The Guilty by Gabriel Boutros Read Free Book Online Page A

and perfectly-manicured, opened his file folder and settled his neatly written notes on the desk in front of him.
    He heard a warm, rich voice begin to speak. It was reading some of the words that were written on the pages, and adding many other words. He recognized the voice as his own, and heard in it the confidence and ease he expected of himself at this time.   
    In his mind’s eye he stepped forward and turned around to watch himself give his final arguments. He no longer saw the judge or the jury. He was alone in the courtroom. With total self-absorption, he studied every move that he made: how he turned his head, how he smiled occasionally, how he leaned forward and stood silently, his palms pressed down on the desk in front of him, when the moment called for seriousness.
    He was perfectly aware of the impression he was making with his words, his tone of voice and his body language. These all had an unrehearsed quality, a seemingly honest spontaneity about them, as if he was just having a relaxed chat with the jurors, talking off the cuff. Years of practice had gone into refining his technique to get just that effect and he smiled inwardly as he watched it work its magic once more. His timing was perfect. Like a veteran stand-up comic, he knew just how long to pause before hitting his audience with a punch line.
    Look at their eyes, he thought. Look at the expressions on their faces. They’re eating up every word I say.
    He was in awe of himself.
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     
     

Chapter 3
     
     
     
    Bratt sat with his feet up on his desk, his suit jacket off, his shirt sleeves rolled up. On the sofa, sitting up this time, was John Kalouderis. Ralph Ralston, who had brought his carceral law practice to their firm back in its third year, sat across from Bratt in a soft, low-backed leather chair usually occupied by clients. Sylvie had brought some mail into Bratt’s office and stayed, standing shyly to the side, to listen to him regale his associates with the highlights of his morning’s pleadings.
    His co-workers smiled and nodded as Bratt told them how he had made Brenton squirm by pointing out to the jury every miniscule mistake and contradiction in the Crown’s evidence. They laughed as he repeated the well-timed jokes he had tossed to the jurors, which had allowed him to display how totally confident in his position he had been.
    Bratt was on such a high after that morning’s pleadings that all of his misgivings about what had happened to Claire, and all of Jeannie’s angry accusations, had been consigned to a tiny compartment in the back of his mind that was off-limits for the time being. Once back at the office he had even skipped his lunch in order to treat everybody who approached his open door to tales of the performance he had put on. Other than actually addressing a jury there was little that gave him as much pleasure as bragging about it afterward.
    He noticed with dismay that he had less than half an hour before he had to be back in court. Judge Smythe was going to give the jury his instructions that afternoon. Bratt would have to interrupt his storytelling and that was a shame, because there was still so much story left to tell.
    As he spoke, Leblanc’s corpulent form filled the doorway and Bratt paused in mid-anecdote to invite him to come in and listen. He noticed another man standing behind Leblanc, half-hidden by his partner’s bulk.
    “Sorry, to interrupt you in the middle of your self-congratulation, Bobby-boy,” Leblanc said as he entered the office. “But there’s someone I want you to meet.”
    He turned and motioned to the younger man who had remained outside the door, seemingly hesitant to enter the presence of such greatness. The newcomer was in his early twenties, with dark hair and a thick mustache. He walked in and stood next to Leblanc, looking like he’d found some sort of security in his presence.
    “Everybody,” Leblanc continued, “meet Peter Kouri.