to her, “I’m sure I could find worse company for the next hour or so.”
In room 4.05, where Nate Morris’s trial was being held, the sequestered jurors all arrived together and on time from their downtown hotel. They rendered their verdict shortly after arriving at the courthouse, suggesting that they had held off on giving their verdict the previous day in order to enjoy at least one night on the government’s tab.
About three-quarters of an hour after his own arrival at court, Bratt was still sitting and chatting happily with Nancy Morin when Jeannie walked into the courtroom. Bratt’s back was to the door, so he had no idea she was there until he noticed several people looking toward the rear of the room. He turned and saw his daughter, tears streaming down her face, staring at him from where she stood.
Morin was in the middle of some not so slight sexual innuendo when Bratt suddenly stood up, as if she had offended him. He paused only long enough to take in the scene in front of him, before rushing toward Jeannie. He was unsure how she felt about him at that moment, but his paternal instincts permitted no hesitation. As soon as he got to her he opened his arms and enveloped her in them. She pressed her face into his chest and sobbed, her hands grasping the vest he wore under his robes.