Lost Girls

stupid. See how that works?''

''You don't know the full--''

''You don't know what your goddamn job is.''

''May I interject for a moment, gentlemen?''

Graham has recovered, his voice now a controlled, theatrical baritone.

''Now, listen, Bartholomew. We've been aware of the stress you've been under on this file. But after our conversation following your unfortunate press conference some time ago I thought we'd sorted everything out. And now, without any consultation with us, you wrongly advise your client on the main issue of trial. These are very severe errors, Bartholomew. Very severe. You of all people! He's going away for life now, you know that. And a life sentence that follows a plea of guilty is just as long as one that follows a conviction by jury. Given this, I can only conclude that you've utterly lost your capacity for good judgment.''

''Actually, Graham, I feel like I'm just finding it.''

''And how's that, Bartholomew? Hmm? Could you explain that to us?''

''No. I don't think I can.''

''Ohh!'' Graham moans. ''To say the least, to say the absolute least, you've put this firm in a very difficult position.''

''And I regret that. But there's something else I have to tell you.''

''Do tell.''

''I resign.''

''What?''

''I'm out. After this, I'm done. I'm going to do something else.''

''What something else?'' Graham spits. ''Bartholomew, you were made for this stuff! I know that Bert agrees with me on this, even though he's distinctly disenchanted with you at this particular moment. We've put a lot of time into grooming your talents into something that Lyle, Gederov can grow upon in the future, Bartholomew. Don't turn one mistake into two.''

''It's not a mistake. And as for young lawyers to build the firm's future, there are plenty more where I came from and you know it. Go and pluck one of them out and turn them into whatever you need. I'm gone.''

Surprisingly, Graham gives up. More surprising, Bert takes a stab at it himself.

''What are you going to do? Eh? You think you can just walk away from your life? You don't think we all haven't thought about ways to get out? Everybody wants to escape, Barth.''

''I'm not escaping. I'm quitting.''

''Fine. Then quit. And while you're at it, go to hell.''

Then they wait. They've made the appeals they felt obliged to make, been denied as they hoped they'd be denied, and are already calculating the reputational and monetary losses that face them, recalling the names of other hot young lawyers who could be brought in to take Bartholomew Crane's place. They are practical men above everything else. Men who'd lived their professional lives knowing that their time was literally money, that in this business people frequently fall away and that the only choice is to work out the best deal you can and carry on with the dirty job at hand.

''We respect your capacity to decide your own professional future, Bartholomew,'' Graham begins cautiously. ''But with regard to this Tripp business, we must insist that you discontinue representation of your client immediately. Do you understand?''

''It's too late.''

''No, it's not. According to my watch you still have time to go in there, withdraw from the case, and walk away. We'll clean up everything else.''

''I know. That's why I'm doing this.''

''I promise you right now that you won't ever--''

''FUCKING UNGRATEFUL PUNK COCK-SUCKER--''

Click off the cellular and their voices are sucked away, leaving nothing but the meltwater chattering down to the sewer drains in the street. Look out beyond the huddled rooftops of town at the snow falling slow and straight. Watch it gather over the whole midnorth.

The courtroom is nearly asleep already. The clerk's head hangs from its neck, the hacks from the Toronto dailies buttress greasy skulls on arms sliding off the back of the gallery's bench. Even McConnell sits folded in upon himself, which is a change from his usual spinning turn to cast a damning look my way. It seems that with the first evidence of winter every vent that might have afforded the faintest lick of circulation has been closed and the heat cranked up to a level consistent with our sister courtrooms in equatorial nations. The result is a haze of vaporized perspiration, carbon dioxide, and flatulence that hangs over the room in an occasionally visible smog.

Although Goodwin and I arrive late, Justice Goldfarb is even later. Glance at my watch but immediately forget the position of its hands so that I have to glance again. Where's Tripp?

Here he comes, shuffling with birdlike jerks as though still shackled at the ankles but he's not. It takes him what feels like the length of a foreign-language film to reach the chair next to mine, and when he lowers himself into it his head lolls onto his shoulder in my direction as though to receive a welcoming kiss. Instead I lean over his way and whisper, ''You ready?'' into a wax-clogged ear.

''Today's the day.''

''Yes, Thom. Are you okay?''

''I'm okay,'' he says, looking around him and behind him, moving from face to face in the gallery.

''Good. Listen, I'm going to be right behind you when the time comes, all right? Just hang in there.''

''Uh-huh.''

But with the arrival of Tripp's newfound consciousness has come an aching lethargy for Bartholomew Crane. And as the clerk stands to call ''All rise!'' as Justice Goldfarb cuts through the jellied air in her black funereal robes, it's all I can do to half lift myself out of my chair before the call of ''You may be seated'' from above permits a falling back into place.

But I'm the only one who stays up. Fingertips splayed out for balance on the table before me, my voice a sound made from outside myself.

''Your Honor, I'd like to request a change in the scheduled procedure this morning, if I could, so that my client may--''

''I'm afraid I can't permit that, Mr. Crane.''

Goldfarb shaking her head, palms raised to stop me from going any farther.

''I'm sorry?''

''You'll have to sit down now. If you don't mind.''

I look over at Goodwin for a clue but his eyes are lowered to his lap where he concentrates on pinching at the crease in his pants. Tripp turns to me, though, the taut lines of his face falling away.

''I don't understand, Your Honor.''

''Your principals from Lyle, Gederov contacted me from Toronto a few moments ago. It is their view that there is sufficient reason to question your competence in continuing this trial.''

''But my client and I have duly elected--''

''And I felt that, given the extent of the Crown's evidence and what I expect you are about to propose, they may well be right.''

Her lower lip pushed up into a wrinkled fist.

''No. Don't do this. Please, Your Honor, you can't let--''

''Sit down, Mr. Crane.''

''--can't let him go--''

''Sit down, Mr. Crane.''

I tumble back into my chair and almost miss the mark, bouncing off the armrest with a metallic squawk.

''Until alternative counsel is made available for the accused, this court is adjourned,'' Goldfarb is saying to the jury now, and they look back at her with a variety of seasick expressions. ''So it's the old routine again, people. Don't discuss any of this with anyone until we can get this show back on the road.''

Blink up to see the bailiff coming over to haul Tripp away but taking his time about it, gut sucked in, a thumb hooked over the butt of his pistol. Can't hear Goodwin offering an understanding word somewhere off to the side,