Annie chewed away on her cannelloni. When Cam Charles paused for dramatic effect, people sucked in their breath and made sounds of awe and exclamation. I couldn’t get a rise out of the woman in my life. I was also developing a dose of Cam Charles envy.
“The something else more fundamental,” I said, “is a bias.”
Annie nodded. It looked to me like the nod of someone who’s turned out the inside lights.
I said, “The defendant is protected by what you mentioned earlier, the presumption of innocence. The court has to presume he didn’t do what he’s charged with until the crown proves it.”
“Beyond a reasonable doubt,” Annie said.
“Neat. You’ve been listening.”
“Like I said, I’ve heard some of this before.”
“But even with the presumption of innocence, there’s this bias built into the system.” I was talking slowly, like a lecturer addressing a class of jerks. I stepped up the pace. “It’s a bias to get a guilty verdict. That’s why everybody’s sleuthing and investigating and questioning and keeping files and policing and prosecuting. To convict the guy.”
Annie waited until her mouth was free of cannelloni.
“I’m in favour of that,” she said. “Especially where the guy’s ripped off a company for two million or so with a dishonest scheme. Arkansas?”
“Oklahoma,” I said. “But you’re leaving something out. There has to be a voice speaking against the bias I just told you about.”
“A mouthpiece. Is that where the odious term came from?”
“It isn’t odious,” I said. “Listen, someone has to argue for the accused guy, one single voice that tries to make sure all that massive machinery on the other side doesn’t screw up. That’s where the defence lawyer comes in. He speaks against the bias. It’s his duty.”
“Duty to whom?” Annie said. “A bunch of guys you admitted yourself were more than likely guilty?”
“Not just to the clients,” I said. “To society.”
That rang pompous.
“A duty to everybody who might some time get pulled into court,” I said.
That rang lame.
“A duty to the system,” I said.
“You make it sound like the garbageman,” Annie said.
“It’s a dirty job, but somebody’s got to do it?”
Annie took a little wine.
She said, “I suppose the part that really bugs me about you acting for these terrible people, you like it.”
Annie had her hand up as a signal I shouldn’t interrupt.
“Even if you are right about the bias and the lonely voice of the defence lawyer and all that romantic stuff,” she said, “it seems, ah, unseemly you should get such a kick out of being on the side of crime.”
“First,” I said, “I don’t defend crime. I defend people, and all of them happen to be innocent at the time they retain me.”
“What’s second?”
“You’re right,” I said. “It gives me a boot, the whole courtroom process, me and my client against the machinery.”
“Hopeless.”
“That’s your rebuttal?”
“I’m regrouping my forces for a return engagement.”
Annie had polished off the dish of cannelloni. My own plate was strewn with chicken debris. On the other hand, I’d made the larger dent in the Vouvray.
Annie said, “One thing in favour of your current client the musician, from what you say, he doesn’t seem to be a threat to society or its money.”
“On the contrary, Dave’s the victim of the piece.”
“That’s novel for you,” Annie said. “What’re you going to do for him?”
“Make a call or two.”
“Who on? The porn mogul, right?”
“Yeah, my sparring partner, Raymond Fenk. Just a small matter of a pickup from him is all.”
Did dissembling come that easy to everyone? Or was I in the upper brackets of dissemblers, up there with Richard Nixon, Uriah Heep, all-time greats like them? If I revealed all to Annie about the planned covert operation at the Silverdore, our dinner date might turn flat. Better to get the job done, restore Dave Goddard’s tenor saxophone to its rightful blower, make everybody happy, with the possible exception of Fenk, and when all was wrapped and packaged, tell Annie the story. That wasn’t dissembling. That was postponing.
“I wouldn’t mess with that Fenk,” Annie said. “Mean face on him and built like a house.”
“The dealings are going to be what you might call arm’s length.”
The waitress picked up our plates, and Annie asked for dessert.
“Bananas au rhum,” she said, reading from the menu.
“With two forks,” I said.
Emilio’s had a Friday-night SRO crowd. The standees lined the wooden bar at the front. But the room was open and airy, and nobody’s conversation spilled over onto Annie’s and mine. It felt cozy in the crowd.
I asked Annie, “How’s it shaping up for Cam’s festival?”
“Nicely,” Annie said. “He’s bringing in at least a dozen movies you wouldn’t see booked into the commercial theatres in a million years. A Quarter to Three isn’t in that category. Harp Manley’s film. It’ll be in release all over the place later this fall. But, you have to hand it to Charles, it’s a sweet little coup he’s pulled, snagging the movie for its world premiere. All the press on Manley and the movie won’t hurt Charles’s festival one bit.”
“At a cost in credibility,” I said.
“Because A Quarter to Three doesn’t fit the festival theme?”
“Political content, minorities, oppressed people, and all.”
Annie said, “Well, Charles made a lot of noise at the press conference about Manley representing a breakthrough in American film for black actors.”
“That’ll come as news to Sidney Poitier,” I said. “And Richard Pryor, Eddie Murphy, Dexter Gordon. Harp Manley’s about the fifth breakthrough.”
“The way Charles talked, it came across as very plausible,” Annie said. “Criminal lawyers are good at that.”
The bananas were slathered in brown
