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
