Читать книгу Deadly Lessons - David Russell W. - Страница 12

The interior of Don’s office was decorated in 1970s-era fake wood panelling. As an educator—and taxpayer for that matter—I found the principal’s lack of stylish updating in his office comforting. It indicated at least some budget priorities.

After stopping at my classroom and putting the kids on temporary autopilot with the teacher next door checking in on them, we had walked the short journey from the library to Don’s office without talking. He seemed to be wavering between fury at one of his teachers having retained legal counsel—from one of his other teachers, no less—to utter confusion as to why he would need to and how this all came to be. As we entered the office, Don closed the door slowly, then retreated behind the administrative barrier that was his fake oak desk. It took him more than a full minute to collect his thoughts sufficiently to begin the conversation. “What the hell is going on?” was the masterpiece he composed during his moment of silence.

Carl leaned forward and began to speak. I stopped him. “Why don’t we begin with you telling me why it is you want to have a private meeting with Carl?” I proposed, quite reasonably I thought, to Don.

“Let me make something clear here, Winston. It is not generally accepted practice within the school system that teachers bring lawyers with them when meeting with the principal.” He sounded pissed.

“I need to suggest to you that the events of today are leading me to the conclusion that ‘generally accepted practice’ will probably not be the order of the day. Let’s go back again to why you want to speak to Carl.”

Don sighed and leaned back in his chair before turning his attention directly to Carl. “Mr. Turbot, I need to confirm something with you here. Do you want me to speak freely in front of Mr. Patrick? I am going to say some things here that I consider to be confidential.”

“Yeah,” Carl answered glumly. “Winston is a friend, and he is formally my lawyer, so yeah, you can talk in front of him.”

“Okay,” Don surrendered. “I guess I would like to start by asking why it is you’ve suddenly retained a lawyer, at least a former one, to deal with me?” The principal shot me a dirty look while saying “former one.”

Carl began to speak again. I interrupted him again. “Why Carl has retained counsel is a matter of solicitor-client privilege. You need not concern yourself with that. You need only realize that until you hear otherwise from Carl or myself, your conversations with my client will be vetted through me. And I assure you there is no need to include the prefix ‘former’ in front of my title of lawyer. I am still a member of the bar.” Not much of a comeback, I admit.

“Sorry,” Don mumbled awkwardly. “I didn’t mean to offend you.”

“No offense taken. Now that we’re all on the same page, let’s get back to the issue at hand.”

“Carl,” Don began, “yesterday after school, Tricia Bellamy came to me, and she informed me that you and she were having a—a relationship of sorts that extended beyond teacher-student.”

“She told you she and Carl were having an affair,” I clarified for him.

“Yes. That’s why I wanted to talk to him.”

“I see,” Carl replied. There was a brief, highly uncomfortable pause as Don tried to decide how to respond. I could practically smell the smoke burning.

“Is it true?” he began.

“What do you think?” Carl demanded with a snarl. He sounded ferocious. I had to admire his ability to come out swinging.

“I don’t want to answer that right now. I would like to hear your side of the story,” he replied.

“Carl’s side of the story is quite simple: Tricia Bellamy’s allegations of sexual misconduct are unfounded and untrue. There was no relationship between Carl Turbot and Tricia Bellamy outside of a professional one,” I interjected as firmly as possible. I have often found in legal practice that if you speak with enough gruff in your voice in an initial meeting, it often has the non-legal practitioner ducking for cover from the get-go. It sounds bullish and unsophisticated, but so were a lot of the people I dealt with in the criminal courts.

“I can’t believe Tricia came to you,” Carl moaned softly from the chair next to me.

“So, if I’m to understand this correctly, Tricia Bellamy, for reasons unknown, elected to come to me and inform me of a relationship that was not, in fact, taking place.” Don was a quick study.

“That is correct,” I told him.

“Well then, Carl, if you and Tricia were not having a sexual relationship, why did you feel it necessary to hire a lawyer?” Don asked.

