Lost Girls

our boy, do we? Back to it, then. And you just ring if anything develops. We're following things in the papers down here, and you look good. Although, may I suggest a haircut?''

''Haircut. Right.''

''Night-night.''

I pick up the spoon again, dip deep. Tape the curling corners of newspaper down with another round of Scotch tape. Hold her picture in my hand, and instead of dreams stay with the hair transplant specialists, cellulite creams, and psychic hot lines until dawn.

chapter 36

Another walk through the drizzle up Ontario Street, another five minutes spent promising that today, finally, I'll take my lunch break to buy a goddamn umbrella. I'm tired of spending my daytime hours sitting in the high- ceilinged space of the largest courtroom in Murdoch with drips of water finding their way down the back of my neck, over the nubby length of my spine. And why does it have to rain so much at this time of year anyway? It's not like anything's growing up here. Take a look around: everything's dying, the streets littered in brown and yellow layers of wet death--

''Mr. Crane!''

It's one of the TV reporters, the woman. Attractive on-air (sharp mouth and self-consciously hard-boiled voice) but up close the professional requirement of excessive makeup becomes gruesomely apparent.

''I understand that Krystal's father, Lloyd McConnell, plans to take the stand today,'' she says, pulling a cameraman along behind her on a microphone cable. ''What will be your strategy on cross-examination?''

''Did you actually think I'd answer that question?''

''Well, do you have any comment? About anything?''

''I think not.''

I continue on, feeling a greater dampening through the shoulders of my suit than usual due to this delay on the courthouse steps. But before I make it all the way up she tries again.

''Mr. Crane! How do you respond to Mr. McConnell's claim that anyone who would defend a man like Thomas Tripp is a hell-bound degenerate himself ?''

Turn to face her and wipe a line of half-formed icicles from my chin.

''Hell-bound degenerate,'' I say aloud to myself. Consider the term for a moment and resist a smile before heading inside.

The morning begins with Goodwin rising to call Lloyd McConnell to the stand. The next second I'm up myself to object.

''Yes, Mr. Crane? And why would that be?''

''Perhaps the court would be best served if the substance of my objections were not heard with the jury present.''

''Perhaps that's so. Better safe than sorry, right? Okay, members of the jury. I know you've only just sat down, but would you mind filing back to the jury room for a time while we sort this matter out? I advise taking the opportunity for a second round of coffee and doughnuts. And, Mr. McConnell, could you step out into the hall as well for a moment? Maybe you'd like some additional refreshments yourself. It may be a long morning.''

When the jury has shuffled out and the bailiff closed the door behind them, Justice Goldfarb looks down at me with her more or less permanent expression of wry suspicion.

''I think I know, but let me ask anyway: What's your problem, Barth?''

''It's the matter of relevance, Your Honor. I have no problem with Mr. McConnell venting whatever frustrations he's understandably dealing with at the moment. But this courtroom is not the right venue for such therapy. I would respectfully remind the court that what we're up to here is Mr. Tripp's trial, and unless Mr. McConnell can offer any evidence to assist in its determination, I submit that he has no place in this procedure.''

I turn to check on Tripp, but his head is turned away at an odd angle as though his ears are picking up some faint radio signal he's attempting to fine-tune.

''Mr. Goodwin?''

''Your Honor, Mr. McConnell's testimony serves a very particular purpose, and that is to meet the suggestions made by defense counsel in his opening submissions that Krystal and Ashley may be nothing more than runaways. I submit that what Lloyd McConnell has to say about Krystal will address the credibility of such a suggestion.''

Justice Goldfarb stabs a finger into her mouth, pulls something out from her rear molars, flicks it to the floor, and replaces her hands in front of her in a single motion.

''Mr. Crane?''

''First, I made it clear in my opening submissions that the defense was not basing its case on the runaway theory, but merely asking the jury to keep it in mind as a possibility. Mr. McConnell's testimony is therefore not necessary. There is tremendous potential for injury to be done to proper procedure here, Your Honor. I'd ask you to consider that.''

This last bit clearly a threat that if she allows McConnell to go up, there's automatic grounds for appeal, and we both know it. But Naomi Goldfarb, I'd forgotten, doesn't respond well to threats.

''Thank you, Mr. Crane. Any suggestions, Mr. Goodwin?''

''Well, I would remind my friend that he is free to object to any particular piece of evidence that advances from the testimony. And perhaps he can take some comfort from the fact that the prosecution seeks only to show that Krystal McConnell was not the sort of young woman to run away from home without leaving a sign. The defense raised the question of the victim's character, not me, and I'm only trying to meet that question by the only means available.''

Goodwin sits, pleased as punch, and for a second the entire room is held in breathless suspense, wondering if the moment has come for the legs under his chair to finally collapse.

''How's that sound to you, Mr. Crane?''

''Not so great, Your Honor. But I see where all this is going and I would simply ask the court that if it decides to permit Mr. McConnell to testify despite my objections, I be permitted a broad scope for my cross- examination.''

''Broad scope?''

''He means 'go for the jugular,' Your Honor.''

''I resent that remark--''

''Easy now, boys. I understand what you're asking for, Mr. Crane, and I'll keep it in mind. Because it's my ruling that if Mr. McConnell wishes to testify, he can, as I'm sure that Crown counsel has advised the witness of the rough ride cross-examination can often be. So, let's bring the jury and Mr. McConnell back in and get on with the show.''

When the jury's back in their box McConnell is called once more, and up he comes, the floor creaking under the awkward bulk of his weight, which this morning has been wrapped within a navy-blue suit cut a little too short in the arms. From the waist up he's managed to affect the body language of obligation--rounded shoulders, chin raised, eyes pulled wide. But as he takes the steps up into the stand his lower half gives him away. An aggression betrayed by A-frame thighs, inflexible knees, his shoes grinding into the carpet as though extinguishing someone else's dropped cigarette. When the Bible is produced he lays his hand on its cover and raises the other with a rehearsed solemnity, and I imagine him standing before his mirror in the master bedroom at home, training for this moment while his wife wipes her eyes raw and pops her pills in the en suite bathroom next to him. Having stated his ''I do'' that echoes off the plaster walls longer than one would think possible, he takes his seat, chest heaving inside his shirt like a wild animal smuggled in and now demanding release.

''Mr. McConnell, I'm aware that this is tremendously difficult for you''--Goodwin shakes his head, realigns the puffy necklace of flesh above his collar--''but could you help us here today by describing for the court what kind of girl your daughter Krystal was?''

And it begins. Home, hearth, family, church. The blueprint of the perfect nuclear family unrolled and explained in excruciating detail. He's got it all figured out, the plodding narration to a rec-room slide show committed to