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| Fifty k into Pembridge. |
Chapter Five
Earlier that day…
Earlier that day, Jean had hitched a ride into Pembridge, fifty kilometers away. After being dropped off on the edge of town, he walked along beside the road until he reached a small commercial strip mall. Then he went into a plumbing supply store and asked directions.
After another twenty-minute walk, he found the place he sought. The firm of Kohl, Silverman and Watts, Barristers and Solicitors at Law, was located on a secondary main street in the downtown core. The two-story Victorian house was typical of such establishments, with subdued russet-brown brick, modern metal-shingled roof, triple-pane windows and a parking lot freshly-treated in asphalt coating and newly-painted yellow lines. Someone had plowed, salted and shoveled at the dawn of day.
Lawyers don’t take any unnecessary chances with potential liabilities.
They probably don’t pay rent, either, he figured—they pay rent to their own partnership-slash-corporation, and then write the expense off as individuals…or something like that.
Climbing the stairs made safe by a good grade of outdoor carpeting, Jean entered the glassed-in stoop. He hung up his coat and put his backpack behind a wooden Adirondack lawn chair in the hopes that no sneak thief would make off with his few pathetic possessions. In spite of the brilliant sunshine, the biting cold ate into his very bones, and he was shivering when he entered the office. A jaded Sophie Hutchings looked up at the tall stranger with disapproval, nose wrinkling at the smell that came in with him. Jean introduced himself and asked to see Mister Watts, and proffered up a letter which she glanced at with apparent disinterest. There was a coffee pot right there, but she didn’t offer him any.
“Do you have an appointment?” She asked, knowing that he didn’t.
“No, but he asked me to come, and he must expect me sooner or later.” Jean said it with a trace of humor.
He was trying to be patient with the woman, who gave a mixed impression of librarian-like repressed sexuality and austere virginity.
She was artificially busy.
“I’ll see if he’s available.” She rose, knowing that Paul Watts had specifically asked not to be disturbed today, as he had a lot of files to review.
Tomorrow was Provincial Court day in the sleepy little resort town, and he needed the quiet. Rather than use the intercom, which clients could overhear, she strode down the hallway with her erect posture indicating the intrusion was unwelcome. Jean could take a hint, so with a sigh he sank gratefully into a deeply-cushioned black leather armchair and morosely picked up a National Geographic magazine. He could tolerate that better than Chatelaine, with its page after page of women’s faces, women’s skin care ads, and food, food, food for the cadaverously-slender family woman on a diet, interspersed with ads for hair coloring and vitamin pills. The Chatelaine cover featured an article that caught his eye.
It was about women’s liberation. He decided not to laugh out loud.
He idly flicked through the pages. This could take a while, he suspected. The silence was not oppressive, as the barest rumble of a muffled male voice penetrated the walls. His instinct told him the gentleman wouldn’t let him in until after reading Jean’s file. True to form, ten or twelve minutes later the speaker buzzed and Miss Hutchings led him into the inner sanctum.
Paul Watts was a big, florid man with silvered, leonine hair, and a deep, sonorous voice. He was dressed in a grey suit that must have been on the high side of three grand, thin vertical pinstripes denoting conservatism in no uncertain terms. Cold, gunmetal-grey eyes examined Jean in a half-second, a slight widening of the whites indicating that Jean hadn’t measured up to preconceived expectations, but Jean was unsure whether he had failed to measure up, or exceeded expectations.
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| The firm of Kohl, Silverman and Watts. |
“It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Jean was almost sure it was a lie.
“I understand that you are a busy and important man.”
The man smiled thinly at this foray, in an objective manner.
“Right down to business.” Watts pulled sheets from a folder. “All you need to do is sign these papers, here, here, and here.”
Jean realized that actually reading them wasn’t on the cards. He signed.
“The housekeeper will let you in. I wonder what she’s going to do. The trust fund for her maintenance is almost expended. She’s been getting five hundred a week, so you’ll have to decide what to do about that.”