“Tricia came to Carl, for reasons unknown, and threatened to expose this so-called relationship that was not, in fact, taking place. When Tricia made this threat, he came to me to seek my advice about what action he should take to prevent unnecessary hardship either to himself or the student, who was obviously troubled emotionally or perhaps psychologically or both. When Carl informed me he had a relationship issue with a student, he needed to retain me as counsel in order that what he told me would remain between the two of us. If he had not retained me as counsel, as a teacher, I would have had to take a different course of action.”

“Is he paying you?” Don asked.

“That’s privileged,” I replied.

“What happened after he told you about Tricia’s threat?”

“I spoke with Tricia to see if she would recant her story.”

“Did she?”

“No,” I replied.

“And you believe Tricia was lying, and Carl is telling the truth?”

“That’s correct,” I told him.

“And why is it you believe that?”

“Because I’m his lawyer.”

“That’s it? You don’t have some other kind of, I don’t know, evidence or something?”

“Don, I’ve been teaching here for seven years,” Carl interrupted. “Has there ever been even the suggestion from anyone that I’m anything but a good teacher? Have you ever had a single complaint from a student? A parent? A suspicious teacher?”

“No, I haven’t,” Don admitted.

“Is there anything else you need from us?” I asked Don, rising to indicate we were terminating further conversation.

“You understand I had to follow up on this. There was no way I could ignore this. As much as I didn’t want to believe it was true, when a student comes to me with something like this, I have an obligation to take necessary measures.”

“What measures have you taken?” I asked Don.

“The police already talked to me about Tricia last night. They asked if I knew of anything unusual in her life. I had to tell them about Tricia’s allegations.”

“Shit!” Carl nearly exploded. “You told the police I was screwing Tricia?”

“Carl!” I reprimanded, laying my hand gently on his arm. “I think we should go now.”

“Jesus, Winston! This guy has practically accused me himself!”

“Think of my position,” Don pleaded. “A student comes to me saying her teacher was sleeping with her, and the same day she ends up murdered. I had to tell the police about Tricia’s claims.”

“And what did they say?” Carl wanted to know.

“Don’t worry about that right now,” I told him. “The police are going to want to talk to you. But it’s okay. I’ll be with you, and we will make sure you are okay.”

“Carl,” Don said, attempting to regain his authoritative posture. “Look me in the eye and tell me there was absolutely nothing improper going on between you and Tricia Bellamy.”

“We’re done here,” I said. “You don’t have to answer his questions. He has no legal authority to compel you to answer questions about a criminal investigation.”

“No,” Carl demanded. “It’s okay. I want to answer that.” He finally rose from the tacky, plaid covered chair to face Don. “Tricia was my student. A very good student, who worked hard, and who received my help. I never, ever, slept with or had an ‘affair,’ or any other improper relationship with her. And I sure as hell didn’t kill her.”

“Okay. Thank you.” Don looked visibly relieved as a knock came on the door and Fiona poked her head in.

“Don,” Fiona said gently. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but there’s a detective here.”

“Tell him I’ll be right with him,” Don said.

“He doesn’t want to see you,” Fiona said. “He wants to see Carl Turbot.”

“Here we go,” I told Carl. “It’ll be all right.”

Detectives Furlo and Smythe were plainclothes police officers from Vancouver’s detective division. I had met them both briefly in previous encounters with the criminal justice system, but knew them more by their reputation among lawyers. Mostly bad. Furlo, in particular, like most cops, was not a huge fan of defence counsel. To him and cops like him, defence lawyers stood in the way of them doing their righteous duty. On some days, I didn’t entirely disagree with him.

Furlo and Smythe had set up temporary shop in the small conference room off the main office, used for department meetings and small gatherings. When we arrived, Furlo was standing in the corner. Furlo was in his early forties and still looked like a full-time gym monkey. Despite police department dress codes, he wore a casual sports jacket over a black mock turtleneck shirt. He looked like the stereotypical tough guy in a 1970s cop show like Charlie’s Angels or Starsky and Hutch. In fact, he kind of looked like Hutch. Or Starsky. Whichever one was the blond cop. He looked up when we entered, a bit confused by the fact that there were two of us. He didn’t seem particularly displeased to see me, which indicated he didn’t yet know why I was there.

