Monday, October 7, 2019

The Price of Charity, short fiction by Patrick Peotto

Patrick Peotto
The Price of Charity
As the judge took his seat on the bench, Connor glanced over his shoulder at his client in the prisoner’s box. The man was vile, undoubtedly a murderer, but Connor knew that if he won this motion, he’d be set for life. He’d be considered one of the preeminent criminal trial lawyers in Toronto. 
He fingered the two-dollar coin in his hand, trying to quell his self-doubt. Where was Plutus this morning? he thought. How could he abandon me? 
Connor took his seat as instructed by the judge’s deputy and held his breath as he awaited the decision. 
The judge opened a file folder and said in a loud, clear voice, “I’ve read the briefs submitted by both counsel and considered the evidence in this motion. I find in favour of the Crown. There were reasonable grounds for the arresting officer to suspect that the accused was driving under the influence of alcohol. The blood test and subsequent warrant to search the accused’s vehicle were both lawful, meaning the discovery of the body and weapon was as well. I will render a written judgment in a week’s time. In the meantime the registrar shall set a date for trial.” 
Connor’s mouth went dry. He cupped his hand over his face to try to slow the pace of his breathing. He let the coin fall to the table. Am I Robert Johnson? 
Everyone in the courtroom rose as the judge left the bench. Connor turned to his client and said, “No worries, Antoine. I’ll prepare a notice of appeal this afternoon. This judge is clearly mistaken on the law, and we’ll get this thing overturned.” 
Antoine Daigle was a big man who had to hunch over to whisper into Connor’s ear, “You’d better, or you’re dead.” 
Connor stood motionless as two officers led his client out of the courtroom and back to jail. He heard the crown attorney and his assistant congratulating each other as they left the court. He realized that he too had to leave, so he collected his briefcase and hastily sped out. I’m gonna kill that bastard. 
Connor walked out of the courthouse on University Avenue, through Nathan Phillips Square and into the afternoon sun. The square was full of tourists who turned to stare at the man walking swiftly past them in black robes and white tabs. Connor was carrying a large briefcase in his left hand and had the coin clenched in his right fist. He would shoulder people on the sidewalk as he made his way south on Bay Street toward his office. 
How could he do that to me? For three years, Plutus had been waiting in front of St. James Cathedral for Connor to walk past and give him a toonie. At first, Connor had felt sorry for the man, but his act of charity had changed over time. Connor had barely scraped his way into law school with one of the lowest LSAT scores permissible. He’d started as a humble assistant crown attorney taking some of the worst cases imaginable. What happened next, even Connor couldn’t fully comprehend. He’d started to win case after case, despite incredible odds against him. After a year, he’d received an offer from a small criminal firm, and the winning continued - until today. He’d gone from giving to help a homeless man to feeding his lucky charm, that he’d named Plutus after the Greek god of wealth. 
When he arrived at the corner of King and Bay Streets, Connor knew that he should simply go up to his office in the TD Bank Tower and start working on the appeal. A fire in his stomach wouldn’t let him do the sensible thing. 
Where is that bastard? 
Connor knew that the man might well have died on the streets. The thought frightened him more than Antoine’s threat. Instead of going into the TD Tower, he headed east on King Street toward St. James Cathedral. 
Five minutes later, Connor had emerged from the high-rises of Toronto’s financial district to the grounds of the cathedral. The church was delicate and elegant at the same time, with its white brick and sandstone exterior topped by the green-weathered copper roof. Conner estimated that the tower and spire above it might stand three hundred feet. A beautiful green oasis that was frequented by Toronto’s large homeless population, particularly during the summer, surrounded the church. 
He’s got to be here. Connor didn’t know what he’d do if he spotted the man. Tell him off? On what grounds? Give him the toonie? Maybe change his luck? 
Connor walked to the main entrance of the church and looked under the maple where Plutus normally camped out. It was vacant. He walked through the park, examining every person occupying a bench or lying under a tree to escape the summer afternoon heat. He looked a strange figure in his black robes carrying his briefcase. He went from one end of the park to the other, working up a good sweat, but there was no sign of his homeless man. Conner ended up back at the front steps of the church, dripping and uncertain what to do next. 
