“What’s Howard like anyway?”
“Let’s see. He still calls me ‘babe.’ Does that tell you anything?”
“Just that he’s a braver man than I am.”
“He is brave – brave and smart and funny – at least that’s the way he used to be. You would have liked him.”
“But I wouldn’t like him now.”
“At this point, not even Howard likes Howard.”
“What went wrong there? I mean, one day he’s the ex-premier, a respected elder statesman, and the next day he’s a lush.”
“The meltdown wasn’t that quick,” I said. “Howard’s ego’s been taking a beating for a while now. He gave his life to the party, but the party seems to have forgotten his name, his telephone number, and his principles. His daughters e-mail when they think of him – which isn’t often – and since Kathryn Morrissey’s book, his son won’t speak to him.”
“You can hardly blame Charlie for that,” Zack said.
“Charlie? You’re on a first-name basis with Howard’s son?”
“Sure. I don’t like surprises. Our firm has talked to everybody we think may be important to this case, and that includes Charlie. I know that he’s had a tough row to hoe. That birthmark on his face must have been a terrible thing for a kid to deal with, and according to Charlie, his father was never there.”
“Except during election time,” I said. “During campaigns we always trotted Charlie out so there wouldn’t be an awkward gap in the family picture.”
“So you’re loyal to Howard because you feel guilty?”
“No,” I said. “I’m loyal to Howard because he’s always been there when the kids and I needed him. Now it’s my turn.”
“And you can just blow off the fact that he told Kathryn Morrissey the most intimate details about his son’s private life. Jo, Charlie’s spent years building his career. People across Canada tune into his radio show because they want to hear Charlie D, the cool, smart guy with the insights – the guy who can make them laugh and show them a way out of their problems. So Howard tells Kathryn Morrissey that Charlie D is a fake – that the real Charlie grew up seeing shrinks every week, that he loved his mother obsessively, and that when Charlie was eight years old he met a little girl named Ariel and for the next twenty years he loved her with such a consuming passion that he made her life hell until she died. What kind of man would reveal secrets like that about his son? What was Howard thinking?”
“He wasn’t thinking. He was trying to make amends for all the years he ignored Charlie. Howard believed that when people read about how deeply Charlie had been wounded by his absence, they’d realize they should be part of their children’s lives.”
Zack’s raised an eyebrow.
“I’m sure he did,” I said. “But Howard loves Charlie and this is killing him.” I moved closer. “Try not to lose sight of that when you have him in the witness box.”
Zack brushed my cheek with the back of his hand. “Try not to lose sight of the fact that my first obligation is to my client.”
I took his hand in mine. “Two fathers. Two sons. Give Kathryn her due – the title she chose for her book deserves full marks.”
Zack’s gaze was steady. “I didn’t know the title had any particular significance.”
“Well, it does,” I said. “It’s from a poem called ‘On My First Son’ that Ben Jonson wrote when his seven-year- old died. The poem’s almost four hundred years old, but it still breaks my heart – ‘Farewell, thou child of my right hand, and joy; / My sin was too much hope of thee, lov’d boy.’ ”
Zack winced. “Jesus,” he said. “This case just goes from bad to worse.”
CHAPTER
2
For as long as I could remember, I’d given Howard Dowhanuik a bottle of Crown Royal for Thanksgiving. He said he liked his bountiful harvest distilled, and until now I’d been happy to comply. This year I was taking him an apple pie – a wholesome if patronizing choice. Substituting pie for rye had seemed like a good idea, but as I stood, with the pie in the crook of one arm, hammering at the front door of Howard’s condo with my fist, I cursed my stupidity in coming and I cursed Howard for not answering. I knew he was there. The drapes were drawn, the TV was blaring, and his 1988 Buick was leaking oil onto the driveway.
The condo was in a quiet cul-de-sac five blocks from my house. When Howard had retired, I’d helped him find it. At the time, the location seemed ideal: distant enough from the house of his son, Charlie, to keep Charlie from feeling smothered; close enough to the legislature for Howard to offer our hapless new premier advice as his cabinet ministers, one by one, got caught with their peckers in the pickle barrel.
Perfect – but nothing worked out.
Once elected, the premier threw up a firewall of M.B.A.s and toadies to protect him from the unpalatable political home truths Howard might have offered. Ignored, Howard sulked and fumed. And along came Kathryn Morrissey.
I glanced across at her house. Pricey as they were, Kathryn’s and Howard’s condos were pretty much cheek by jowl. It was late afternoon when Kathryn was shot, and Howard had been drinking heavily. It was possible that he was mistaken about what he thought he saw and heard. One thing was certain. He would have been truthful. Howard’s politics might have been radically different from Sam Parker’s, but Howard had never held people’s politics against them.
The broad strokes of Kathryn Morrissey’s story and Sam Parker’s were remarkably similar. Both agreed that on the afternoon in question, Sam entered Kathryn’s yard through her side gate, pleaded with her to postpone publication of her book, and, when she refused, fired a pistol. Kathryn and Sam differed on only one particular, but it was critical. Kathryn stated that Sam had threatened her – aiming the pistol carefully and saying, “How does it feel to know that this might be the last day of your life?” Sam said that to emphasize his desperation he held the pistol
