Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(82)
Margaret had been in such a foul mood for the last week that Arthur had wished he could adjourn the discoveries. But that was out of the question. It would be seen as an admission of weakness and play into the opposition’s hands, delay the trial, free up Farquist.
Margaret had exploded when Lloyd Chalmers jumped ship and couldn’t be restrained from denouncing him at a press conference as a “self-serving hypocrite” who, only a month ago, had answered a champagne toast with a solemn pledge of loyalty. “Sold his conscience, bought a cabinet job with it.” “A slap in the face to the voters in Halifax East.” “Thinking with his dink.” That one made for ribald, bowdlerized leads in the press.
Chalmers declined to respond in kind, reiterating his view that the green agenda would be better served by his working from a place of influence. He respected the Green Party and its leader, but they were powerless to do what had to be done.
That came near the end of the December sitting, and Arthur had flown to Ottawa to help her through her malaise. Though she’d promised to soldier on, she’d lost some spunk. Arthur could only pray.
He chided himself for not sharing her grief at Chalmers’s defection, but he couldn’t suppress his glee that the dashing, womanizing bedder of his life companion had proved to be a faithless lout. But, of course, he never said as much.
Arthur wasn’t oozing with optimism about the trial. While in Ottawa, he’d met with Agent Fitz McGilroy, who had been forthcoming enough, though he added nothing to what he’d told Margaret. Arthur remained equivocal about using the spy’s information — it could backfire. He didn’t fully trust McGilroy and worried that this was some kind of setup, with Photoshopped pictures of Svetlana and the Russian spy.
He was also uncertain how to handle the matter of the pregnancy of Farquist’s anguished mother. Sierra had found Lee’s priest, but he was senescent, in a nursing home.
Roberto whirled him toward the mirror. “I shall call this the Monty, after Field Marshall Montgomery. The full Monty.”
§
Alone and lonely in a king-sized bed in the Palliser Hotel, Arthur had slept poorly, rolling about and worrying, thinking about his wife next door. But he dragged himself up at eight — Farquist’s discovery was to begin at ten — and had a hot shower and combed his Monty and put on his general’s uniform: dark suit, white shirt, his lucky blue-striped tie.
He met Margaret in the lobby restaurant, where they both fuelled with coffee and eggs, neither saying much. “Sleep well?” he asked hopefully.
“Like a rock. Joking. You?”
“Okay, I guess. Will Pierette be joining us?”
“She’s coming in on a noon flight. Something came up with Agent McGilroy.”
“What kind of something?”
“She couldn’t say on the phone.”
That sounded ominous. Another thing to worry about.
“I am going resign, you know. I mean it.”
“Let’s do this first.”
The day was sunny and they would like to have walked the few blocks to the courthouse, but sidewalks were still treacherous from the snowstorm a few days ago. So Nanisha Banerjee picked them up. She was their shepherd, intimate with her bustling town, and had taken them to a very good curry house last night. Most Calgarians they’d met seemed in good humour, and tension had abated over the wretch who’d been prowling in the summer and fall.
Nanisha let them out at the entrance of the glass monolith that was the Calgary Courts Centre. Most of its work had been suspended for the holidays; an exception had been made for their court-ordered discovery. A small body of reporters and photographers was outside, and Arthur bantered with them as they waited for Nanisha to park.
“No story here, ladies and gentlemen. Just a friendly, private get-together to ask some questions.”
“What do you expect to get from Minister Farquist?”
“It’s a beautiful, crisp day. Why aren’t you all out on your sleds, skates, or skis? Tell your editors I’ve instructed you to take the day off.”
“Fat chance. Will you be discussing settlement, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Calgary looks lovely all dressed in white, doesn’t it?”
“Why all the secrecy, Mr. Beauchamp? Why aren’t we allowed in?”
“Because the courthouse is officially closed today. I wish you all the best of the season.”
Margaret said nothing, making her best effort to smile. She had begged off sitting in on Farquist’s testimony. “I just can’t handle being near him. I’d go berserk.” She was still bruised by Chalmers’s defection.
Nanisha led them in, and they went up to the twentieth floor, where Arthur poked his head into an interview room: a table and several chairs, the court reporter setting up her equipment. She introduced herself as Sarah Blair with a cherubic smile, a Jamaican lilt. “This is exciting,” she said.
Margaret and Nanisha sat on a sofa in the waiting room off the corridor, while George Cowper Jr. paced, looking even more lugubrious than usual, impatiently waiting for his client. Finally, twenty minutes after ten, Emil Farquist strolled from the elevator, along with Jonas Hawkes, his chief political operative.
Cowper seemed to want to introduce Arthur, but Farquist merely glanced his way, sizing up the enemy. He studiously avoided looking at Margaret as he followed his lawyer into the discovery room.