Maybe he’s gone to a shelter to get out of the heat? He pulled out his cell phone and did a quick search. He was scrolling though the results when he was startled by a question. 
“Can I help you?” 
Connor looked over at the young Anglican priest who’d asked the question. The man had short-cropped brown hair, neatly parted, and a kind face. He was wearing a black suit and black shirt with a full white collar. Connor couldn’t help but see the similarities in their attire. The priest’s blue eyes stared through rimless glasses. 
“I’m looking for a homeless man who usually camps out under that maple,” Connor said, pointing to a spot to the left of the entrance, close to the sidewalk. 
“Are you a lawyer?” the priest asked. 
“Yes.” Connor hesitated. “This man is involved in a case that I’m trying. He’s an important witness, and he failed to appear in court this morning,” he lied. “I was hoping to track him down. My client’s freedom depends on it.” 
The priest furrowed his brows. He didn’t do anything for a few moments and then held out his right hand. “I’m Father Robert.” 
Connor hastily pulled up his robe, placed the coin in his pocket, and took the priest’s hand. “I’m Connor Harding.” 
“What’s the name of the man you’re looking for?” 
“That’s the problem, Father, I never got his name. But I’ve seen him outside the cathedral for the past three years. This seems to be his home.” 
“I’ve only been in this parish for a year, but I don’t recall anyone in this spot. Most of the homeless people in this area prefer the park. What does he look like?” 
“Maybe five six, with black hair and a thick black beard,” Connor started. “He’s missing three fingers on his right hand. He has olive skin and smokes constantly. I’m surprised you haven’t seen him before, because I see him every morning on my way to work.” 
“No. Doesn’t ring a bell. Have you looked east on King, closer to Jarvis? I know that some of the men from the park set up shop outside the Second Cup on the corner of Jarvis and King then head down to the liquor store on Front. You might find him there.” 
“Thanks, Father. I’ll give those places a try.” 
The priest smiled and went up the front steps into the cathedral. Connor wiped the sweat from his forehead with the arm of his robe, and contemplated his next move. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the coin. He rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. I’ve got to turn my luck. Connor hadn’t lost a motion or a case since he’d come across his god of wealth. 
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. 
Conner headed east on King Street, searching for his lucky charm. He got to the light on the northwest corner of Jarvis and King when he spied his man, sitting cross- legged on top of a dirty sleeping bag propped up against the side of the Second Cup. He was wearing a dirty green John Deere cap. His grey Toronto Maple Leafs t-shirt was soaked with sweat and stained with dirt. His blue jeans were so weathered that they looked grey, like a Confederate civil war uniform. He had a paper Tim Hortons cup to collect donations and a sign made out of cardboard propped up in front of him that announced, Will work for food
Connor stood and stared while others jostled around him to cross the street. He noticed that Plutus was drinking from a paper bag. Hopeless drunk. While Connor felt distaste, he also felt great relief. 
He crossed the road and stood over the man. Plutus looked up and smiled. Connor could only imagine the bacteria living in that cesspool of a mouth. He grimaced. 
Plutus took a long drink of his beverage. Connor could smell the sickly sweet odour and guessed it was cheap sherry. 
“Where were you this morning?” Connor demanded. 
Plutus grinned and held up his bottle. “Looks like you could use a drink, son. You’re pretty tightly wound.” 
Connor could feel a rush of adrenalin flow through his body. He reached down and swatted the bottle away. It bounced off the sidewalk, spilling some of its contents, but it didn’t break. Plutus laughed and then stood up to retrieve his beverage. 
“Plastic bottles. Not like your fine wines.” 
“You didn’t answer my question,” Connor persisted as Plutus sat down again at his station. A few patrons of the coffee shop were looking at the curious exchange between the homeless man and the man in black robe. 
“How’d your motion go?” Plutus asked after he’d finished a long drink. 
“What?”

