Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(96)

But they were allowed smiles, and now she adorned one with a wink before joining her current roommate, Pierette, in the lounge area outside the discovery room. Nanisha was already inside, with the court reporter, setting up.

George Cowper, waiting near the elevators with his junior, seemed impatient, though he preserved his default expression of utter sadness. Emil Farquist finally emerged from the elevator, only ten minutes late, followed by his aide, Hawkes.

In short time, the parties and their counsel were seated in the discovery room. Arthur was sandwiched between Nanisha and Margaret, who had got up the nerve to share the small, closed room with her arch-enemy. She had confided: “If I feel sick to the stomach, I’ll leave.”

Farquist, across from Arthur, appeared sober, no hint of a morning libation. Natty suit, modish tie, well combed and deodorized. He looked steadily at his inquisitor, smiling. Maybe he was on a drug. Not a trank — his eyes were too clear and sharp.

“For the record, you are still under oath,” said Arthur.

“Of course,” said Farquist.

“Then let us resume. Mr. Farquist, certain events of Saturday may have captured your attention.”

“Yes, involving this Sabatino fellow. Quite astonishing, wasn’t it? I remember him being quite the milquetoast as a journalist.” That relaxed manner again. Put on, Arthur decided.

“Lou Sabatino. The man you accused only three days ago of conspiring with Svetlana Glinka. The milquetoast has turned out to be quite the hero.”

“I was surprised by that, frankly. But I suppose a man can be brave and corrupt at the same time.”

That elicited a gasp from Margaret. Nanisha had her laptop open, her fingers dancing over the keyboard.

Cowper frowned. “Please just answer the questions, Emil.”

Farquist waved him off. “I don’t remember hearing a question. But if Mr. Beauchamp expects me to join in the general canonization of Mr. Sabatino, I will not. As a newsman he was a cynical smartass. He appears to be an even more unsavoury fellow since he got fired.”

Cowper seemed about to cut him off, then for some reason thought better of it. Farquist was clearly set on being his own man. He plowed ahead.

“Stalking about under a false name with a professional sado-masochist who apparently was also a Russian spy. He was related by marriage to that corrupt lawyer the Mafia assassinated. Giusti? Nick Giusti. I wouldn’t be surprised if Mr. Sabatino meets with the same fate.”

Maybe he was on speed: cocaine or some manner of amphetamine. “And you wish us to believe that Lou Sabatino, for some reason, and Svetlana Glinka, for some reason, conspired to embarrass you publicly with malicious falsehoods?”

“Of course. Through the agency of Margaret Blake. Sabatino had it in for me. I don’t know what Glinka’s plan was. Extortion? Well, now she’s hiding in Russia, and Sabatino seems to have met a worse fate.”

“And your view is that Margaret got set up?”

“Set up and sucked in. They knew how reckless your wife can be. Your wife? Your client? What’s the protocol? I’m not quite sure.”

Arthur sensed Margaret stiffen — she was about to rise. He stilled her with a hand on her thigh. Time to ratchet it up.

“Mr. Farquist, you are aware — and please be honest — that a video was recorded of you consorting nakedly with Svetlana Glinka?”

“That is preposterous. Utterly impossible.”

“Impossible because your detectives’ fine-toothed combing failed to find it? Or because you bought Svetlana’s video for an exorbitant fee?”

“Because it never existed!”

“I take you back to Sunday, January sixth, exactly one year ago less a week. Your day book had promised a ‘free afternoon’ — with an exclamation point. You were not at home working on your so-called parks bill. On that day you had your first appointment with Ms. Glinka, in your mountain chalet.”

Arthur was leaning toward Farquist, who was not backing up; indeed, he looked like a bull about to charge.

Cowper finally stepped in. “Maybe your dramatics could be saved for a courtroom, Mr. Beauchamp. Emil, I must firmly advise you not to rise to the bait.”

Arthur held his ground. “You were filmed by a hidden camera. But you know that, don’t you, Mr. Farquist?”

Instead of answering, Farquist took a long drink of water. Arthur nudged Nanisha, who turned her laptop to face the witness. The video was running, and a large bottom glowed from the screen and a voice called out: “I was a bad boy, very bad!” A thwack from Glinka’s riding crop. “Please, Mother, I beg you!”

Farquist turned white, then scarlet as the blood rushed back, but kept his expression blank, calm, unmoved.

But Cowper lost his cool and accused Arthur of all manner of improprieties: a gross breach of ethics, flouting long-standing rules of disclosure, laying traps, and, in a rare use of idiom, of swinging a sucker punch. As Cowper caught his breath, he seemed dismayed by his own behaviour: his reputation as an even-tempered gentleman had been severely dented.

Nanisha put the tape on pause as Farquist gripped Cowper’s shoulder. “Chill out, George, this might be good for a laugh. Let’s see what kind of bullshit they’ve come up with. It’s an obvious fake.”

The man had balls of steel. Arthur’s ploy hadn’t worked; he’d gambled on shocking him into blurting an admission of guilt.