Justice Charles Ferguson Litterick, fifty-five, known in the trade (to crooks, lawyers, court officials, and police) simply as Charlie, ambled back toward me from his seat by the flight deck. He had been away from the western Arctic for a year, working in Ottawa as an adviser on land claims matters. I’d read in News/North about him coming back by choice, saying in an interview that this time he was here for keeps and Ottawa could find its way out of its own tangles. He had a shock of thick white hair, black eyebrows, a hooked nose, and a limp that, as he once explained in a bar association speech, had been caused by jumping out of a second-story window to get away from an angry mob of defense lawyers. This Citation seated eight comfortably, four to a side. The triangular spaces between each set of back-to-back bucket seats had doors and were used as lockers for inflight supplies. The charter companies were responsible for stocking serve-yourself in-flight food and drink, as ordered by the client.
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