What's Past Is Prologue, page 13
I felt a tendril of unease. “Have you worn the suit before tonight?”
Libby had been watching my face. “Joanne, I know what you’re thinking. I’m not superstitious. This is just a beautiful suit that a ninety-two-year-old woman felt someone else should own.”
“You’re right, of course,” I said. I glanced over Libby’s shoulder. “Have you met Devi Sass?”
“Eden Sass’s aunt? No, I haven’t, and I’m not sure I want to,” Libby said.
“That option may be off the table,” I said. “Ms. Sass is making a beeline for us.”
Devi was elegant in black wide-legged slacks and a cream silk shirt. Her silver-grey hair was styled in classic chignon, and her delicate gold key brooch was on the lapel of her shirt. When she came over to us, she touched it reflexively.
I drew a deep breath. “This is a pleasant surprise, Devi.”
“I’m a member of the university senate,” she said coolly. “There are several of us here tonight.”
“It’s gratifying to be welcomed,” Libby said. “I did my undergraduate degree at the university here.”
“And you articled here,” Devi said, and the undercurrent of hostility in her voice was unmistakable.
Zack joined us in time to hear Devi’s words, feel the vibe and pour oil on the troubled waters. “Libby and I both articled here in Regina in different years, but at the same firm and with the same principal.”
“The articling year is a significant one for a young lawyer,” Libby said. “Zack and I were lucky enough to have a principal who loved the law and took his responsibilities as a principal seriously.”
“I’m aware of the gravity of those responsibilities,” Devi said, and her tone was flinty. “My brother is a lawyer.”
“Of course,” Libby said. “Gideon Sass. How is he?”
“He’s doing well, and like me, Ms. Hogarth, he’s hoping that your lecture tonight won’t focus on the Delio case.”
The waters were still troubled, and it was my turn to pour on the oil. “Devi, I’m certain you’ll appreciate Libby’s speech,” I said. “You’re a member of the senate of this university, and you know the university sees the senate’s function as acting as its ‘window on the world.’ Libby’s Mellohawk Lecture will throw light on a dark side of our world.”
Libby turned to address Devi directly. “The title of my talk tonight is ‘Abracadabra,’ which is a corruption of the Hebrew ebrah k’dabri.” Libby’s rich mezzo-soprano was soothing. “It means ‘I will create as I speak.’ The message I’m hoping to convey is that if the victims of sexual assault are going to be treated fairly, it’s up to us to speak out and create a community that understands that forced sex is an act of violence, and that it is the alleged perpetrators who are on trial, not those who laid the charges against them.”
Devi was unconvinced. “As my grandmother often said, ‘Fine words butter no parsnips,’ but I am relieved to hear that your focus tonight will not be on my niece. Whatever you or I might think about Jared Delio, Eden is mourning his death. She loved him.”
“Ms. Sass, I spent hours looking over the photographs the street photographer took of your niece and Jared Delio together,” Libby said. “I have no doubt that they loved each other.”
“There was a time when they truly did love each other.” Devi’s tone had become wistful. “Who was it who said that ‘grief is the price we pay for loving’?”
“I don’t know,” Libby said. “But those words ring true. The person who spoke them understood both love and loss.”
As the two women faced one another, the air was heavy with words unsaid. In the background, Bill Evans was playing “Waltz for Debby.” Someone was laughing. A plate was dropped. But for our small group, time stood still.
In music, an interlude is literally a breathing space between vocal passages, a musical composition inserted between the parts of the larger work. For a few moments, the electric current between Libby Hogarth and Devi Sass held us in thrall, but when the silence became uncomfortable, Margot put an end to the interlude.
“This is a conversation for another time,” she said. “Right now, people are filing into the University Theatre to hear Libby speak. I’m going to ask Ed to announce last call. Would either of you like a drink before we go over to the Riddell Centre?”
