Res Judicata Read online

  res judicata

  res judicata

  Vicki Grant

  Text copyright © 2008 Vicki Grant

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in

  any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

  recording or by any information storage and retrieval system now known or to be

  invented, without permission in writing from the publisher.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Grant, Vicki

  Res judicata / written by Vicki Grant.

  Sequel to: Quid pro quo.

  ISBN 978-1-55143-940-2

  I. Title.

  PS8613.R367R48 2008 jC813’.6 C2008-903051-6

  First published in the United States, 2008

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2008928570

  Summary: Cyril MacIntyre is on the case again, working for his eccentric mother and

  giving new meaning to the term “legal aid” in this sequel to Quid Pro Quo.

  Orca Book Publishers gratefully acknowledges the support for its publishing programs

  provided by the following agencies: the Government of Canada through the Book

  Publishing Industry Development Program and the Canada Council for the Arts, and

  the Province of British Columbia through the BC Arts Council

  and the Book Publishing Tax Credit.

  Design by Teresa Bubela

  Cover image by Dreamstime.com/Bruce Collins

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 5626, STN. B

  VICTORIA, BC CANADA

  V8R 6S4

  ORCA BOOK PUBLISHERS

  PO BOX 468

  CUSTER, WA USA

  98240-0468

  www.orcabook.com

  Printed and bound in Canada.

  Printed on 100% PCW recycled paper.

  11 10 09 08 • 4 3 2 1

  This book is dedicated to you, Jeannie Richardson, because

  1. You threatened me and

  2. Te valde amo ac semper amabo.

  Mudge

  acknowledgments

  I could never have written a book about the law without help from my friends in the legal business. I’d like to thank Joy Day for setting me straight about what deputy sheriffs do in Nova Scotia. I owe my old buddy Phil Campbell a couple of vacation days to make up for the time he spent on the dock at Stony Lake explaining the intricacies of criminal law to me. My husband, W. Augustus Richardson iii, answered my endless questions (including “How do you know?”) and hardly ever looked irritated. It is in thanks for this and his many other roles in keeping me on the straight and narrow that I have recently elevated him to the bench.

  Needless to say, any mistakes that slipped through into these pages are entirely mine, not theirs.

  V.G

  chapter 1

  The guy had his hands around my neck and was slamming my head against the floor. I guess he couldn’t decide whether he wanted to strangle me or bash my brains in.

  Either that or he’d just got tired of killing people the usual way.

  I tried my best to fight him off, but what a joke that was. Me, Cyril MacIntyre, AKA Mr. Puniverse, was going to take down a tank like him?

  Right.

  SpongeBob would have had a better chance against Mr. Clean. To tell you the truth, I was kind of impressed that I even made his eyeballs bulge. At least it showed I wasn’t a total wipeout. At least I made him work that much.

  Any other time, one swat upside the head would have flattened me. The only reason I was holding my own this time was because I was so mad.

  Not at him. I mean, I kind of expected it of him. What was he supposed to do? I was asking for it.

  The person I was really mad at was my mother. This was her fault. All her fault.

  As usual.

  If Andy—that’s her name—wasn’t so hard to get along with, she wouldn’t have ended up on the street when she was fourteen.

  If she wasn’t so—let’s say—careless, she wouldn’t have had me when she was fifteen.

  If she wasn’t so competitive, she wouldn’t have had to prove she could go to law school when she was twenty-five.

  If she wasn’t so cheap, she wouldn’t have dragged me to all her night classes. (I mean, would it have killed her to spend ten bucks occasionally for a babysitter? She spends more than that every day on her French fry habit.)

  If she wasn’t such a worrywart, she wouldn’t have made me stay up every night helping her study.

  If she hadn’t been all those things, if she’d just been a normal boring person like mothers are supposed to be, I wouldn’t have known anything about the law.

  And if I hadn’t known anything about the law, I wouldn’t have said anything.