“You win?”

“What the...?” 
“Lost. Thought so. You’re not very bright, are you?”
 “What the hell are you talking about?” 
 “Come on now, you know as well as I do that you were mediocre at best before I came along. Look at you now. I don’t think you appreciate what I’ve done for you.” 
“You’re crazy. You haven’t done anything for me. I’ve been very kind to you over the years.” 
“Really? Two hundred and eighty-eight.”

“What are you talking about?” Connor asked.

“Two hundred and eighty-eight dollars. That’s what you’ve given me over three years. Not even a hundred dollars a year.”

“I can’t believe you,” Connor replied. “This is how you thank me for my generosity?”

Plutus took another drink of sherry. Some of the liquid escaped down his beard and dripped onto the blue maple leaf on his t-shirt. “What about you? What you making now? Three hundred? Four hundred? Half a million?” 
“I’m damned good at what I do!” 

“You’re damned lucky, you mean.”

“Luck is a residue of design.” 

Plutus laughed. “Your old man teach you that? If you really believe that, what are you doing here?”

“I was worried about you. I came to see that you were all right.”

“Oh. You were afraid I could be dead. Life on the streets is hard. Did you know that homeless people live half as long as the rest of the population? Christ, our suicide rate is four times the national average. Not too smart to put your lucky charm at risk like that.” 
“This is insane. I just came to see that you were all right and to give you this.” Connor dropped the coin into the Tim Hortons cup and turned to cross the street. 
“That’s not enough anymore.”

Connor froze.“You need to do more if you want your luck to hold,” Plutus said. Connor turned and had to wade through a group of people crossing with the light. 
He came back and stood in front of the homeless man. “Tell you what. I passed an ATM on my way here. I’ll take out three hundred dollars then pick up the best bottle of Scotch you’ll ever taste in your life. You can get yourself a room for a few nights. If you’re willing to work, I can ask around and see if I can get you a job. There’s a lot of building going on now, and I’m certain you can get a job in construction. Do you have any skills? Are you a carpenter or electrician?” 
Plutus shook his head. “You don’t get it, boy. My job is helping you get rich. We’re partners.” 
“What the hell are you talking about?” 
“You’d still be living in that roach-infested apartment on Parliament if not for me. Now you live in a condo on the waterfront. Remember, without me you could be back in that hole, or worse.” 
Connor wondered how Plutus knew about the place on Parliament and the condo. I must have said something to him when I passed by. He couldn’t recall doing so, but it was the only rational explanation. “You’re drunk, or delusional, or both,” he replied. 
 “I’m all of the above,” Plutus said. “And I’m your only chance to stay alive. Think I don’t know what that prick Daigle whispered to you after the decision? Without me, you’re as good as dead.” 
Connor stared down at the man. I couldn’t have mentioned the motion to him, never mind tell him about my client. How could he know? Was he in the courtroom? 
Plutus finished his bottle and casually tossed it aside. “I’ll make this easy for you. I want half of everything you’ve earned the past three years.” 
“You must be insane. I’m not giving you anything.”

“I’ve pegged the gross at around four hundred and fifty thousand. Am I right?” 
“What? I don’t have that kind of money.”

“Calm down, I’m only asking for half, and half of everything you earn going forward, which, trust me, is going to be substantial.”

“I don’t owe you a penny. You’re nothing but a...”

“Go ahead, say it.”

“Lazy, drunken bum. That’s what you are. You’re probably mentally ill.” 
“You really shouldn’t tempt fate, boy.”
Connor’s breathing sped up and his nostrils flared. He moved directly over the man and shook his finger at him. “You are pathetic. You sit around getting drunk and begging for money all day. You’re nothing. I don’t need you. Screw you.” 
“I also want a piece of that fiancée of yours. She’s fine. Way out of your league. Think she’ll stay with you when you start losing case after case? She’ll ditch you if Daigle doesn’t make a...” Plutus paused and tilted his head. “What do they call someone when their fiancé dies before the wedding? They’re not widows, are they?” 
Connor shifted his briefcase from his left to his right hand. His shoulders were erect, and he was puffing his chest. 
“Jesus, I just thought of this,” Plutus continued. “Daigle can be incredibly vindictive. He’s been known to take things out on the families of his enemies. You lose that appeal, and he could go after your precious Justine. You wouldn’t want that to happen.” 
Connor took a deep breath, raised his briefcase to shoulder height, and brought it down with all his might on the homeless man’s head. Two teenagers that had just exited the Second Cup gasped. One of them held up her phone and started to video the assault. 
Plutus slumped to the sidewalk. A small pool of blood started to form below his right temple. Connor brought the case down once again, even harder this time. Blood splattered onto Connor’s black pants, the sidewalk, and the brick wall of the coffee shop. The girls screamed but kept filming. An older woman dialed 911 on her cell phone. Two well-muscled young men rushed across the street against the light and tackled Connor. They held him to the sidewalk until the police and the ambulance arrived. 
Connor was thrust against the side of the Second Cup and placed in handcuffs. He could see the paramedics working on Plutus not five feet away. They performed CPR without success. Connor could see the officer’s lips moving as he gave the standard caution, but he wasn’t paying attention to the words. He kept staring at the dead man on the sidewalk. He could swear Plutus was grinning. 

Patrick is a former litigation lawyer, teacher and vice principal who now wants to concentrate on writing fiction.  He has written two legal mysteries, Violent Annulments and Defending the Innocents, that he’s shopping to potential publishers, and a number of short stories.  He uses his experiences growing up in Thunder Bay, working on Bay Street, and teaching in various boarding schools in Canada and Italy, to give his stories realism and depth.

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