Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(89)
“Do I understand, George, you are instructed to make an offer — even before examining Margaret?”
“You’re clearly aware, Arthur, that Svetlana Glinka cooperated with our people in Montreal and in France. We have a good sense of what your client will say. She will claim that Lou Sabatino described alleged images of an alleged video recorded — allegedly — by Svetlana Glinka. Once Ms. Blake has put that on record, under oath, there may be no backing down. This is the time to reach an accord.”
Arthur found himself impatient with Cowper’s fastidious manner. There was little point in making rebuttal, arguing the evidence, the evasions and gaps in Farquist’s account. Cowper clearly had those in mind, holes the wily lawyer hoped to plug.
“What’s your number, George?”
“Emil insists he won’t go below ten million. But I can’t believe he won’t budge if push comes to shove. Seven and a half might be doable. A full apology, of course.”
Arthur rose, found his coat. “Well, it’s been a long day.”
Cowper stared sadly at him. “If we don’t close by Monday, I’m pulling my offer and we go for broke. All the way. Nonstop. Please talk to your client.”
DINING WITH THE ENEMY
“Don’t you find this weird?” Pierette asked. She had unpacked and was laying out her clothes on one of the twin doubles in Margaret’s hotel room. Pierette was referring to the fact that she, not Arthur, was sharing that room. “Like, is he afraid you’re going to sap his vital juices?”
“He finds my dual role as wife and client awkward. It’s okay. Better this way. He’s being awfully moody.” And awfully reluctant to talk about the day-long session with the petulant plaintiff. “We’ll go over it later,” he’d kept repeating.
Day one of the discoveries had ended two hours ago, with Farquist, looking like he badly needed to piss, shit, or throw up, racing to the elevator with his moon-faced flunky. Margaret assumed Arthur had triumphed, but Nanisha, choosing her words carefully, said that discovery, unlike trial, rarely had winners and losers. She’d given Margaret the merest digest of the day’s proceedings. Nanisha hadn’t seemed upbeat.
As to the chat between Arthur and Cowper, she only said, “I’m not sure what they are talking about. Procedural stuff, I imagine.”
There’d been no bantering with the press outside the courts afterwards — Arthur just scythed through them. Nanisha hurried off to her office — something about follow-ups, witness subpoenas — before heading to the airport to pick up Francisco Sierra. They would all meet at the fine French restaurant, Q Haute Cuisine, known to its habitués simply as the Q. Six o’clock, early for dinner, but Nanisha said it had been a “Herculean challenge” to secure a reservation for five.
“Let’s just relax this evening,” said Pierette. “Enjoy ourselves. We have all weekend to get you ready for act two. You’re going to be a star, baby. A shining star.”
§
The Q was a former estate home, Margaret had learned: spacious, well staffed, with an open kitchen. By six p.m., its three large dining areas were packed, and customers were waiting for tables.
But they’d got there early enough, and Nanisha had pulled off her Herculean feat, scoring a table with a knockout view of Eau Claire Park and the Bow River shining whitely under a full moon. The river’s coverlet of snow was crusting after a daytime melt and reflecting sparkles from street lamps and Christmas lights strung on evergreens.
The maitre d’ had recognized the Green leader and awarded her the choice window seat. Pierette sat beside her, Nanisha and Frank Sierra across from her, leaving Arthur the aisle chair. All chose to dine on the tasting menu, a feature offering of the Q.
Margaret’s life partner was clearly was not himself, affecting an air of bonhomie that might have fooled the others, but not her. She would have preferred his more familiar self, the cynical grump. He seemed desperate to stave off any mention of the trial or his face-off with Farquist, and held the fort with a treatise on Calgary’s constantly reshaping winter: bitter cold, blinding blizzard, the sudden caress of a warm Chinook.
He instructed them in west-wind myths. Zephyrus was the bringer of that wind, a god complimented by Chaucer for his “swete breth.” But more apropos was the lovely Aboriginal myth about Chinook-Wind, a princess who, exiled to the prairies from her sea-home, had summoned the winds to warm her.
Sierra, smiling, broke in: “Where the Chinook blows, O’Brien lies low.” He reminded them of the loving letter Lou Sabatino wrote to his wife and kids in November. His reference to a warming Chinook had persuaded Sierra to narrow his hunt to the southwest plains. But none of the dozens of clues and hundreds of internet hits had panned out.
Arthur wouldn’t be diverted from his diversions, for he’d begun extolling the pan-seared Arctic char. That segued into a lengthy account of his defence of an Inuit char fisher framed for murder in Nunavut. He talked his way through the consommé, the baby shrimp salad with pine nuts, the quail breast, the wild mushroom risotto, and the lamb tenderloin.
Margaret sensed that her lawyer was withholding bad news. We’ll go over it later. Nonetheless, she was amused, enjoying him, remembering how he’d wooed her with his vivid courtroom stories, his eloquent rambles. Some day, would he have a tale to tell of Farquist v. Blake?