  And if I hadn’t said anything, I wouldn’t have had a big greasy pair of hands around my neck. My brain wouldn’t have been ricocheting off the back of my eyeballs. I wouldn’t have been seeing that weird white light and hearing one of those deep manly angel voices calling, “Come home, Cyril! Come home!” I’d have been down at the skateboard bowl, just hanging out, doing what your average fifteen-year-old likes to do: nothing.

  Frankly, I’d had enough of Andy messing up my life. I wasn’t going to let her get away with it again. Suddenly I could hardly wait to get my hands on her.

  I guess that’s what I needed. A goal. Something to look forward to. I got this burst of strength. It wasn’t superhuman strength or anything handy like that, but it was enough. I bent the guy’s thumbs back a millimeter or two. My wind-pipe popped open. I sucked in this little whistle of air, looked him right in the eye and said what I needed to say.

  “Res judicata.”

  chapter 2

  Factum

  A statement of the facts and law to be referred to, which is filed

  by each party in a legal application, appeal or motion.

  Five months earlier

  The first time I saw Dougie Fougere with Andy, I figured he was arresting her.

  That’s not as crazy as it sounds. I bet everybody was thinking the same thing. I mean, who wouldn’t be? You see a cop run down the street and grab some skinny emo chick in army boots, you naturally expect him to cuff her.

  If you’re the kid of the emo chick, you then naturally expect her to elbow him in the teeth and add “resisting arrest” to whatever other charges she’s facing.

  What you don’t expect is for the cop to put his arm around her neck, lean his big, water cooler head right into her face and then—I’m not kidding—nuzzle her ear.

  My faith in reality could have been saved at this point if Andy had hauled off and smoked the guy, but she didn’t.

  She nuzzled him back.

  By the time I recovered from the shock, I was ready to arrest the both of them. “Nuzzling” might not be covered in the criminal code, but it should be. After all, there are laws against public indecency, not to mention cruelty to children. (If watching two adults—one of whom is your mother—nuzzle in public isn’t cruelty to children, I don’t know what is. Frankly, I doubt the emotional scars will ever heal.)

  Luckily, Andy came up for air long enough to see me standing there glaring at them. You’d swear her dad had just caught her necking on the front porch or something. She hurled herself away from the guy and then tried to do this blinky baby bunny thing with her face. Like that was going to make her look innocent. I just shook my head. How gullible does she think I am?

  She got all fake and vice-principally on me. “Oh. Why. Hello. Cyril. I didn’t expect to run into you here.”

  “You didn’t?” I said. “You mean, that little performance wasn’t for my benefit?”

  She tried to say “W
hat?” as in “Whatever do you mean?” but I just kind of coughed out this laugh. No way was she getting away with that, and she knew it. She adjusted the rip in her T-shirt and tried to smile.

  I could practically see her brain racing around, opening up drawers, checking under cushions, rummaging through pockets, trying to find a new tactic to try on me.

  She finally just turned to the guy and went, “Ah...Dougie, this is my son, Cyril.”

  The guy’s eyes sort of popped, as if he was trying to hold down a major burp or something. “Son?” he said. “You didn’t tell me you have a son.”

  Clearly, the old truth tactic wasn’t working so well either.

  She gritted her teeth into a smile. “Of course I did!” She turned and stood in front of the guy. I couldn’t see her face, but I know her well enough to be pretty sure her eyes were doing that voodoo thing to his brain. It’s the ultimate submission hold. She can pull people’s fingernails out with that look. In the end, everyone talks.

  The guy started nodding and went, “Oh, right, that son! Of course!” He reached out to shake my hand. “How you doin’, Sport?”

  Sport?

  I mean, seriously. Sport?!

  What am I—a beagle or something? I can’t believe these big guys. You’d think it would be enough that they get to block our view with their beefy, well-defined physiques. Do they really have to treat us like we’re cute too?

