myself go over, pick up the box, score a break in the packing tape with my fingernail, and flatten the box with a quick pull.
“You have to pop the tape,” I say again.
“Kate,” he says. I can see he’s working up to something so I stand there for a long time, waiting for him to let it out. But all he comes up with is, “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
He won’t say. I put my arms around him, tentatively, put my head on his shoulder. He hangs on pretty hard. I rub his back and stare at the box on the ground, which shows a crisp photograph of a full pot of translucent, chocolate-coloured coffee. It could make you cry, the steam alone is as delicate as art. The writing is in Italian.
“Come to bed,” I say.
I make a move to step backwards but he doesn’t let me go. We stand like that for a few more minutes. He swallows, once, but I can hear his breathing slow.
“Come to bed,” I say again.
“Soon,” he promises, letting go this time.
It is midnight before I stop trying to stay awake, waiting for him.
Isobel’s great criminal lawyer works on the thirty-first floor of one of the glass bank towers downtown. His firm is green leather and brushed bronze, Supreme Court Reports, art. I think I recognize a Jasper Johns in the lobby. I nudge Liam. He and Ty, in ties, look identically miserable.
“On the other hand, lots of people have interpreted the number eight,” Liam says.
“Our retainer is insuring that.”
“Nah, that’s just a print,” Isobel’s great lawyer says, startling us. He came from somewhere behind. “Your retainer keeps me in golf clubs.” We shake hands. I know his name to be Joe Leith.He doesn’t look like Sam Spade, too neat and tall, but I like that he’s a prick, at least. At least he doesn’t have one milky eye and fingerprints on his glasses and nervousness. I had a bad experience once.
His office is around a couple of Persian-carpeted corners. Secretaries with Dictaphones word-process in softly-lit nooks opposite their bosses’ doorways. I tell Ty to stand up straight. In the office, Joe Leith touches the back of a couple of chairs, meaning for us, before crossing behind his desk and seating himself. Liam sits right down and wings his spiral-bound pad open with one hand, the way he does. I hesitate, studying a poster next to the guy’s professional diplomas: a Japanese silkscreen of a sumo wrestler, robed, with that pixie hair. It says, “Sumo Bashô 1998.”
“I
love
,” Joe Leith says, following my gaze.
Ty, too, is standing, waiting for me. He sits when I do.
“You know there’s a witness, right?” This Joe Leith has a file open in front of him now. “This is how they identified Jason Parmenter. This individual, the video-store clerk, claims he looks out the window and sees some kids roughhousing in the parking lot. He can’t see them too clearly, doesn’t think anything of it. Then one of the kids comes in to rent a movie. But, later, when the police come calling, he can check the computer –”
“What an idiot,” Liam says.
We all look at him. I can tell he was criticizing it like a movie. I know him.
“Jason, I mean,” Liam says.
“The good news is, our clerk cannot identify the exact number of individuals he saw in the parking lot,” Joe Leith continues. “However, he thinks more than two. The only one he can describe is the little one, who came into the store.”
“This would be Jason.”
He bows to me, a sitting bow. “This would be Jason.”
“Well, so, good.”
“So, now. If Tyler is charged,” he says, “and personally, if I were the Crown, I would charge him, you’re going to have a first appearance in a few days.”
“What do you mean, you would charge him?” Liam demands.
“I would charge your son because it might be enough to make him confess, if he was there, and if he wasn’t or if I can’t get sufficient evidence I can just drop the charges later. Costs me nothing. If he’s charged and it sticks, you’re
“You have to pop the tape,” I say again.
“Kate,” he says. I can see he’s working up to something so I stand there for a long time, waiting for him to let it out. But all he comes up with is, “I can’t.”
“Can’t what?”
He won’t say. I put my arms around him, tentatively, put my head on his shoulder. He hangs on pretty hard. I rub his back and stare at the box on the ground, which shows a crisp photograph of a full pot of translucent, chocolate-coloured coffee. It could make you cry, the steam alone is as delicate as art. The writing is in Italian.
“Come to bed,” I say.
I make a move to step backwards but he doesn’t let me go. We stand like that for a few more minutes. He swallows, once, but I can hear his breathing slow.
“Come to bed,” I say again.
“Soon,” he promises, letting go this time.
It is midnight before I stop trying to stay awake, waiting for him.
Isobel’s great criminal lawyer works on the thirty-first floor of one of the glass bank towers downtown. His firm is green leather and brushed bronze, Supreme Court Reports, art. I think I recognize a Jasper Johns in the lobby. I nudge Liam. He and Ty, in ties, look identically miserable.
“On the other hand, lots of people have interpreted the number eight,” Liam says.
“Our retainer is insuring that.”
“Nah, that’s just a print,” Isobel’s great lawyer says, startling us. He came from somewhere behind. “Your retainer keeps me in golf clubs.” We shake hands. I know his name to be Joe Leith.He doesn’t look like Sam Spade, too neat and tall, but I like that he’s a prick, at least. At least he doesn’t have one milky eye and fingerprints on his glasses and nervousness. I had a bad experience once.
His office is around a couple of Persian-carpeted corners. Secretaries with Dictaphones word-process in softly-lit nooks opposite their bosses’ doorways. I tell Ty to stand up straight. In the office, Joe Leith touches the back of a couple of chairs, meaning for us, before crossing behind his desk and seating himself. Liam sits right down and wings his spiral-bound pad open with one hand, the way he does. I hesitate, studying a poster next to the guy’s professional diplomas: a Japanese silkscreen of a sumo wrestler, robed, with that pixie hair. It says, “Sumo Bashô 1998.”
“I
love
,” Joe Leith says, following my gaze.
Ty, too, is standing, waiting for me. He sits when I do.
“You know there’s a witness, right?” This Joe Leith has a file open in front of him now. “This is how they identified Jason Parmenter. This individual, the video-store clerk, claims he looks out the window and sees some kids roughhousing in the parking lot. He can’t see them too clearly, doesn’t think anything of it. Then one of the kids comes in to rent a movie. But, later, when the police come calling, he can check the computer –”
“What an idiot,” Liam says.
We all look at him. I can tell he was criticizing it like a movie. I know him.
“Jason, I mean,” Liam says.
“The good news is, our clerk cannot identify the exact number of individuals he saw in the parking lot,” Joe Leith continues. “However, he thinks more than two. The only one he can describe is the little one, who came into the store.”
“This would be Jason.”
He bows to me, a sitting bow. “This would be Jason.”
“Well, so, good.”
“So, now. If Tyler is charged,” he says, “and personally, if I were the Crown, I would charge him, you’re going to have a first appearance in a few days.”
“What do you mean, you would charge him?” Liam demands.
“I would charge your son because it might be enough to make him confess, if he was there, and if he wasn’t or if I can’t get sufficient evidence I can just drop the charges later. Costs me nothing. If he’s charged and it sticks, you’re
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