neither come. Only his voice, struggling for calm.
''Mr. Crane, this is a pretrial conference . It is meant to assist in defining the issues of trial, thereby to expedite procedure. It's not an opportunity to practice your closing submissions, nor am I a witness obliged to sit through a test run of your cross-examination strategy. I'm pleased to answer your inquiries, but I find your argumentative tone extremely inappropriate.''
Then he sits back again. The redness (at least the additional redness) drains from his face and his upper lip is released from its seizure.
''Quite right, Mr. Goodwin,'' I admit, vaguely impressed by the big man's performance. ''I'm aware that what you call my argumentative tone can sometimes get the better of me. I suppose it just wouldn't let me sit here, having appreciated what I take to be the full extent of the Crown's evidence, without pointing out its woeful deficiencies. Sometimes my argumentative tone overwhelms me when a client of mine has been charged with the highest criminal offense known to our law on the basis only of catalog pictures, muddy slacks, a haunted lake, and crossed fingers on the outcome of what will in any event be inconclusive DNA results. For this, I apologize.''
I rise at this point, collecting the stacks of papers left on the table and sticking them randomly into Goodwin's accordion file, now mine. But I can't help noticing at the upper extreme of my vision a wet-looking grin moving across the fat man's mouth.
''You think I don't wish I had more? I know darn well the limitations of my case, Mr. Crane.''
I direct a mocking snort at his ''darn well,'' but once again he continues as though he hadn't noticed.
''There's a difference between you and me, Mr. Crane. And it's likely not one of the differences that's already occurred to you. The thing is, you want to win this case because it would be doing yourself a service. I want to win because I believe Thomas Tripp is guilty. Everyone in this town knows it. He tried to steal his own daughter once, and when he couldn't do that, he stole someone else's.''
''Very nice, very--''
''And you know what else ?'' He raises himself from his chair in a single movement of surprising agility, extending his arm in my direction at the same time. ''I believe you know this yourself.''
''You can't tell me what I believe.''
''No, I can't. But I'll ask you this. Next time you have a talk with your client take a good long look into his eyes and tell me he didn't do it.''
The meeting's over. His hand, puffy and spotted white, wavers before me. When I finally take it he gives my own hand a long, dry squeeze.
It's ridiculous how some small, totally inconsequential things can come to drive you nuts. But what bothers me about this handshake is that it's my hand that's slick with moisture when it should be his. It's my sweat that is wiped from the fat man's hand onto the front of his cheap pants.
chapter 10
The Murdoch Public Library is located across the street from the courthouse in what used to be the manse of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church, a dour, cracked-plaster affair that epitomizes the town's no-nonsense Protestant aesthetic. Who knows where the minister lives today (perhaps tucked away in the basement and dusted off once a week to deliver a sermon to his diminishing, blue-rinsed congregation), but what used to be the dining room, sitting room, and even the kitchen of his residence are now clotted with book stacks, a couple of study carrels next to the windows, and, in the place where the stove and sink used to be, a bearded man with alarmingly dark eyes seated behind a wooden desk shuffling index cards. When I approach I note first that he and I are the only ones in the place, and second that he's not seated at all but standing, and is a man who, given the benefit of the doubt, may be estimated to reach the height of four foot six.
''Can I help you?'' he asks in a voice deeper than would seem possible for a man his size,
''Mr. Crane, this is a pretrial conference . It is meant to assist in defining the issues of trial, thereby to expedite procedure. It's not an opportunity to practice your closing submissions, nor am I a witness obliged to sit through a test run of your cross-examination strategy. I'm pleased to answer your inquiries, but I find your argumentative tone extremely inappropriate.''
Then he sits back again. The redness (at least the additional redness) drains from his face and his upper lip is released from its seizure.
''Quite right, Mr. Goodwin,'' I admit, vaguely impressed by the big man's performance. ''I'm aware that what you call my argumentative tone can sometimes get the better of me. I suppose it just wouldn't let me sit here, having appreciated what I take to be the full extent of the Crown's evidence, without pointing out its woeful deficiencies. Sometimes my argumentative tone overwhelms me when a client of mine has been charged with the highest criminal offense known to our law on the basis only of catalog pictures, muddy slacks, a haunted lake, and crossed fingers on the outcome of what will in any event be inconclusive DNA results. For this, I apologize.''
I rise at this point, collecting the stacks of papers left on the table and sticking them randomly into Goodwin's accordion file, now mine. But I can't help noticing at the upper extreme of my vision a wet-looking grin moving across the fat man's mouth.
''You think I don't wish I had more? I know darn well the limitations of my case, Mr. Crane.''
I direct a mocking snort at his ''darn well,'' but once again he continues as though he hadn't noticed.
''There's a difference between you and me, Mr. Crane. And it's likely not one of the differences that's already occurred to you. The thing is, you want to win this case because it would be doing yourself a service. I want to win because I believe Thomas Tripp is guilty. Everyone in this town knows it. He tried to steal his own daughter once, and when he couldn't do that, he stole someone else's.''
''Very nice, very--''
''And you know what else ?'' He raises himself from his chair in a single movement of surprising agility, extending his arm in my direction at the same time. ''I believe you know this yourself.''
''You can't tell me what I believe.''
''No, I can't. But I'll ask you this. Next time you have a talk with your client take a good long look into his eyes and tell me he didn't do it.''
The meeting's over. His hand, puffy and spotted white, wavers before me. When I finally take it he gives my own hand a long, dry squeeze.
It's ridiculous how some small, totally inconsequential things can come to drive you nuts. But what bothers me about this handshake is that it's my hand that's slick with moisture when it should be his. It's my sweat that is wiped from the fat man's hand onto the front of his cheap pants.
chapter 10
The Murdoch Public Library is located across the street from the courthouse in what used to be the manse of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church, a dour, cracked-plaster affair that epitomizes the town's no-nonsense Protestant aesthetic. Who knows where the minister lives today (perhaps tucked away in the basement and dusted off once a week to deliver a sermon to his diminishing, blue-rinsed congregation), but what used to be the dining room, sitting room, and even the kitchen of his residence are now clotted with book stacks, a couple of study carrels next to the windows, and, in the place where the stove and sink used to be, a bearded man with alarmingly dark eyes seated behind a wooden desk shuffling index cards. When I approach I note first that he and I are the only ones in the place, and second that he's not seated at all but standing, and is a man who, given the benefit of the doubt, may be estimated to reach the height of four foot six.
''Can I help you?'' he asks in a voice deeper than would seem possible for a man his size,
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