The Guilty by Gabriel Boutros Page A

did that happen?”
    “Actually, I wasn’t planning on doing more than making a brief appearance there. These are old, uh, friends, of mine. I don’t usually like big parties, but I felt I had to go. So, my original plan was just to pop in, stay for half a dozen courses or so, then take off. It’s not exactly an intimate little evening, but it ce rtainly could end up that way.”
    “This normally wouldn’t be my choice for a first date, but I actually like big Italian weddings. I mean, pizza at midnight, and a band in tuxedoes playing old disco tunes. What else could a girl ask for? What time will you pick me up?”
     
    Bratt hated taking his car out in the winter. It was a 1961 Jaguar XKE sports coupe, one of the first sold in North America, and it was in mint condition. He’d had it since the late 80’s and he babied it like he had babied Jeannie in the first few years of her life. But the Rivière des Prairies Detention Center wasn’t exactly a short taxi ride away from his downtown apartment building, and he felt like showing it off today anyway.
    He drove up to the address that Kouri had given him at a bit before 11 a.m. It was a street lined with tall leafless trees, in front of block after block of pink and white duplexes. Kouri was standing in the street, carrying the accordion folder that was stuffed with the Small file, when Bratt pulled up with a dramatic roar of his engine.
    Th e drive up to the Detention Center, hidden away on the northeast edge of the island of Montreal, was ugly and monotonous, a long stretch of highway, past oil refineries and industrial parks, taking them to the middle of nowhere. They passed the occasional evergreen tree struggling to survive in the poison-aired environment. Bratt’s good mood, however, was not in any way affected by the bleak surroundings.
    Speaking to Nancy that morning had left him feeling positively chipper, so much so that he was even willing to make small talk with Kouri, who had seemed somewhat ill at ease upon entering his car and not in such a hu rry to compare ideas after all.
    As they rolled smoothly down the near-empty road, the bright sunshine feeling warm on their faces, he broke the ice by asking Kouri what had gotten him interested in criminal law.
    “More than any other influence, I’d have to say it was the movies,” said Kouri. “The lawyers’ lives always seemed so exciting. At the same time they always managed t o help out people in trouble.”
    “Yeah, movies and TV can make our jobs out to be pretty glamourous, but what they show you isn’t always reality,” Bratt said, never having cared much for Hol lywood’s portrayals of lawyers.
    “Yes, but I still enjoyed them. And the lawyers in them were the kinds of lawyers I always wanted to be like. And, to tell you the truth, Mr. Bratt, you are too.”
    Bratt blushed at the compliment, but said nothing. Once again he felt embarrassed at Kouri’s open admiration for him. It was one thing to go around telling everybody how great you were. It was another thing to find somebody who actually believed you.
    T hey drove on silently and soon they saw on their left the large estate that held Pinel, the Institute for the Criminally Insane, letting them know that their own destination was only a few blocks further on. They reached the entrance of the detention center and Bratt turned his car into the long driveway, slowing down as he spotted a police cruiser parked in front of the visitors’ parking lot.
    “You got your Bar card with you, Peter?”
    “Yes, sure. Why?”
    “’Cause this guy doesn’t know you, and he won’t even let us park if he has any doubts about who you are.”
    B ratt pulled up next to the police car on the driver’s side and lowered his window, pulling back from the draft of cold air. The Sureté de Québec agent lowered his own window. He wore his standard issue fur hat, with its flaps down over his ears. Bratt recognized him as being the lucky stiff who seemed to