Richard reached over to help. “Flip onto your back, Zak. I can pull you along easier that way.”
It took the three almost an hour to cover the quarter mile from ship to shore, and by the time that they reached the small artificial beach of Crab Park, Jimmy was approaching Brotchie Ledge and preparing to resurface.
They lay exhausted on the beach for a few minutes, but Richard put an end to that. “We can’t stay here and build sandcastles, Zak. The sun will be up in a few hours and we’ve got to be out of here. Jimmy told us that on the other side of those tracks is what the locals call the Downtown Eastside. It’s skid row. In our current condition we’ll fit in there.”
“That’s because we’re vagrants,” Zak responded. “No fixed address. No ID. No nothing.”
“Stop grousing, Zak. We’ve got a job to do,” snapped Richard.
They crossed the railway tracks that separated the small park from the Eastside, traveled south along the alleyways for three blocks, and entered hell. The pavement was covered in discarded needles. People in various stages of consciousness littered the steps and corners of the alley, and eyes peered at them from the darkness of various crevices. Even in their damp and dirty clothes, the locals knew that the three didn’t belong.
“Take a good look, Kumar,” said Richard. “Take this in. This is what you and Yousseff are selling.”
Before the battle resumed in Courtroom 401, a courier came to counsel table. “Ms. Wittenberg,” he paged. “Is there a Dana Wittenberg here?” Dana gamely raised her hand. “Wittenberg here,” she said.
“Special delivery from the Law Society,” said the courier.
McSheffrey elbowed Archambault. “Watch this,” he said slyly.
Dana opened the letter. It began with a neutral “Dear Ms. Wittenberg.” After a few businesslike sentences, the words began to tear through her like machine gun fire:
It has come to our attention that you used an inappropriate epithet, to wit, “Fuck you,” in reference to Crown counsel in the presence and within the earshot of such counsel, the court clerk, the court reporter, numerous sheriffs, and in front of a crowded public gallery. Such conduct is inappropriate for any member of the bar of the Province of British Columbia and constitutes conduct unbecoming for a member of the bar. You are hereby ordered to appear before the Discipline Committee of the Law Society on December 19 at 10:00 a.m. to show cause why you should not be disciplined for such an inappropriate remark . . .
There were a few more sentences referring to the folly of ignoring Law Society missives. Dana sat down, stunned. She had been a lawyer for all of five months and already she was up for disciplinary proceedings. White faced, she wanted to sob until she heard McGhee’s voice coming from the next counsel table. “Hey, Little Puppy, you’ve been a bad, bad doggie,” he said with a churlish chuckle.
She was contemplating running, screaming, out of the courtroom, just as the clerk called the court to order.
37
The battle had resumed in Courtroom 401. “That’s the case for the Crown,” said Sheff proudly, knowing he’d it nailed down and Wittenberg had nothing. Not one witness, not one expert, not one exculpatory document in her barrister’s case. The deadly evidence was safely secured in a drawer in his desk in his locked office. Leon Lestage, sitting darkly in the witness box knew it, too, and was devising intricate Rube Goldberg contraptions that would visit a slow and painful death on everyone at Blankstein deFijter, starting with the trough-swilling swine that sat in the upper corner offices.
“Very well, then, let’s hear from the defense. Ms. Wittenberg, how are we doing today?”
“Swell, my lord, just totally swell,” she said, softly, still reeling in shock from the Law Society letter.
“I like the sound of that,” chuckled Judge Mordecai. “Call your first witness.”
“Umm, I don’t have a witness.” She heard Penn-Garrett groan from the back of the courtroom. No counsel ever responds to such a question in that manner. An experienced defense counsel would shrug her shoulders and say, “That’s it? That’s the best the Crown can do? There is absolutely no case of substance to be met here. The Crown has wasted the jury’s time for six weeks and that’s all they have? I don’t need to call any evidence to counter that steaming pile of slop that somehow the Crown managed to shovel in the door.”
But not Dana. A small, pathetic, “I don’t have a witness,” was all she could muster. She had absolutely no intention of putting her client, a murderous drug dealer, on the stand. Lee Penn-Garrett would have rolled his wheelchair down to counsel table if the sheriffs would have let him.
“No witnesses, Ms. Wittenberg? That’s a bit unusual in a case like this. Let’s just go to closing submissions to the jury. Ms. Wittenberg, you go first.”
“The prosecution should go first, m’lord.”
“Wittenberg, read the damn Criminal Code. You called no evidence. You go first. The lectern is there. Get at it.”
“Yes, my lord,” said Dana, red faced as McGhee and Danson giggled their way through another session of her tormenting.
Dana was thoroughly beat up. Embarrassed, outflanked, and outmaneuvered at every turn. She began her jury address, which she had not fully prepared because she mistakenly assumed the Crown would go first, but no one had told her about the switch around if no evidence was called. She had no notes. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, this case . . .”
The back door of the courtroom burst open and there stood George, Khasha, and Turbee. George, through his numerous divorces and a few assault charges, had some familiarity with legal processes. He also had little respect for judges and lawyers. “We have a witness for the defense, Your Honor,” he said.
“And just who the hell are you, barging into my courtroom in