“Nothing for me, thanks,” Libby said. “And Margot, I think Angus, our volunteer driver, should get you and me over to the Riddell Centre, so the organizers won’t worry.”
Without explanation, Devi Sass simply walked away.
“What the hell was that exchange about?” Zack said.
“My first thought is that Devi was thinking of her niece. On her podcast, Eden did say that she wanted more from Jared Delio than he was able to give. But as Margot just said, that’s a problem for another day. Ed doesn’t seem to be getting many takers for drinks, and Sawyer is sending us anxious glances. He wants Libby to know he’s there if she needs him, so let’s hit the trail.”
* * *
The lobby of the Riddell Centre was packed — I’d never seen it so crowded. I spotted Seth Wright across the lobby, but he was too far away to notice us. No one seemed to be moving, but people always make room for a man in a wheelchair, and we were almost at the doors to the theatre, when Zack muttered, “Move fast. Gideon Sass is over there.”
Gideon Sass was easy to spot in a crowd. He was at least six foot six and heavy-set. He had a year-round tan, greying blond hair styled in a French crop, and he was loud — very loud. Seemingly, no one had ever taught Gideon to use his indoor voice.
“What’s he doing here?” I said.
“Waiting for someone to slip and fall, so he can get a class action suit rolling,” Zack said, then he noticed a space ahead and pushed his chair forward.
“You really don’t like him, do you?”
“I used to think he was just an embarrassment to the profession, but after hearing Eden’s podcast, I reassessed. Anybody who would do that to his children is a monster.”
“Agreed,” I said. “On a brighter note, look down at the left side of the front row. Kam Chau’s there, and he’s saved places for us. Des is still having a tough time with teething, so Taylor’s sitting with Mieka and Charlie close to the exit in case one of them has to leave. Anyway, we’re all seated, and so there’s nothing for you and me to do except cross our fingers, and hope for the best.”
* * *
For all our angst, the evening went off without a hitch. Margot’s introduction established the significance of understanding the relationship between the community and the law if victims of sexual assault were to receive fair hearings. The tension in the air when Libby Hogarth took her place behind the podium was palpable, but her speech was illuminating and inclusive and the applause that greeted her after her closing remarks made it clear the audience had gained a fresh understanding of their responsibility as citizens to create a climate in which perpetrators of sexual assault would be held accountable and their victims could receive justice.
I was sitting between Zack and Sawyer MacLeish. Zack’s ability to keep his expression unreadable no matter what the circumstance served him well in court and on occasions like this, but I felt Sawyer’s tension as the evening began and his relief as the audience warmed to Libby and grew increasingly receptive to her argument. Our applause was enthusiastic, but as Margot appeared to open the Q and A period, and the students holding microphones for questioners took their places in front of the stage, Sawyer and I both leaned forward.
“These things are always a minefield,” I said.
Sawyer’s eyes hadn’t left the podium. “They are,” he said, “but Libby’s nimble.”
Several questions, notably those focusing on Libby’s hourly rates and her penchant for taking high-profile cases, cut close to the bone, but most questioners seemed genuinely interested in what they could do to help detoxify the atmosphere around sexual assaults.
When Margot asked if anyone had a final question, and there was no response, I relaxed. “Looks like we’re home free,” I said. As one of the students from the School of Journalism sprinted up the aisle next to us with a microphone, I knew I’d spoken too soon. Zack gave his chair a quarter turn to follow the action, grimaced and said, “Take a look.”
Gideon Sass was on his feet, microphone in hand. He announced his name and occupation in a stentorian bass, rumbled on for a couple of minutes about the many services Sass & Associates offered clients and then got down to brass tacks.
“Ms. Hogarth, as all of us who follow your meteoric rise to the top of our profession know, you have thrived financially and professionally from what you now refer to as ‘the toxic atmosphere surrounding sexual assault.’ We all know the zeitgeist has changed. Some might see your sudden conversion as just another smart career move.”
