Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(69)
That vision stayed with him until she returned. As she slipped under the sheets, his book slid from his stomach onto the floor with a thud. He caressed the woman he loved, kissed her, passion welling. Her hand moved over his thigh, and felt the swelling there.
“Oh, my,” she said.
GRAVE SECRETS FROM THE MORGUE
A Monday morning layover in Vancouver gave Arthur time to stop at his law office, a visit prompted by his concern that Roy Bullingham might be vexed by the mounting costs of AltaQB-889, that being the Alberta Queen’s bench file more widely known as Farquist v. Blake.
Arthur was still glowing from the pleasures of last evening — he had risen to the occasion! — as he walked briskly into the BMO tower. Joining him in the high-speed elevator were several of Tragger, Inglis’s crisply attired young lawyers, new faces to him, though he was clearly known to them — they were sneaking looks at the smiling old warrior in his old-fashioned suit. All but Arthur got off at the fortieth floor, where the working class strove — he carried on to the forty-third, where the senior partners reigned.
The most senior among seniors was Roy Bullingham, known as Bully, but only to intimates, the last surviving founder of the firm — Tragger and Inglis were long deceased. Bully, at ninety-three, was still as sharp as a stiletto, a skinflint who had built his firm from five lawyers to five hundred in Vancouver, Calgary, Ottawa, and Toronto, with satellites in Shanghai, London, and Washington.
Arthur exchanged greetings with long-time staff as he made his way to his commodious old office. Bully had never quite accepted the notion that Arthur had retired, and kept it clean, empty, and unaltered.
Arthur ruefully studied an expense sheet from his in-basket. Francisco Sierra’s bill of disbursements for France came to $11,000 and change. That was on top of his fees, at three hundred an hour.
Arthur steeled himself, because Bullingham, whose antennae had somehow picked up his presence, had just strolled in. But the rake-thin ancient seemed unusually buoyant. Stabbing a bony finger at Sierra’s bill, he said: “Drop in the bucket. One of the best investments we’ve ever made.”
Arthur was confused, and Bully explained: file AltaQB-889 was bringing in business. Emil Farquist, an Ayn Rand devotee, was loathed by the new government, and hefty contracts were being switched to the firm from Conservative-leaning offices.
“You see, Beauchamp, that unreformed pothead, Yates, now has to curry favour with your Greens.” This was his way of speaking to Arthur, like a tutor to a new boy. But he was right. Prime Minister Yates, who was no fool, desperately needed the Green votes in the House. He was buying their support by helping at second hand to fund Margaret’s battle against Farquist.
Arthur was shocked to see Bully scrolling away on a sleek cell phone — he’d never seemed adept with such devices. “Two thirds counted, and your man is now only two votes behind.”
Your man . . . He realized Bully meant Lloyd Chalmers, the Halifax recount. Good luck to him. The smooth womanizer had lost the more crucial battle.
“I read Mr. Sierra’s reports,” Bully said. “Hope you don’t mind.”
“Of course not.” Nothing was kept from the senior partner.
“Is your case as weak as I suspect it to be?”
“It’s shaky, Bully.”
“What do you think they’ll settle for?”
“We won’t be settling.”
§
At the airport, waiting for his Calgary flight to be called, Arthur’s attention was drawn to the soundless TV mounted above him: CBC Newsworld, words and numbers rolling across the wide screen. A poll had either been miscounted or wrongly reported, and Lloyd Chalmers had won Halifax East with a thirteen-vote plurality. Footage of the esteemed professor, handsome, triumphant, greeting supporters.
§
The next morning, Tuesday, in Calgary, Arthur popped into Tragger, Inglis’s branch office. He had conscripted its sharpest litigator to help guide him through the civil processes: fortyish, bookish, bright-eyed Nanisha Banerjee, well versed in the Rules of Court.
For Arthur, this was a strange world, the civil courts — he’d done a few personal injuries as a young barrister, but the rest, the thousand other trials, were criminal. Both specialties demanded endless prep, slow slogging, and quick thinking. Civil cases were more flexible, the rules more relaxed, the burden of proof was less, and counsel met few surprises — all secrets had to be bared, all documents, and plaintiff and defendant faced probing pre-trial examination.
So far, Farquist’s lawyers had not agreed on a date for such discovery and were claiming solicitor-client privilege for all records except copies of the alleged, much-tweeted slanders. But the defence documents, including Sierra’s reports, were similarly protected. The Glinka video had never been in Margaret’s possession, and Arthur would resist until the last minute making it known that Sabatino had copied it. The plaintiff’s legal team had to be assuming that Sabatino had merely described its contents to Margaret.
“Are we opposing or not?” Nanisha asked. The motion for the six-month delay, she meant.
“Let us test the waters.”
“I have some law, Mr. Beauchamp, if you need it.”
He glanced through her brief on contested adjournments. In summary, the court ought to use its discretion wisely. Meaning the judge must justify making a gut call.