I guess so,” I offered glumly. There was little I could do for Carl right now except see to it that he was processed properly and given an appropriate place to bunk down. Unlike what is often portrayed in fiction, I knew Furlo and Smythe would make sure their prisoner was safe and sound and not locked up with a violent offender. The police generally have little interest in allowing their prime suspect to sustain any harm prior to going to trial. After sentencing however, anything goes.
Meinhard looked me over, his joviality sliding just slightly. People often view law enforcement personnel and defence counsel as enemies. It isn’t always the case. As much as Meinhard got to see the lowest of the low come through his watch, he always showed tremendous respect for the process and the principle of innocent until proven guilty. He had never made me feel like I was a lesser citizen for defending those charged with a crime, even the guilty ones.
“A bit of a tough one for ya, I imagine?” he asked, trying to give me some comradely support.
“It isn’t the most comfortable position to be in, that’s for sure.”
“He work with you, this one? Is that how you came to be his counsel?” He hooked his thumb towards a video monitor to his right, where a grainy image of Carl and the two detectives could be seen getting out of the car and heading towards a freight-like elevator in the underground parking lot.
“Yeah,” I replied. “We teach at the same high school. He approached me to ask for some legal advice, and next thing you know, I had a client.”
“Yeah, well, it’s going to be an ugly one, if the media dogs are right. You hang in there, and you’ll do right by him, one way or the other.”
“Thanks. I’ll do what I do.”
He gestured towards the doorway at the end of the hallway. “You remember the way, or would you like an escort?” Meinhard knew visitors weren’t really supposed to wander the innards of the building, but most practicing legal counsel were unofficially permitted to make their way to meet with clients without the aid of a sheriff escort. It was another of his subtle ways of saying “welcome back.”
“I think I still remember,” I told him.
“All right then. Go get him,” he said, passing me a plastic encased visitor’s badge and unlocking the hallway door with a loud, electronic buzz.
The interior hallways of the pre-trial centre are painted institutional cream, not quite blinding white, but also devoid of colour, warmth or personality, three elements generally not permissible in publicly funded buildings. The only decoration on the walls was the occasional “No Smoking” sign and a variety of scuff marks, where reluctant prisoners dragged and slid their bodies and handcuffs and wary new lawyers bumped their briefcases. I wound my way through a short maze of hallways to the central processing areas, where Carl would be getting fingerprinted, searched, given prisoner’s garb and assigned a cell until his first court appearance. I found Furlo and Smythe standing aside as a fingerprint technician worked Carl through the process.
Ambling up to the two detectives, I decided that for the time being I might try a less adversarial approach. It might prove to be more useful in gathering information.
“Coffee, Winston?” Detective Jasmine Smythe offered. I noticed Furlo was working his way through a Styrofoam cup of what must surely have been his twentieth cup of the day. Smythe carried with her a bottle of water she sipped from periodically. I also noticed she called me by my first name.
“No, thank you. It will only keep me awake all night.”
“You mean you’re not going to camp out here to tell bedtime stories to your client?” Furlo asked. He had already resumed punctuating the word “client” with a sarcastic drawl. For the time being, I refused to be drawn into a verbal pissing match with the bleary-eyed detective. I wondered how long my resolve would last.
“You two didn’t waste any time solving the case, Detective Smythe. You must be very confident.” I was on my non-combative best behaviour, just passing the time of night with my two VPD friends.
“Maybe we’re just that good,” she replied with a smile. “And why don’t we drop the formality? It’s Jasmine. Call me Jazz.”
“I like that. Jazz. It has a very smooth sound to it.”
“Winston,” Jazz smiled again at me in mock embarrassment, “are you flirting with me?”
“Would that be a good idea?” I smiled back coyly. At least, I was trying to be coy.
“Gosh,” she adopted a southern belle persona. “Why I’m old enough to be your mother.”
“No one would believe it for a moment. If anything, they’d accuse me of being your sugar-daddy.”
“Jesus Christ,” Furlo blurted out, “are you two finished fucking around here? I wouldn’t mind dumping the perv over there and going home. Some of us haven’t slept in a long time.”
“Well, at least you haven’t tired yourself out actually gathering sufficient evidence,” I retorted. It was embarrassing how quickly my resolve not to fight with Furlo had fizzled.
Furlo put his Styrofoam coffee cup down on a nearby table and walked towards me, slowly, menacingly. His lack of sleep and abundance of caffeine had heightened his already aggressive personality to the near breaking point. I wasn’t helping. Rationally, I recognized his approach for what it likely was: Furlo was drawing a line in the sand to see whether or not I would flinch. This was a good time to be the bigger man—at least in terms of maturity—and apologize for my snide comments and walk away. Secretly, I was starting to enjoy how quickly I could get under Furlo’s skin.
“Don’t kid yourself,” he hissed, pushing his considerably wide frame into my personal space. “This is the worst type of crime. No one wants to see a kid—a kid—murdered. But when you have a kid who was being abused by her teacher, a man who should have been a person she could turn to for help, someone she could trust, and he not only takes advantage of her so he can get his own rocks off, then whacks her when she’s no longer interesting to him or she threatens to expose him for the pig that he is, you can bet your ass that I’m going to work around the clock and do everything I can to put your piece of shit client in the shit can for as long as our pathetic Criminal Code will let me. Your client is the worst kind of asshole we deal with. And as a parent of a daughter especially, he makes me sick. So don’t you worry, Winnie, we have and will continue to gather all the evidence we need.”
He paused a moment to breathe his stale coffee breath directly into my nostrils. I felt like I was getting CPR at a Starbucks. Then he continued. “You’re in the big leagues now, teacher-boy. No more little Legal Aid penny-ante stuff. You’re just feeling like such a shit because you recognize what a lowlife you’re defending.”
Two choices again. Walk away. Or. I cocked my head slightly to the right. “Did you pick that up reading pop psychology books when you were supposed to be catching the real killer?”
My chest pounded as Furlo’s hand pushed me back against the wall behind me. “You listen to me, you little fuck . . .”
“Michael!” Smythe burst sharply, suddenly reminding us of her quiet presence throughout the exchange. “Step back, now!” she commanded. Amazingly, Furlo did exactly as he was told. It was as though acting tough with me was perfectly acceptable, but crossing his partner was not something that would even enter his mind. Immediately, he backed away,