Margot intervened. “Mr. Sass, so far we’ve heard about the many services offered by your law firm and we’ve heard your conclusion about Ms. Hogarth’s motivation in delivering tonight’s lecture. But this is the question and answer period. Do you have a question?”
A flush of anger rose from Gideon Sass’s neck to his face. “Yes, my question is who is this speech intended for? Is it a signal to wealthy sexual predators that you will no longer be accepting their cases?”
It was an electric moment and Libby remained silent, allowing the tension to build. When she finally spoke, her tone was equitable. “Thank you for your question, Mr. Sass. The answer is simple. Like every lawyer, I will leave my feelings aside and represent a client to the best my abilities. However, to answer your question directly, my speech was ‘for’ Fred C. Harney, the lawyer with whom I articled. Fred loved and revered the law. He had a framed quote from Thomas Hobbes in his office: ‘The law is the public conscience.’ This speech was for Fred because he taught me to believe that the law truly is the public conscience.”
It was a powerful closing line, and Margot was not about to let an audience member trample on it with an idle question. She moved to the podium quickly and began applauding, a signal to the audience that the lecture was over. The audience picked up the cue. After a gratifyingly robust round of applause, Margot thanked everyone for coming, announced that as always the money raised would go to the School of Journalism to subsidize students who might otherwise not be able to afford tuition and wished everyone a safe trip home.
* * *
It was over. Zack leaned back in his chair and stretched. “No use trying to find anybody in this crowd. Let’s text congratulations to Libby, Margot and Ed and stay put.”
“Good plan,” I said. “I’ll text our kids to say we’ll see them tomorrow.”
Proud of our initiative, we waited until the crowd thinned and then started for the foyer. When the front doors of the Riddell Centre closed behind us, we both inhaled deeply. “Fresh air,” Zack said. “That feels so good.”
“Agreed. It was hot in there,” I said. “But after all the Sturm und Drang, the Mellohawk Lecture is finally over, and we still have our van Gogh starry night.”
“And we are alone at last,” Zack said.
As it turned out, we weren’t alone. When we arrived at the parking lot, a man and a woman were in the midst of a heated argument. The man’s stance was aggressive, and the woman had braced herself against the BMW behind her.
The parking lot was shadowy, but Gideon Sass and his sister Devi were a memorable pair. Our car was parked on the north side of the lot, and to reach it, we had to get past Devi and Gideon. They seemed unaware of our presence, so we waited. Devi was on the attack.
“Whatever possessed you to give her that opening? You and your sons have made our family name an eponym for unethical lawyers. ‘Sass’ is Eden’s surname and it’s mine, and your ridiculous performance gave that woman the chance to touch a raw nerve.”
Gideon boomed out his remorse. “Devi, I’m sorry. I truly am. I didn’t think she’d go down that road.”
“That’s hardly surprising. You never think about consequences, always just the immediate moment. You’re sixty-two years old, and for thirty-five of those years, you’ve been a disgrace to yourself, to me, to Eden and to our family name. Gideon, do something — anything — that will prove you’re more than just a failed lawyer and a sorry excuse for a human being.”
With that, Devi turned, slid into her BMW, backed out of her space and sped too closely past Zack and me and out of the parking lot. Gideon jumped into his Hummer and floored it.
Stunned and silent, Zack and I watched until the Hummer disappeared from sight before we started for our car.
After we’d fastened our seat belts, Zack turned to me. “What just happened?”
I shrugged. “Beats me. For a split second, I thought Devi was going to drive over us both.”
“So did I,” Zack said. “From what you’ve told me Devi Sass is adept at controlling situations, but she was definitely not in control today.”
“She was not. She was openly hostile to Libby at Ed’s party. When she said that grief is the price we pay for loving, she seemed to be challenging Libby. At first I thought Devi was carrying a grudge because Libby had torn apart Eden when she was on the witness stand. But her anger at Gideon seemed to centre on the fact that he’d handed Libby a graceful way to end her speech.”
