Kill All the Judges by William Deverell Read Free Book Online Page B

the rhetoric. You’ve obviously talked to Brian Pomeroy. You know the worst. Be grateful he’s still acting for you after you flounced out of his office.”
    â€œOkay, I prostrate myself, I’m abject. What cake did Astrid Leich pop out of? Why wasn’t I told about her? Who’s behind this attempt to job me? The system, the courts, the prosecutors, the police? They need a scapegoat, they got to look like they’re doing something, too many judges are being offed. They hire a retired actress to identify prime suspect Cudworth Brown in a lineup.”
    â€œThere was a lineup?” Arthur was startled.
    â€œYeah, I told Pomeroy. He said, don’t worry, it’s a formality, like fingerprinting.”
    Arthur made for the back door, paused, took a breath. “Cud, my advice to you is this: compose yourself, repair your rupture with Pomeroy, and help him plan your defence. Astrid Leich will be a key witness.”
    He entered, abandoning Cud. He was determined not to feel sorry for him. That was how wily defendants sucked you in, seduced you out of retirement. Here, in Branch 512 of the Canadian Legion, Arthur would sing his final swan song, the sentencing of Hamish McCoy.
    Several regulars were there, looking miffed because the bar was roped off. Nelson Forbish again dominated the small press table, which tilted slightly every time he moved, causing the two young women at the other end to jiggle up and down as if on a teeter-totter. Absent was Constable Pound, licking his wounds, widely blamed for bringing combustibles into the community hall.
    Hamish McCoy sat slouched, glaring at Kurt Zoller in his fetishistic life jacket. It would be a task reigning in the leprechaunish Newfie, who’d shown little appreciation after being merely slapped on the wrist for growing half a ton of potent pot. He’dcalled Zoller a “dorty, stinking Nazi squealer” when they bumped into each other yesterday at the general store.
    It was a quarter past two when judge, prosecutor, and court staff finally got themselves organized at tables. “Okay, order in court,” said Wilkie. “We’re a little late starting, and we intend to catch the three-eleven ferry, so I want everyone apprised of that.” A stern look at Arthur and ever-smiling Mary, the prosecutor. “Okay, where were we?”
    â€œUnsightly Premises Bylaw,” said Mary. “Robert Stonewell.”
    Stoney wasn’t within the room, and emissaries couldn’t find him outside, a search that consumed several minutes. Judge Wilkie spent the time staring at the glowing Bud Lite wall clock.
    â€œOkay, hold that one down,” he said. “Call the McCoy case.” Arthur and his client came forward. “Mr. Zoller, you were to meet with some locals to come up with a program of community service for Mr. McCoy.”
    â€œYes, sir. I have a list of recommendations.” He flourished a sheaf of papers. “May I start by reading the minutes of the advisory planning committee?”
    â€œYou may not.” His Honour hadn’t reckoned on having to deal with a master of circumlocution.
    â€œThe problem is, Your Worship, this matter was debated last night with a lot of interesting views going back and forth–”
    â€œMr. Zoller, we have a ferry to catch. I just want your recommendation.”
    â€œCertainly, Your Worship, but I promised I would mention the minority report, which calls for defendant to do a hundred hours of beach cleanup–”
    Wilkie interrupted again. “Thank you. What did your group finally decide?”
    Zoller loosened his yellow life jacket, took a breath, began again. “Okay, well, there’s one main project and a couple of things we’d like to add. Mrs. Hilda Kneaston, who lives across from the defendant on Potters Pond, wants you to order him towear clothes in the summer while he’s out in his yard, at least shorts or a