Lost Girls

chapter 38

The first day with my new umbrella and it snows. A swirl of flakes that linger in the air as though in conversation before melting the instant they meet the earth. The sort of snow that often occurs at this time of year, a sign that winter is the true state for this country and that, in case anyone was wondering, it's on the way. It's pretty though, and preferable to the rain that instead of washing Murdoch clean has floated mud, candy wrappers, and dog shit out from their hiding places and onto the open sidewalks and streets. I take the umbrella anyway for the walk up to the courthouse and clip its metal tip over the concrete with every step, the snow hanging off my eyelashes or turning to teary droplets as it lands on my cheeks.

As I reach the top of the incline I look up and across William Street to see the courthouse lawn more agitated with cameramen and clipboard holders than usual. As one of them notices my approach a scrum forms to block my way, microphones sticking out from the tight collection of bodies like antennae twitching for any sign of life.

''Barth! Hey, Barth! What do you have to say in response to McConnell's comments of yesterday?'' The TV woman's voice, barking out above the grumbled inquiries of the others.

''I don't believe we've been introduced.''

''Alison Gregg, CBJT-TV Toronto. But you can call me Ali,'' she says, and the men keep quiet, sensing she's got a better chance of getting somewhere.

''Good morning, Ali. Now, I must admit I haven't read the papers this morning. Nor have I watched any television of late, so I really don't know what you're talking about.''

''After court yesterday McConnell came out here to tell us he was considering legal action against you for suggesting that he was as likely to have committed the murders as Tripp, and that you lied in your opening submissions when you said that you'd had a cooperative interview with him before the trial. He called you a liar, Barth. Any response?''

No. That's what I should say. No comment today, ladies and gentlemen. Now, if you'd kindly step aside. This is how Bert would have me handle such a situation, how I know it should be handled myself. After all, there really isn't anything to respond to: the lawsuit threat was spurious, the rest of it nothing more than McConnell's usual stage-stealing rant. But something in the sight of the reporters' faces, hungry and expectant, moves in me a desire to speak. No, that's not quite it either. It's not them at all, I can hardly even see their faces amid all the equipment and huddled parkas. It's coming from me. Words seething up to find their way to the outside. And when they reach the air each of them hangs there alone for a second before drifting away into the charcoal sky.

''You've got the wrong guy,'' I say. ''I don't answer questions, I ask them. Raise doubts. Responses are for those who have an interest in the proceedings, not defense lawyers.''

''C'mon, Barth. Doesn't it bother you to hear this stuff? Comments that damage your professional reputation?''

''It seems you're still a little confused, Ali. My professional reputation is not based on being nice. Moral indifference is my talent. And right now Mr. Tripp is paying my bills.''

She pauses for a moment, surprised to be getting somewhere. Although it's probably too late already I know I should make a run for it now. But instead I remain fixed at the center of their tight circle, run my tongue over chapped lips, ready to surprise myself with more.

''You sound like a mercenary,'' she says finally.

''No, like an actor. Because all of this is theater. That's why you're here, isn't it?''

''We're here to report what's happening. People have a right to know.''

''People have the right to be occasionally horrified. What your audience loves most is to shake their heads, tell each other how the world is going to hell, pass on all the rumored details of the worst crimes of the day before finally declaring they can't listen to another word about it, it's all too awful, why does the news always have to be bad news? Then they compare notes about the game last night --when are they going to trade that Swedish bum on defense?--or did you see the inspirational story on Oprah about the kid with the rare disease that left him looking like an eighty-year-old dwarf, and won't a donor please come forward so we can suck out their bone marrow for a one-in-a-million chance for a cure? It's all harmless gossip. There'll be trivia-game questions. Ten points if you remember either of the names of the two dead girls up in northern Ontario a couple years back, and a bonus of twenty if you get them both. So maybe the public has a right to know, Ali. Or maybe all this''--I swing my arm around to take in the semicircle of furry microphones and black-eyed cameras--''is nothing but slightly shameful family entertainment.''

I take a step forward but nobody moves to let me pass. The TV woman pulls a strand of hair from her mouth, clears her throat.

''One more thing,'' she says. ''If Tripp didn't do it, what do you think happened to those girls?''

The sky above dimpled with snow, flakes of a size that make a flat thump upon impact with shoulders and boots. We're statues gathering drifts on extended limbs, faces hidden to all those who stand outside the circle.

''You know something?'' I start, pull myself back. ''I'm really very tired now, Ali, and the day hasn't even started yet. So if you could all please step aside, I've got to get back to work.''

And they do step aside. Microphones retracted, notebooks drawn against chests, mouths held shut. I move through them and hear only my own footsteps and the rattle of runny noses. But as I scuff up the slick courthouse steps I can't help but look back. Air taken in, warmed, and released in irregular cycles, rising above them like white smoke lifting from dying embers.

''Excuse me! Barth! Can I just clarify something?''

It's Ali Gregg's voice again, its practiced toughness gone and replaced by the higher pitch of confusion.

''Are you trying to tell us that you think Tripp did it? That you believe your own client is guilty?''

I should say something to that, I know. Tell them of course not, not at all, I never meant to suggest anything of the kind, where'd you get that idea? But instead I slip inside and let the heavy door close behind me, pretending not to hear.

chapter 39

That evening I return to the Empire Hotel with rivulets of meltwater from the morning's snow trickling over my shoes. Black shoes now brown from the mud I had to plug through to go from the courthouse back door, behind the library, and down a backyard lane to avoid the pack of reporters waiting for me out front. There's now $250 in ruined Italian leather on my feet but it's well worth not having to look again into the hollow faces of the press, open mouthed and circling in like a pack of wild things that feed upon the flesh of the living along with the dead.

But of course it's already too late. My morning's candid performance may have stunned them all for a second, but they must have soon collected themselves to beam back the image of counsel for the defense in the Important Murder Trial of the Week having what appears to be some kind of low-grade nervous breakdown on the front steps of the court. Not terribly momentous as news, perhaps, but undoubtedly close to the top of the something-you-just -don't-see-everyday list. So when I finally duck into the hotel's front door I'm not surprised to immediately hear the concierge's voice come out at me from the murk of the lobby.

''It's a lucky thing I caught you there, Mr. Crane, 'cos I've got a wad of messages from your lawyer friends down in Toronto as thick as my thumb!''

I wait for my eyes to adjust so that I can scuff over and take the messages from his hand. A wad as thick as two thumbs, by the feel of it.

''Thank you. Another thing. I was just wondering, does that young woman who dances in the Lord Byron-- the one with the longish blond hair--is she still a guest here?''

''You mean the young young one?''

''Yes.''

''Well, she weren't ever a guest here.''

There's a pause, and I'm thankful that the darkness prevents me from seeing the concierge's puzzled face or