What's Past Is Prologue, page 4
“My guess is the something that came up was a uniformed cop,” Zack said.
“That was my guess too,” Libby said. “Anyway, Gus told me he hadn’t thought about the photos again, until he began seeing the media coverage of Jared Delio’s trial. He thought Delio’s lawyer might have a use for the photos so he developed them.”
“And the rest is history,” Zack said. He picked up his tablet, found the iconic photos and gazed at them pensively. “I wonder what could have happened,” he said.
I moved closer to him to look at the tablet. It had been over two years since the trial, but the images of a man and a woman deeply in love on a glorious spring day had lost none of their power.
Jared Delio was tall, dark and sharp-featured with what, in the media coverage, appeared to be a permanent expression of brooding arrogance. Eden Sass was reed slender with ash-blond hair, cut boy-short, and watchful eyes. Seemingly, both Jared and Eden chose to live behind a persona, but in the moments the street photographer captured, the masks have dropped. Jared looks like a man in love, and Eden looks like a woman loving being with the man she loves.
The photographer’s camera automatically recorded the date and time of each picture. The photographs had been taken at 3:45 p.m. on May 17. Eden Sass’s discharge papers from Toronto General were time-stamped too: 6:30 a.m., May 18th — fifteen hours after the photographs.
Zack turned off his tablet. “Delio’s letter makes it clear that the sex was consensual. It offers a plausible explanation for why Eden lied on the stand and for why she’s determined to make amends by recanting her testimony. I’m not entirely satisfied with that analysis, but now the focus should be just on getting Eden to pull back on her plan to recant. We need someone Eden trusts to point out that recanting her testimony will help no one, and it will hurt many people.”
Libby leaned forward. “Joanne, you mentioned that Eden’s thesis advisor is a colleague of yours. It’s possible they’ve stayed in touch. Could you talk to him about convincing Eden to reverse her decision to recant?”
“It’s worth a try,” I said. “I’ll talk to him. Kevin Coyle is not Mr. Conviviality, but he and Eden had a good relationship. He and I both believed that for Eden, receiving her master’s degree was a step towards rebuilding her life. I know he’ll do what he can to keep her from undercutting what she’s accomplished.”
“That’s a relief,” Libby said. “I know not many outside this room would believe that I, of all people, want Eden Sass to have a good life, but I do.” Libby pushed her chair away from the table and stood. “I really appreciate this, Joanne. Now would I be pressing my luck if I asked for a quick tour to see Taylor’s art?”
Zack’s wide smile of pride was all the answer we needed. “I’ll lead the way,” he said. For Zack, there was no “quick tour” of our daughter’s art. There were stories to tell and details to point out, and viewers were encouraged not to stint when it came to praise. After half an hour, we still had Taylor’s mature work to consider, and I touched Zack’s shoulder.
“I hate to cut this short, but you said you had to get back to your client about those spreadsheets.”
Zack’s lips twitched towards a smile. “Right,” he said. “Libby, will you take a rain check on the second part of the tour?”
“Of course,” Libby said. “That will give me an excuse to come back.”
“You don’t need an excuse,” I said. “You’re welcome anytime. On January 6th, Taylor has a show of her recent work opening at the Slate Fine Art Gallery. She’d be delighted to meet you.”
“An offer I can’t refuse,” Libby said. “Thanks for the tea and for listening. I’ll see you at Margot’s.”
Zack and I went to the door with Libby, and the three of us chatted until her cab came. When the cab disappeared onto Albert Street, my husband and I turned to each other and said, “Finally.”
* * *
Zack and I spent more time in bed than most couples. Because Zack was most often in his wheelchair, when we wanted to talk, we either had to sit separately or, if I was standing, Zack had to look up at me. Talking while we lay side by side or propped up with pillows was a more appealing option, and that afternoon, after we made love, there was plenty to chat about, but first I had to call Kevin Coyle.
My phone was on the nightstand, and after my call went straight to voicemail, I left a message and moved in close to my husband. “Our lucky day,” I said.
“You bet,” he said. “These Portuguese sheets were worth waiting for.”
“They were,” I agreed. “And I’m glad I had a chance to spend some time with Libby. Outside of a courtroom, I like her.”
“I noticed. Thanks for inviting her to Taylor’s opening. That recanting thing came out of nowhere, and while you were waiting for the dogs to have their run in the backyard, Libby told me about those chilling emails she’s been receiving. She’s strong, but everybody has a breaking point. When I asked if there was anything I could take off her hands to lighten the load, she just about tore my head off. Libby needs something to look forward to, and Taylor’s opening will give her that.”
“It will,” I said. “And seeing you and Taylor together will mean a lot to her. Today when I told her how proud you were that Taylor wanted her legal name to be Love-Shreve, Libby said you are an extraordinary man, and you deserved that kind of joy.”
Zack shook his head. “That surprises me. Libby and I were close, but that was thirty years ago, and it was only for the period when we connected through Fred C. Harney.”
“The lawyer you articled with,” I said.
