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