  I just let his hand hang in the air. After a while he shrugged, put it on his hip (as if he’d been planning to do that all along) and said, “Well, I guess I better take off if I’m going to be ready for that...ah...you know...thing tonight.”

  Andy didn’t even look at him. She just went, “Yeahokayseeyagoodbye.”

  They both sort of raised their hands as if they were going to recite the Boy Scout pledge or something. Then Andy turned and walked away. I could still smell the guy’s cologne coming off her. What did he do, roll in the stuff?

  Andy grabbed me by the arm, all perfect little PTA mother, and said, “So-o-o...how was school today?” Apparently I’m cute and easily distracted too.

  I acted all forgive-and-forget. I smiled. “Really interesting,” I said. “We discussed some of the unexplained mysteries that have baffled scholars throughout the ages.”

  “Coo-o-l. Like what?” She loves thinking she produced some brilliant little sit-in-the-front-of-the-class brainiac kid. You wouldn’t know it from the “nuzzling” incident but, generally speaking, she takes this whole mothering stuff way too seriously. It’s like I’m her big term project or something, and she’s going to get an “A” on me even if it kills one of us.

  “Oh, you know,” I went. “Mysteries like how the pyramids got built...or what happened to the dinosaurs...or how some radical left-wing wacko like Andy MacIntyre ended up dating a cop. You know, that kind of stuff.”

  She dropped the whole PTA thing so fast you could practically hear it smash on the sidewalk. She sucked her lip up into her nostrils and snarled at me. “He’s not a cop!”

  “Sure looks like it to me.”

  “He’s a deputy sheriff!”

  “Ooh. Big diff.”

  She bugged her eyes out and sighed so loud you’d swear she was launching a blow dart at me. I almost ducked. She went, “Cyril...Floyd...MacIntyre! Surely you’ve spent enough time in courtrooms to know the difference between a cop and a sheriff!”

  Here it came. The lecture. Another one of her favorite diversionary tactics. I made myself comfortable and let her get it out of her system. It wasn’t as if I could stop her.

  “If you’d been paying attention, you’d remember that in Nova Scotia at least, sheriffs and their deputies are peace officers, not police officers. They work in the court system. They carry out judges’ wishes, keep order in the court, escort prisoners to and from the holding cells—that kind of thing. Cops, on the other hand, investigate crimes, make arrests, fine traffic violators, patrol the streets, issue noise violations, etc., etc., etc.”

  She sort of laughed. “You’re never going to see a sheriff on the street doing that kind of hands-on stuff.”

  It was almost too easy.

  I said, “Looked pretty hands-on to me.”

  That got her. She scrunched her mouth up so tight it looked like the knot on a balloon. “Listen, mister,” she said. “You can’t talk to me that way. I’m still your mother. So you better just watch...your...mouth!”

  Can you believe her? Me? Watch my mouth? She can’t see the irony in that? Who’s the one who swears like a rap star around here? Who’s the one with the three contempt-of-court citations? And, oh yeah—whose mouth was just nuzzling some sheriff ‘s ear?

  Exactly.

  “I mean it!” she said. “So you better just smarten up. And by the way”—she walked ahead so she wouldn’t have to look me in the face—”I have a little something I need you to do. That factum on the Iqbal file has to be written up by tomorrow morning.”

  I’ve got to stop here and explain something.

  In case you haven’t noticed, Andy’s got guts. Not just nerve, gall, gumption, the run-of-the-mill stuff. She’s got guts coming out her ears. Not literally—at least most of the time— but you know what I mean.

  Sometimes that’s good.

  For example, that old Mr. Zed guy and his twenty-two cats would be living on the street if Andy hadn’t had the guts to take his big fancy landlord to court.

  Spotless Drycleaners would still be dumping their not-so-spotless toxins into the harbor if Andy hadn’t had the guts to sue them.

