On the sofa, sitting up this time, was John Kalouderis. Ralph Ralston, who had brought his carceral law practice to their firm back in its third year, sat across from Bratt in a soft, low-backed leather chair usually occupied by clients. Sylvie had brought some mail into Bratt’s office and stayed, standing shyly to the side, to listen to him regale his associates with the highlights of his morning’s pleadings. His co-workers smiled and nodded as Bratt told them how he had made Brenton squirm by pointing out to the jury every miniscule mistake and contradiction in the Crown’s evidence. They laughed as he repeated the well-timed jokes he had tossed to the jurors, which had allowed him to display how totally confident in his position he had been. Bratt was on such a high after that morning’s pleadings that all of his misgivings about what had happened to Claire, and all of Jeannie’s angry accusations, had been consigned to a tiny compartment in the back of his mind that was off-limits for the time being.
