Deadly Lessons. David Russell W.

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СКАЧАТЬ for two months, but I had a hard time believing he could actually be guilty of anything that would harm his students. He was the consummate professional. If anything, students would have held him up as someone unapproachable because of his high standards.

      “Carl. Give me a dollar.”

      “What?”

      “A dollar. A loonie. Have you got one?”

      He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of coins. Reaching out, he placed one in my outstretched hand.

      “Okay. You’ve just retained me. What is this student going to tell the principal about you?”

      Carl took a deep breath. “She threatened to tell the principal we’ve been sleeping together.”

       Two

      I’d had cases not unlike this before. When I first took the L-SATs and entered law school—as an honour student, I might add—I really hadn’t envisioned myself defending criminals—err, pardon me—”alleged” criminals. Still, by the time I had graduated, corporate, tax and real estate law gave me hives, divorce law (or “family law” as our legal system euphemistically calls it) reminded me too much of my own childhood, there didn’t seem to be enough work in intellectual property law, and I refused to wear sandals, which ruled out environmental litigation.

      That pretty much left me with criminal law. On the face of it, criminal law seems to be the most exciting: murder, mayhem, chaos, shady characters cutting deals in underlit offices, all of which is how this particular legal genre is played out on television and film. I chuckled watching Sam Waterston give a ninety-second closing to a murder case on Law and Order. The truth is criminal law can be more tedious, with a mind-numbingly precise attention to detail, than any other profession. But at least I knew there would always be work to do: despite politicians’ promises to the contrary, there is no real hope that the criminal element will straighten itself up and turn to the good life.

      There was no way I was going to be Crown Counsel. Two of the friends I had graduated with had chosen that noble calling. “You’ll be serving society, Win,” they tried to tell me when it came time to seek work. “Ridding the streets of unwanted low-lifes, protecting the innocent from the ravages of criminal activity.” Both of them still toil away proudly in the courtrooms on behalf of Her Majesty, working seventy-hour weeks on a civil servant’s salary. I chose the other side.

      The real money for a lawyer is in criminal defence. It does take a considerable amount of time to build a reputation and really learn the ins and outs of the Criminal Code. But once a good defence counsel’s name is known, he or she can almost print their own money. When you travel down to the yacht club and see all those two thousand dollar suits getting out of their Jaguars, they’re not the prosecutors.

      It isn’t all about the money, however. I like to think I was motivated by a real desire to see justice done. I never really wanted to help criminals get away with their crimes, but I never wanted to see an innocent person go to jail either. There’s an old saying that it’s better to set ten guilty people free than to put one innocent person in jail. I believed that. And while Vancouver isn’t exactly a mecca for police brutality and wrongful convictions, the court system, criminal or civil, is intimidating, and no one should have to go through it without someone helping them along the way. Plus, I’ve always really liked Jaguars.

      Since the high-powered firms didn’t want me right out of school, I began my career as defence counsel with Legal Aid: the dreaded Public Defender’s office. This is the place where those with no real means of buying the high-priced Jaguared lawyers come. It is also the place where some of the most difficult, if unsophisticated, legal grunt work gets done. As a newcomer, I was assigned most of the petty cases: theft, break and enter, minor assaults, even vagrancy. Almost all of my cases were related to drugs.

      It seemed like a good place to learn the trade, and it was. I learned it so well that within a few years I was managing a team of lawyers in a small firm doing mostly Legal Aid work. And that Jaguar was nowhere in sight. Within four years of beginning my law career, I realized I was working as many hours as my co-graduates in the major Howe Street law firms, for about a tenth of the income.

      Worse, no matter how hard I slaved, how many cases I could plead down to misdemeanours, how many injustices I felt I had undone, the workload never ceased or even slowed down. And despite a fairly steady increase in pay that came with a concurrent increase in working hours, as I hit my seven year itch during a mad bout of work-induced stress and depression, I decided that “lawyering” might not be for me. Thus, after a short, illustrious career defending the downtrodden, the petty thieves, the junky prostitutes and runaways, I fled the world of legal defence to work with kids before they hit the court system.

      At least that was my stated, altruistic reason. Secretly, I mostly longed to have summers off to sit outside a lakeside cabin and read Oprah’s book club novels. No one can accuse me of insensitivity.

      Thus, at the ripe old age of thirty-five, I had begun my second professional career as a high school Social Studies, Law and Communications teacher. Sitting with Carl Turbot now, my former career had just thrust itself brutally into my current one.

      Recognizing this conversation with Carl was going to take up a significant portion of our lunch period, I left him stewing in my room while I made the long, arduous trek to the staff washroom, deking out students along the way. I couldn’t help but look in the faces of the students I passed along the way, wondering what kind of pain a student experienced when a teacher crossed “that line” between teacher-student relationship and romantic or sexual relationship.

      When I returned to my classroom, lunch in hand, Carl hadn’t moved from the student desk he had flopped into. He looked defeated and—despite all my legal training, which told me I ought to believe in my client’s innocence—I couldn’t resist thinking he should look defeated. If the university’s teacher training program taught us one thing—and believe me, it didn’t teach us all that much—it was that a physical, romantic or sexual relationship between teacher and student is absolutely forbidden. No questions. No exceptions. There was no situation Carl could provide for me that would exonerate him. But since I had rushed into a solicitor-client relationship with him, I was obligated to hear his side of the story. I could only hope he would plead guilty, and I could simply help him get the lightest possible punishment and best rehab.

      “Sorry to use up your lunch period.”

      “That’s all right. You sound like you need an ear, but I’m gonna eat while you talk if that’s all right.”

      “Sure,” he replied, “go ahead.”

      I reached down into my lunch bag and pulled out my pathetic meal. Quite recently having returned to bachelorhood, making a decent packed lunch was not a skill I had acquired, and unlike in lawyering, even legal aid lawyering, there are rarely opportunities for going out for a decent lunch when one works as a teacher. Cheez Whiz sandwiches were a staple of my diet. When I was feeling healthy, I also brought carrots, but only if I remembered to buy them pre-cut, pre-peeled and pre-packaged in lunch bag size pouches. I was a busy man, after all.

      I waited for Carl to break the awkward silence. After a long pause, he looked at me with doleful eyes and said, “Win, what do I do?”

      I sighed, took a bite of a carrot and paused before responding. I have found pregnant pauses often make it look like I’m seriously pondering, when in fact I don’t really have a clue what to do next. For the moment, he seemed to be buying it.

      “Carl,” СКАЧАТЬ