“Holy crap.”
“Do you have a driver’s license?”
“No.”
“That’s okay. You look exactly like your mug shot.” Watts said this with no attempt at humor or even charm. “And there were all the pictures in the papers back then.”
“I have a birth certificate.” Jean pulled it out of his wallet to show him.
The lawyer read it carefully, then handed it back.
“Do you have any money?”
“I have three-hundred-eleven dollars and twelve cents.”
Their eyes met briefly.
“There’s no fee for this. It’s all been taken care of.”
“Thank you.”
“May I ask a personal question?
“Yes.”
“Why did you refuse parole?”
“I am a free man. I don’t owe anything to anyone.” Jean dried up.
The rest was his concern. The lawyer nodded. No parole officer, no possibility of violations or return to incarceration. Gagnon was a free man, no ifs, ands, or buts. Interesting.
“The market isn’t too good right now. What with the mill closing and the general economic downturn, your great-grandmother’s house may be hard to sell.”
“I’ll probably just live there for a while, and do some thinking.”
The lawyer kept his eyes on the papers, making sure everything was in order. Their business was concluded except for minor details.
“You could do that, I suppose.”
Looking up, he went on in a more business-like tone.
“We’ll issue a cheque for the balance at the end of the month. It comes to about fourteen thousand. The yearly taxes are a little over twenty-two hundred. Then there’s the heat, hydro and insurance, and water rates.”
“I understand.” Jean had once owned a home of his own.
“If you have any further questions, feel free to give us a call.” Watts rose to offer a hand.
“Thank you so much for your time.”
After Jean left, Watts sat thinking for a moment. The whole thing seemed all wrong. Reaching into the desk drawer, he pulled out the file and began reading it again. Gagnon had made no appeal of his conviction or his sentence, but in Watts’ opinion there were no grounds anyway. The investigation, trial and sentencing seemed all above-board and bullet-proof. Gagnon had studied law in prison, and in his assistance to his fellow prisoners, was fairly effective, with several convictions overturned and sentences reduced. But Gagnon couldn’t find any legitimate grounds to appeal his own conviction.
He had refused parole. Now Gagnon was a free man—for whatever that’s worth, he acknowledged. If innocent, Gagnon must hate the people who had perjured themselves, especially the expert witnesses who had been highly paid by the Crown to provide testimony. Four or five psychiatric assessments, all of them different. Everything from manic depressive, paranoid and delusional, schizophrenic, chronic severe depression, even one wildly-improbable, multiple personality disorder…delusions of grandeur, narcissistic rage. The man had cooperated with police, and earned the reward that often goes with that kind of ignorance. Watts shook his head when he read the part about the Court-appointed duty counsel. Swear words formed in his mind, but he kept them inside, where they belonged. No one could have all these afflictions. Gagnon had refused anger and anxiety management, and denied having any kind of a drug problem.
Christ.
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| $1.7 million. |
Watts read a telling quote from one of the news clippings. Gagnon wasn’t shy about interviews.
“I don’t think there’s anything wrong with me at all.”
The man had maintained his innocence throughout the whole process. Paul suddenly remembered something, but for whatever reason couldn’t find it in his notes. The house was evaluated at an estimated market price of one-point-seven million.
Watts sensed trouble in the very near future, but then trouble was his business.
He re-read the prisoner’s final statement from the court transcript.
“I know I’m innocent. The rest of the world can go to hell.”
“I hope the world will leave you alone. With half a million dollars unaccounted for…and that God-damned house…that just doesn’t seem very likely.”
Somewhere in the world his accomplice remained at large, or perhaps Gagnon was in fact innocent.
The whole fiasco was unbelievable, at least to the uninitiated. Gagnon had refused parole, because he refused to play their game. He had no restrictions on him now.
END
Images. Louis.
Louis has a few books and stories on iTunes.
Thank you for reading, ladies and gentlemen.
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