  And, to tell you the truth, I’d probably be in a foster home today if Andy hadn’t had the guts to raise a kid all by herself, go to law school, keep us fed and mostly out of trouble. Emphasis on “mostly.”

  But there’s the downside to her having guts too.

  Like this, for instance. I catch her red-handed with some guy in the middle of the street and she actually has the guts to tell me I have to stay in all night and do her work.

  Please. Like, seriously, I wasn’t the one around here who should be grounded.

  I suddenly felt like the Incredible Hulk right before he bursts out of his shirt. I totally exploded. I went, “No way, Andy! That’s your job!”

  “It was. Now it’s yours.” She made it sound like she was giving me a present.

  “How come?!”

  “Because I can’t do it. I’m busy.”

  “And I’m not? Trust me, I’ve got better things to do than sit home, putting some legal document together for you.”

  “Oh. Really? Like what?” She turned and looked at me all suspicious, as if she had just caught me up to no good.

  I wasn’t going to let her turn the tables on me. It might work for her in court, but it wasn’t going to work here.

  “No,” I said. “Not a chance. You first. What do you have to do tonight that’s so important you can’t write that factum yourself?”

  She fiddled with her rings. She held her hand out and checked her nails. (You’d swear the chipped black polish was just the look she was going for.) She cleared her throat. “Well, there’s, ah...”

  “No. Stop. Let me guess,” I said. “There’s that little, ah, thing tonight.”

  She started rifling through her purse for her cigarettes. “No!” she went. “It’s not that. Why would you think that? It’s just that there’s...Oops, sorry. Just wait a sec while I light this...Disgusting habit...I really should...”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I went, “Would you quit stalling! We both know you’re going out with that guy tonight!”

  She looked up from her cigarette. She squinted at me. She licked her fingers and put out the match with this loud pschhht. By the look on her face, my guess is she was imagining the match was my head.

  I said, “Why don’t you get Atula to write the factum for you? She’s a lawyer. She’s your partner. Ask her.”

  She flicked the ash off her cigarette. She looked down the street as if she was suddenly wondering where
her bus was or something. She went, “I’d rather not. I don’t like to, you know, disturb her.”

  Yeah, “disturb” her by letting on that you’re getting behind in your work again! No, Atula wouldn’t have liked that. She wouldn’t have liked that at all. It’s just the two of them, running their law firm out of some cheesy little office over a fish-and-chip shop on Gottingen Street. They’ve got too many clients in too many bad situations not to stay on top of things. Atula figured that out ages ago. Why hadn’t Andy?

  Why did I have to be the one worrying about junk like that? She’s the mother. She’s the lawyer. I’m just a kid. I’m supposed to be worrying about my skin (which I do), about girls (which I do), about school (which I don’t, at least not much). This was adult stuff. It wasn’t fair.

  And it wasn’t fair that I couldn’t even let her see that I was worried about it. The last thing I needed right then was Andy worrying that I was worrying. That would just make me worry more. I only had one option: block it out, do what I had to do.

  I spun around and started to pace in front of her like I was some big-time courtroom lawyer addressing the jury on Law & Order. “So let me see if I’ve got this right. You expect me to spend the whole night writing up some legal argument on one of your files—that’s right, your files—just so you can go out with your cop boyfriend?”

  That made her wild. “I told you. He’s NOT a cop and, for your information, he’s NOT my boyfriend! We’re just... ah, friends.”

  “Right,” I said. I knew she was lying. She wouldn’t get that mad if it weren’t true. “I have a video project for my media arts class that I was going to get started on tonight, but that’s okay. Don’t you worry. Not a problem. I’ll write your factum for you.”

  That weird orange glow went out of her eyes. The poisonous fumes stopped oozing out her nose. She got all misty.

  “You will? Oh, C-C! I knew I could count on you!” She took her cigarette out of her mouth and threw her arms around my neck. She started kissing me all over my face. I hate it when she does that. If the embarrassment or secondhand smoke doesn’t kill you, the nose stud will.