“It did,” Zack said. “I’m glad I’m not Gideon Sass tonight.”
I squeezed my husband’s arm. “I’m glad that you’re not Gideon Sass every night,” I said.
* * *
As always the dogs’ welcome was extravagant. Five minutes apart, five hours, five days — the length of a separation didn’t matter to them. Life was about reunion, and all reunions were cause for celebration.
Taylor texted to say she was joining Angus, Leah and Sawyer for a beer at Bushwakker, so Zack and I readied ourselves for bed, realized we were still too wired from the evening to sleep and decided to sit by our bedroom window with snifters of Metaxa and take in the stillness of the starry night.
“Libby’s tribute to Fred C. was beautiful,” I said. “And everyone in that theatre knew that it was heartfelt.”
“I never realized how close she was to him,” Zack said. “To be honest, I never knew much about Libby’s private life, and she never knew much about mine. Trial lawyers, at least the ones I know, play their cards close to the chest when it comes to their personal relationships. Our work is combative. You don’t want to walk into court knowing that the lawyer opposing you is aware that your romantic life has, in Fred C.’s memorable phrase, ‘gone tits up in the ditch.’”
“Graphic and very funny,” I said. “I think I may have formed the wrong impression of Fred C. I’ve always thought of him as a tragic figure — a hollowed-out old man, indifferent to everyone around him, clinging to the one thing that mattered to him: his reputation as a lawyer.”
Zack frowned. “I obviously did a lousy job of communicating who Fred was. To begin with, Fred wasn’t old. He was fifty-five, almost two years younger than I am now, and he could be, and often was, very charming. He was a handsome devil, silver-haired with the kind of profile you see on an old Roman coin. And despite the booze, he was fastidious to the end.
“Fred was very particular about his appearance in the courtroom. His court robes were always made to measure and immaculate, his shirts were always freshly pressed and his white tabs were always starched. A couple of months before Fred died, Libby moved into his apartment in the Balfour. The fact that she was living with him was not widely known. I just happened to run into her one morning when she was coming out of the building. Her explanation was brisk. She said, ‘When he appears in court, I don’t want him to be less than the man he’s always been.’”
“That’s real devotion,” I said.
“It is, and if I’d been in Libby’s place, I would have done exactly what she did. Fred deserved that, and he was grateful. I was the executor of his will. Except for one curious detail, which I had totally forgotten about until this moment, it was pretty straightforward. As I said, there were precise instructions for the cremation and an exact sum to cover the costs. There were bequests: twenty thousand each for Libby and me — which was a nice chunk of change back then — a College of Law scholarship and the remainder of the estate to be held in trust.” Zack raised his forefinger. “Hold on for this, Jo — the remainder of the estate was to be held in trust for any child or children of Elizabeth Margaret Hogarth.”
“That is surprising,” I said. “But if Libby was living with Fred at the end of his life, it’s possible that they talked about her future.”
“It’s more than possible, it’s likely. Fred was nearing the end of his life, and Libby was just starting out. But Libby never struck me as a person who wanted children and the trust Fred left for her ‘child or children’ was close to half a million dollars.”
“How did Libby react to that?”
“Uncharacteristically,” Zack said. “She fell apart. In retrospect, that’s not surprising; she was carrying a lot of pain. Libby had been in the courtroom when Fred had his heart attack. Linda Fritz was representing the Crown, so she was there too. Linda told me that she was certain Fred was dead, and she removed her barrister’s robe and handed it to Libby to cover Fred until the paramedics came. Libby refused to leave Fred’s side. She insisted on going to the hospital with him.”
Zack turned his chair towards the window and sipped his Metaxa. “You know the rest,” he said. “Libby and I made the final arrangements. We both managed to hold it together at the cremation, but when Libby saw that provision for her child or children, all the emotions she’d been holding in just erupted. It was only a couple of days after the cremation. Falconer Shreve was handling Fred’s will, so Libby and I were at my office — the first one.”