“And the lawyer Libby articled with. When she graduated from the College of Law, she called and asked if we could get together for lunch. Fred C. Harney had interviewed her and offered to act as her principal during her articling year. That’s a big deal. The level of involvement your principal has with you during your articling year can have a huge impact on your success in the Bar admission process.
“In theory, your principal is your mentor, model, manager, counsellor and friend, and Fred did not take that commitment lightly. He was passionate about the law, so his standards were high. Libby Hogarth was one of the very few who met them, but she’d heard stories about Fred’s drinking that concerned her, and she was hoping I could dispel them.”
“But you couldn’t.”
“No. For her sake and out of my deep respect for Fred, Libby needed to know the truth. Fred had been drinking himself to death for years. He was a high functioning alcoholic. He was still a brilliant lawyer, but he had blackouts. I told Libby that her main responsibility would be the same as mine had been. During a trial, Fred C. would need her to be in court with him, and when court had adjourned, they would return to his office together, and she would be expected to give him a detailed account of what had transpired in case he’d faded when something critical had occurred.
“Then Fred would analyze his performance and that of opposing counsel — always referring to himself in the third person and zeroing in on areas where he should have chosen a different approach. I told Libby that her relationship with her principal would be unorthodox, but that at the end of her year with Fred, she would be a member of the very small group that had been given a master class in trial law by a true master.”
“So she signed on,” I said.
“She did. And she was the last articling student Fred C. took. He’d been skimming the trees for a long time, and at the end of the year Libby articled with him, he finally crashed.”
“You told me he died the death trial lawyers dream of: a massive heart attack seconds after the jury comes in with a not guilty verdict for their client.”
Zack’s expression was ineffably sad. “It was a gentle leave-taking for a man who had never been gentle with himself.
“His will was handwritten and brief. He had no family and he didn’t want a funeral. Libby and I arranged for his cremation, called the other lawyers who’d articled with him to let them know when and where the cremation would take place. They were practising all over Canada, but all twelve showed up and we stood together as the casket, which was actually a cardboard container, went into the furnace.”
“And that was that. No service?”
“Fred believed in the sanctity of the truth, and he didn’t want anyone to be forced either to lie or tell the truth about his life. His one request was that the hymn ‘Let Streams of Living Justice’ be played as he made his final exit. We found a cassette that had a boys’ choir singing Fred’s request, so we were able to honour that.”
Zack leaned over to stroke my cheek. “The next time I heard that hymn was when I joined you and Taylor at the cathedral the first Sunday after we got back from the lake.”
“I had no idea you were coming that day.”
“Neither did I. It was an impulse. And when the service started and the choir began singing ‘Let Streams of Living Justice,’ you took my hand, and I knew I was exactly where I was supposed to be.”
“You never told me that story.”
“I thought you’d think it was sappy.”
“Not sappy at all. It’s good to know that Fred C. gave us his blessing.”
“That’s how I saw it too. Anyway, after Fred C. died, Libby and I drifted. I meant to get in touch with her, but my partners and I had just opened our first office, and we were beating the bushes for clients 24/7. I heard that she’d signed on with Ireland Leontovich, but I don’t remember seeing her at all till after New Year’s that year.
“Libby and I were both young and hungry to succeed. We had our eyes on the prize. We’d run into each other at the courthouse, but I don’t remember even seeing her again until the night before she left for Toronto, and her firm threw a farewell party for her.
“It was a lousy party. It was a hot night; the Ireland Leontovich office was packed, and everyone was drunk. I had to be in court the next morning, so I didn’t stay long. I must have said goodbye to Libby, but I honestly don’t remember. Apart from that, over the years, we’ve called each other when we wanted to talk shop, but I don’t remember us ever exchanging anything about our personal lives.”
“Does Libby have a personal life?”
Zack shrugged. “Good question. All I know about Libby’s life is that she works sixteen-hour days, every day of the week, that she rarely takes time off and that the associates who work for her know they have to follow her lead or find a law firm where they’ll be a better fit.”
“But the lawyers Hogarth & Associates hire do stay on,” I said.
“Not all of them, but most do. Margot Hunter told me that Libby conducts the final interviews herself, and she knows what she’s looking for. According to Margot, for the young lawyers who are willing to commit to having no life outside the office, Hogarth & Associates is a great place to work. They’re highly paid, and every associate has a large office, all white, lots of glass, minimalist furniture and some very avant-garde art. Hogarth & Associates has a deep bench of legal talent, and Libby personally matches each associate to cases where they can learn and contribute the most. Her firm does not take shit cases. All their clients are rich, famous or both, and if their clients are found guilty of the crimes they are alleged to have committed, it will cost them big time, and not just financially. In some cases, a conviction will result in their client losing their licence to practise medicine or law.”
“So the stakes are high,” I said.
“And gambling on a high-stakes case is a real rush for trial lawyers,” Zack said, and he drew me close. “I believe what I just told you about the life Libby has chosen answers your question. Libby does not have a private life, but she’s content with the life she has.”