Detective Jasmine Smythe was a fortyish, stylish woman who had fought and struggled her way up through the police ranks, facing opposition not only as a woman but as one of a very small black community in Vancouver. I had had very little contact with her in my short period in Legal Aid, but no defence lawyer I knew was thrilled to find Smythe was an investigating officer against a client. You could count on the fact that not only would the evidence be pretty solid, but every form would be carefully filled out, every “t” crossed and “i” dotted so that no evidence she presented to Crown prosecutors would be tossed out for procedural bungling. She had recently become one of the detective world’s increasing number of techno geeks and sat at the conference room table with a laptop in front of her. A Blackberry lay next to the computer. By contrast, Furlo was reviewing notes on a $1.29 spiral notepad.

Smythe rose out of her chair as I entered the room with Carl in tow. “Mr. Turbot?” she asked.

“Mr. Patrick. Winston Patrick. I’m a teacher here.”

“You’re Carl Turbot?” Furlo asked, stepping towards Carl from his spot along the side wall.

“Yes,” Carl replied quietly. “I understand you wanted to see me?”

“That’s correct, Mr. Turbot,” Smythe told him soothingly. “We just have a few questions we need to ask you. Please. Have a seat.”

“Who are you?” Furlo demanded. Classic bad cop.

“Winston Patrick,” I introduced myself a second time.

“I heard the first time,” he growled. “Why are you here?”

“I think what my partner is asking,” interjected Smythe with a genuine smile, “is if there is something you would like from us. We don’t have you on our list of people to speak to specifically this morning.” Classic good cop running interference for bad cop.

“I am counsel for Mr. Turbot,” I stated neutrally.

Furlo’s body visibly tensed, leaning forward with one hand on the battered conference table. “I thought you said you were a teacher here.”

“I did. I teach law. I also practice it.”

Smythe tilted her lovely head and smiled again. “Winston Patrick. You used to work with Legal Aid. Pre-trial centre duty counsel at Main Street. I thought the name sounded familiar.”

“You mean you didn’t recognize me from my handsome visage?” I returned her smile.

“You would think I would remember that,” Smythe said, returning my pre-serious conversation, casual flirtation. She played the game well.

“Could we get back to what the hell you are doing here with Mr. Turbot? Why has he got a lawyer with him?” Furlo groused.

“Come on, Detective,” I put back at him. “You know better. Mr. Turbot has a lawyer because he is about to be interrogated by the police about a homicide. Were you not planning to inform him of his rights?”

“We’re questioning all of Tricia Bellamy’s teachers about her. We’re looking to see if anyone noticed anything unusual about her in the last little while. That’s it. Nobody’s being interrogated here. Are you planning to legally represent all of her teachers, Mr. Patrick?” I could tell Furlo and I had definitely started out on the right foot.

“Why don’t you cut the hostility and the bullshit, Detective Furlo,” I replied, doing my very best to ensure I spoke with as little condescension as possible to avoid inflaming Furlo’s obvious short fuse. “You know full well why I’m here with my client. You have selected him for questioning based on information provided to you by the principal about allegations of sexual misconduct, allegations, I might add, which are without merit, evidence or any corroboration. Mr. Turbot is not Tricia’s first period teacher, or even first alphabetically among her eight teachers, so let’s just be honest about the fact that this is a formal questioning. Or would you prefer that my client and I leave here now without answering your questions?”

“Patrick, you have a strange way of thinking that you’re helping your client by opening your mouth and . . .”

“Mike,” Smythe interrupted, “Mr. Patrick has a legitimate presence here. Let’s get on with what we’re trying to achieve.”

“Whatever,” he sighed, tossing his spiral notebook onto the table and flopping into a chair.

“Mr. Turbot, I know this is uncomfortable, so let’s start over. Please. Have a seat.” Smythe smiled again and seemed to warm the room, delicately waving her hand to the chair across the table.

