financial difficulties head-on, and he was matter of fact in explaining that while his client base had diminished after he’d made some bad investments, he was turning the situation around. Like his ex-wife, Jason had missed his share of large events in the lives of his daughters, but Margot offset that by encouraging him to talk about the events he had attended: the vacations he’d shared with the twins, and the daily routine of life in the Brodnitz house. The life he described wasn’t
When Madam Justice Susan Gorges declared a recess for lunch, Margot and her client exchanged smiles. He helped her off with her barrister’s robe; she flung it over the back of her chair, revealing a smart red suit that showed off her terrific legs; and she and Jason headed for the exit.
Ed touched Ginny’s arm. “Would you like to join us for lunch?” he asked.
“I’ll have to take a rain check,” Ginny said. “Sean wants to talk to me about what’s happening this afternoon.”
Ed smiled “Well, a Mariani rain check is redeemable any time.”
“I’ll remember that,” Ginny said, and she seemed surprisingly touched.
We ate at Java Deposit, a coffee place that had once been a bank on the main floor of an office tower near the courthouse. The building was full of lawyers, including my husband’s firm, and whenever court was recessed for lunch, Java Deposit was packed.
As Ed and I came through the door, a server with a sneer pushed his way towards us. There was, he said, a small table vacant inside the vault, but if we wanted it, we’d have to move quickly.
We moved. After we’d elbowed our way to our table, explored the menu, squirmed to make ourselves comfortable on our dainty wrought-iron ice-cream chairs, and settled in to wait for the reappearance of our server, we looked at each other.
“Why did we come here?” Ed asked.
“Because Falconer Shreve’s new offices are upstairs and they have some art you ought to see.”
“Reason enough,” Ed said. “I never thought these words would pass my lips, but let’s eat fast.” He sighed. “So why did Falconer Shreve move? Their offices in those two old houses were charming.”
“I agree, but the firm has plans to expand, and the old place just wasn’t big enough for extra people.”
“So is Zack pleased with the move?”
I shrugged. “It doesn’t affect him much. When he’s not in court, he works at home most of the time now.”
“And you work at home too.”
“As much as I can manage,” I said. “Zack and I like being together. So everybody’s happy, especially Pantera, because it turns out he’s afraid of elevators.”
Ed’s eyes widened. “Am I missing something here?”
“Pantera goes nuts if he can’t be with Zack, so he always went to the old office. The day Falconer Shreve moved here, Pantera trotted off happily with Zack. For some reason, the elevators spooked him. Zack brought in a dog trainer, but nothing helped, so Pantera retired.”
“I take it Zack isn’t planning to follow suit.”
“He keeps promising he’ll cut down,” I said. “At the Bar Association Christmas party, someone told me that the average time between a trial lawyer’s first case and his first heart attack is twenty years. Zack’s already had five years grace, and his paraplegia doesn’t increase the odds in his favour.”
“Still, he took on Francesca Pope’s case, and I would have expected a kid from Legal Aid to handle that one.”
Our server came, and Ed and I ordered the special. As the server began pushing his way towards the kitchen, Ed was lugubrious. “I don’t hold out much hope for the Italian wedding soup. That takes a knowing hand.”
“Well, nobody can screw up bruschetta,” I said.
Ed sniffed. “That remains to be seen.”
“What do you know about the Francesca Pope case?” I said.
“Not much,” Ed said. “One of the students in my Documentary Theory and Production class started to do a piece on it, but he hadn’t finished when he decided to drop out, move to Alberta, and make his fortune in the oil fields. All I know is that the mayor and a clutch of civic leaders were in the warehouse district congratulating one another for their gentrification project when a scuffle broke out and Francesca Pope broke His Honour’s nose.”
“And, of course, with Francesca’s invariable bad luck, the cameras were rolling,” I said.
“I saw the footage,” Ed said. “Zack’s client looked pretty disturbed.”
“She was disturbed. She was off her medication. The mayor and his cronies were in her neighbourhood, or what used to be her neighbourhood, and the mayor had kicked her backpack out of the way because it would have looked unsightly in the pictures.”
“If the mayor thought a backpack was unsightly, I wonder how he feels about a murder in one of his shining condos,” Ed said. “The dead woman’s fellow condo owners certainly aren’t happy.”
My pulse quickened. “Do you know someone who lives in the Pendryn?”
“Yes, our friend David Schaub. Barry and I were at a party there not too long ago. It’s quite an experience. There’s all that drama about entering through the freight elevator, then the doors open and you step into a dream. The whole place is open-concept, twenty-four-foot vaulted ceilings and skylights, a huge stretch of the original brick in the living room, and two very large, very private balconies. The view of the city from the bedroom just about stopped my heart. As, of course, it should for $629,000.”
“That’s pricey for Regina,” I said.
“The building caters to a very special clientele.”
“What do you mean?”
“People buy into that particular building because of the privacy. Most of the other warehouses that have been converted are close to Albert Street, but the Pendryn is the only building in a three-block area that’s been restored. There’s a courtyard with a pool and an exquisite little Japanese garden, but it’s cut off from the rest of the neighbourhood by security fences topped with razor wire.”
I made a face. “Not very neighbourly.”
“The people who live in there aren’t eager to see the welcome wagon. They’re willing to pay for the privilege of doing what they want to do – no questions asked.”
“By other tenants?”
“By anybody. I have a nagging suspicion that there’s more to Francesca Pope’s case than meets the eye.”
“Based on what?”
“Based on the fact that your husband is representing Francesca. Zack’s the most expensive trial lawyer in the province. And you know the old journalists’ axiom: follow the money. It would be interesting to know who’s paying the tab.”
I glanced at my watch. “If we ever get served, you can ask Zack yourself. He usually stops by his office over the lunch recess, and we’re going up to Falconer Shreve to look at the art anyway.”
Ed squirmed on his chair. “No food. No service. And chairs that seem to be intended for dolls. Let’s cross this place off our list, shall we?”
“Consider it done,” I said.
Falconer Shreve’s offices were on the fifteenth floor. The elevator was mirrored, and as Ed caught sight of himself reflected repeatedly from every angle, he sighed. “I understand Pantera’s misery about being in this elevator. These Andy Warhol repetitions of my bulk make me want to howl too.”
“We’re the only ones in the elevator,” I said. “Go for it.”
The elevators opened directly into the firm’s reception area, where hard-polished floors gleamed and walls painted the gentle shade of old silver perfectly complemented two large, eye-catching works: a shimmering metallic drape by Miranda Jones and an intricately painted Ted Godwin tartan.
At her low glass desk in front of the tartan, Denise Kaiswatum was simultaneously signing for a package, taking a telephone call, and smiling reassuringly at a frightened and unhappy-looking woman. When the courier left, Denise hung up the phone, directed the unhappy woman to the client waiting room, and gave Ed and me an