My husband’s arms were strong and warm. “You are the best bedmate,” I said. “However, I think you may be wrong about Libby being content with the life she has. While we were waiting for you, she told me that practising law sharpens the mind, but that last year she’d decided to stretch her mind in another direction. She’s taking virtual art classes from the Art Gallery of Ontario, and she says she’s loving them.”
Zack shook his head in amazement. “Life is full of surprises,” he said. “But Libby’s right about learning to stretch your mind another direction. In our nine years together, we’ve both had to do a lot of mind-stretching, and I think it’s been good for us.”
“I think so too,” I said. “But we’ll have to pursue that subject later. It’s time to get dressed for an evening that promises to be terrific: good talk with good friends and a meal prepared by Dickie Yuzicapi, the Sioux Chef.”
Chapter Three
For our anniversary, Zack had given me what I knew at once would become my go-to dressy casual outfit: a cashmere cable crewneck sweater and matching slacks in soft grey with a faint mauve undertone. The sweater and slacks met my two criteria for clothing: they were comfortable and they were understated. Zack also gave me a pair of gold link earrings and a plain but beautifully crafted antique locket. After I fastened the locket, I checked how I looked in the full-length mirror and exhaled. It was a great outfit, and I could go for at least a year without having to waste time figuring out what to wear when an invitation specified dressy casual.
With the issue of what to wear off the table, I was free to look forward to the evening ahead. Zack and I had close ties with the other guests. Ed Mariani and I had been friends since we taught Politics and the Media, an interdisciplinary class, in my first year as permanent faculty at the university. Over the years, when my life hit a rough patch, Ed was always there with a pan of spinach and ricotta cannelloni and a warm hug. The bouquet of pale-green and cream cymbidium that I carried on the day Zack and I were married came from Ed’s greenhouse. I was best man at Ed’s marriage to his beloved of twenty-seven years, and standing beside him, as he and Barry recited Sir Philip Sidney’s sixteenth-century poem “The Bargain,” was a moment I cherished.
An act of revenge had brought together our family and Margot Wright Hunter’s family. Two years after Zack and I were married, someone with a deeply seated hatred for our family blew up our house on the creek. Until the police learned who was behind the bombing, we needed a safe haven, and security was tight in the building on Halifax Street where Margot, Zack’s law partner, lived. The condo across the hall from hers was empty and universally accessible, so there was no need for retrofitting to accommodate Zack’s wheelchair. Zack and I and our then teenaged daughter, Taylor, didn’t need a family meeting to reach a decision. Relieved and grateful, we moved in.
Not long after our move, Margot and Leland Hunter, the CEO of Peyben, the international development corporation that he had built from the ground up, were married in an old-fashioned small-town wedding that Margot, a girl from Wadena, Saskatchewan, population 1,306, had dreamed of.
She and Leland were deeply in love, and they wanted a child. They were both in their mid-forties, and when Margot walked down the aisle in her stunning but hastily altered wedding gown, a discerning eye could detect the gently curved abdomen of early pregnancy.
The prairie feast at the outdoor reception had been prepared by people who had known Margot since she was born. Sis Gooding, the neighbour who coordinated the spread, said her task had been easy. Everybody in town was invited to bring the dish that friends and neighbours had acclaimed as being their best. As I took my first bite of Sis’s sublime strawberry shortcake, I knew the people of Wadena were smart enough to know a good thing when they tasted it.
The day brimmed with joy, and as the bride and groom circulated among their guests on that hot still afternoon, their future together seemed as clear and boundless as the prairie sky.
But before summer’s end, Leland was dead, and Margot was not only a pregnant widow with a demanding career, she was also the major stockholder and CEO of Peyben.
Two days after Leland died, Margot knocked on our door and said there were problems at Peyben. Falconer Shreve handled the company’s extensive legal work, so a problem for Peyben was a problem for the firm. Margot was facing a crisis, and she needed backup.
The members of Peyben’s board of directors had been quick to approach Margot with lugubrious condolences and a warning that it was imperative she meet with them immediately to discuss potentially perilous initiatives that Peyben had recently committed to. Margot’s heart was breaking, but her brain was functioning. So was her nose, and she smelled a rat.
Her guess that Leland’s associates were going to relieve her widow’s burden by offering to buy her out at fire sale prices was right on the money, and despite her grief, Margot had picked up on the significance of the board’s reference to “potentially perilous initiatives.”
Months before his death, Leland Hunter had committed Peyben to building a cooperative multipurpose educational and recreational centre for the people of North Central, a deeply troubled neighbourhood in our city’s core. The spokesperson for the board said the centre would be a money pit and that Peyben had to extricate itself immediately from any agreements that had been made.
At Margot’s request, Zack accompanied her to the meeting the board had called. The board’s spokesperson announced that he was prepared to take over as Peyben’s CEO and that if Margot did not agree to his appointment, the board would resign en masse. Margot called his bluff, thanked the board for their service and told them not to let the door hit them on their way out.