Carl reluctantly sat down, never completely taking his eyes off Furlo. After our short verbal battle, it was beginning to sink in just how much shit he was in. I could actually physically feel his discomfort and anxiety. Facing two police detectives in a homicide investigation is discomfiting, even when you have nothing to hide. It was one of the reasons I was originally drawn to defence work. Over the years at the Vancouver law courts, I had seen many a petty criminal, and many an innocent bystander, nearly crumble under the investigatory prowess of cops and prosecutors determined to see conviction. Even the innocent will occasionally get talked into admitting to inappropriate or illegal conduct just by the sheer fear of the people across the table.

“Mr. Turbot, let’s just cut to the chase so we can get on with the investigation,” Smythe began. “According to the principal, Tricia came to him with allegations of a sexual relationship between her and you. Is there any truth to her complaints?”

Carl looked warily at me for permission to respond. I nodded my assent. He spoke quietly, nervously. “It is absolutely untrue. I have never had a physical relationship with Tricia or any other student. I’m a married man.”

“So was I,” interjected Furlo. “Three times. It rarely slowed me down.”

Smythe rolled her eyeballs at her partner’s display of testosterone-driven bravado. “Mr. Turbot, why would Tricia say those things if they weren’t true?”

“How can he know that, Detective Smythe?” I asked.

“We’re not in court here, Mr. Patrick. Can’t we just ask him to speculate?”

“Go ahead, Carl,” I conceded.

“I don’t know. For some reason she was mad at me. She came to me and threatened to go . . .”

I interrupted. “What Mr. Turbot is referring to is that Tricia indicated to him she was planning to complain about a relationship that did not exist. It wasn’t expressed as a threat in exchange for some favour or quid pro quo arrangement.”

“Is that right?” Furlo asked Carl.

“That’s right,” Carl confirmed. At least he was following my lead, more than a lot of my clients had been able to.

“Was she struggling in the course, looking for some leverage to help her through the program?” Smythe soothingly inquired of my client.

Carl looked carefully at me again for approval, which I granted with a very slight nod. “Tricia is—was . . .” he corrected himself, “a very capable, bright student. She was having some trouble with a few assignments and concepts lately, but that’s not uncommon in senior biology. It’s very demanding.”

“When you say she was having trouble, how much trouble? Was she failing?” Smythe pressed.

“Well, no. That’s just it. Trouble for Tricia was slipping slightly below an ‘A’. I mean slightly. I could show you her standings.”

“That’s okay. What else can you tell me about why she would have made this accusation?”

“I just don’t understand. Look, I can tell you that Tricia was a very driven student. She set high standards and was a perfectionist. I understand she felt the same way about athletics. She could be stubborn about learning a concept. If she didn’t understand, she would stay and get help and beat herself up until she understood. But she was never a problem. She never had disciplinary issues. I never had to reprimand her or throw her out of class. I can’t tell you just how shocking it was to have her throw this threat from out of left field.” Carl’s voice had begun to rise to a level approaching frantic.

“Okay, Mr. Turbot. That’s fine for now.” Smythe pulled a business card out of her leather carry case. “If you think of anything else, anything at all that strikes you about her recent behaviour, please give us a call.”

“That’s it? I can go?” Carl asked.

“Sure. Thank you for speaking with us. I know this must be a very hard day for you and all of Tricia’s teachers today.” She pushed her chair back from the table and rose.

“Yes,” Carl replied with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He and I both rose from our seats. I had turned to shepherd my client to the door when Furlo broke his self-imposed silence one last time.

“Hey, Turbot. Look. Just between us, okay?” He actually winked conspiratorially. “Even if you were bangin’ her, it doesn’t mean you killed her. It would just help us rule out any loose ends if we were sure you were being straight with us. It doesn’t have to leave this room. Were you and she going at it?”

Carl was horrified, and as he opened his mouth to speak, I jumped in. “Don’t dignify that juvenile outburst with a response. You asked my client that question already, and it was answered.” I pushed him out the door and turned to face Furlo. “Not only are we talking about a teenager here, Detective, in schools we tend to frown on discussions of ‘banging’ students. If that’s the best you can do, I don’t hold a whole lot of hope about you actually apprehending her killer. Detective Smythe,” I nodded towards Smythe, who looked positively embarrassed by her partner.

I could feel Furlo’s stare burning into the back of my skull as I left the conference room. I heard him mutter something about asshole lawyers as I shut the door.