Deadly Lessons. David Russell W.

for Mr. Turbot,” I stated neutrally.

      Furlo’s body visibly tensed, leaning forward with one hand on the battered conference table. “I thought you said you were a teacher here.”

      “I did. I teach law. I also practice it.”

      Smythe tilted her lovely head and smiled again. “Winston Patrick. You used to work with Legal Aid. Pre-trial centre duty counsel at Main Street. I thought the name sounded familiar.”

      “You mean you didn’t recognize me from my handsome visage?” I returned her smile.

      “You would think I would remember that,” Smythe said, returning my pre-serious conversation, casual flirtation. She played the game well.

      “Could we get back to what the hell you are doing here with Mr. Turbot? Why has he got a lawyer with him?” Furlo groused.

      “Come on, Detective,” I put back at him. “You know better. Mr. Turbot has a lawyer because he is about to be interrogated by the police about a homicide. Were you not planning to inform him of his rights?”

      “We’re questioning all of Tricia Bellamy’s teachers about her. We’re looking to see if anyone noticed anything unusual about her in the last little while. That’s it. Nobody’s being interrogated here. Are you planning to legally represent all of her teachers, Mr. Patrick?” I could tell Furlo and I had definitely started out on the right foot.

      “Why don’t you cut the hostility and the bullshit, Detective Furlo,” I replied, doing my very best to ensure I spoke with as little condescension as possible to avoid inflaming Furlo’s obvious short fuse. “You know full well why I’m here with my client. You have selected him for questioning based on information provided to you by the principal about allegations of sexual misconduct, allegations, I might add, which are without merit, evidence or any corroboration. Mr. Turbot is not Tricia’s first period teacher, or even first alphabetically among her eight teachers, so let’s just be honest about the fact that this is a formal questioning. Or would you prefer that my client and I leave here now without answering your questions?”

      “Patrick, you have a strange way of thinking that you’re helping your client by opening your mouth and . . .”

      “Mike,” Smythe interrupted, “Mr. Patrick has a legitimate presence here. Let’s get on with what we’re trying to achieve.”

      “Whatever,” he sighed, tossing his spiral notebook onto the table and flopping into a chair.

      “Mr. Turbot, I know this is uncomfortable, so let’s start over. Please. Have a seat.” Smythe smiled again and seemed to warm the room, delicately waving her hand to the chair across the table.

      Carl reluctantly sat down, never completely taking his eyes off Furlo. After our short verbal battle, it was beginning to sink in just how much shit he was in. I could actually physically feel his discomfort and anxiety. Facing two police detectives in a homicide investigation is discomfiting, even when you have nothing to hide. It was one of the reasons I was originally drawn to defence work. Over the years at the Vancouver law courts, I had seen many a petty criminal, and many an innocent bystander, nearly crumble under the investigatory prowess of cops and prosecutors determined to see conviction. Even the innocent will occasionally get talked into admitting to inappropriate or illegal conduct just by the sheer fear of the people across the table.

      “Mr. Turbot, let’s just cut to the chase so we can get on with the investigation,” Smythe began. “According to the principal, Tricia came to him with allegations of a sexual relationship between her and you. Is there any truth to her complaints?”

      Carl looked warily at me for permission to respond. I nodded my assent. He spoke quietly, nervously. “It is absolutely untrue. I have never had a physical relationship with Tricia or any other student. I’m a married man.”

      “So was I,” interjected Furlo. “Three times. It rarely slowed me down.”

      Smythe rolled her eyeballs at her partner’s display of testosterone-driven bravado. “Mr. Turbot, why would Tricia say those things if they weren’t true?”

      “How can he know that, Detective Smythe?” I asked.

      “We’re not in court here, Mr. Patrick. Can’t we just ask him to speculate?”

      “Go ahead, Carl,” I conceded.

      “I don’t know. For some reason she was mad at me. She came to me and threatened to go . . .”

      I interrupted. “What Mr. Turbot is referring to is that Tricia indicated to him she was planning to complain about a relationship that did not exist. It wasn’t expressed as a threat in exchange for some favour or quid pro quo arrangement.”

      “Is that right?” Furlo asked Carl.

      “That’s right,” Carl confirmed. At least he was following my lead, more than a lot of my clients had been able to.

      “Was she struggling in the course, looking for some leverage to help her through the program?” Smythe soothingly inquired of my client.

      Carl looked carefully at me again for approval, which I granted with a very slight nod. “Tricia is—was . . .” he corrected himself, “a very capable, bright student. She was having some trouble with a few assignments and concepts lately, but that’s not uncommon in senior biology. It’s very demanding.”

      “When you say she was having trouble, how much trouble? Was she failing?” Smythe pressed.

      “Well, no. That’s just it. Trouble for Tricia was slipping slightly below an ‘A’. I mean slightly. I could show you her standings.”

      “That’s okay. What else can you tell me about why she would have made this accusation?”

      “I just don’t understand. Look, I can tell you that Tricia was a very driven student. She set high standards and was a perfectionist. I understand she felt the same way about athletics. She could be stubborn about learning a concept. If she didn’t understand, she would stay and get help and beat herself up until she understood. But she was never a problem. She never had disciplinary issues. I never had to reprimand her or throw her out of class. I can’t tell you just how shocking it was to have her throw this threat from out of left field.” Carl’s voice had begun to rise to a level approaching frantic.

      “Okay, Mr. Turbot. That’s fine for now.” Smythe pulled a business card out of her leather carry case. “If you think of anything else, anything at all that strikes you about her recent behaviour, please give us a call.”

      “That’s it? I can go?” Carl asked.

      “Sure. Thank you for speaking with us. I know this must be a very hard day for you and all of Tricia’s teachers today.” She pushed her chair back from the table and rose.

      “Yes,” Carl replied with a sigh of relief. “Thank you.” He and I both rose from our seats. I had turned to shepherd my client to the door when Furlo broke his self-imposed silence one last time.

      “Hey, Turbot. Look. Just between us, okay?” He actually winked conspiratorially. “Even if you were bangin’ her, it doesn’t mean you killed her. It would just help us rule out any loose ends if we were sure you were being straight with us. It doesn’t have to leave this room. Were you and she going at it?”

      Carl was horrified, and as he opened his mouth to speak, I jumped in. “Don’t dignify that juvenile outburst with a response. You asked my client that question already, and it was answered.” I pushed him out the door and turned to face Furlo. “Not only are we talking about a teenager here, Detective, in schools we tend to frown on discussions of ‘banging’ students. If that’s the best you can do, I don’t hold a whole lot of hope about you actually apprehending her killer. Detective Smythe,” I nodded towards Smythe, who looked positively embarrassed by her partner.

      I could feel Furlo’s stare burning into the back of my skull as I left the conference room. I heard him mutter something about asshole