The designers of Montreal’s main courthouse didn’t bother with architectural harmony. The lower stories consist of an oblong box covered with vertical black bars overhanging a smaller, glass-fronted box beneath. The upper stories shoot skyward as a featureless monolith. The building blends with the neighborhood like a Hummer parked in an Amish colony.
I entered the Palais to a packed house. Old ladies in ankle-length furs. Gangsta teens in clothes big enough to accommodate armies. Men in suits. Black-robed attorneys and judges.
Winding among large planters and uprights bearing starburst lights, I crossed to a bank of elevators at the back of the lobby. Coffee smells drifted from the Café Vienne. Already wired, I considered but passed up a fourth cup.
Upstairs, the scene was similar, though tipped in favor of the waiting game. People sat on perforated red metal benches, leaned against walls, or stood conversing in hushed voices. A few conferred with counsel in small interrogation rooms lining the corridor.
I took a seat outside 4.01 and pulled the Pétit file from my briefcase. Ten minutes later Louise Cloutier emerged from the courtroom. With her long blonde hair and oversized glasses, the crown prosecutor looked about seventeen.
“You’ll be my first witness.” Cloutier’s face was tense.
“I’m ready,” I said.
“Your testimony is going to be critical.”
Cloutier’s fingers twisted and untwisted a paper clip.
“I can’t tie the marks on the bones to Pétit’s specific hacksaw, but I can say firmly that they were made by an identical tool.”
Cloutier nodded. “Consistent with.”
“Consistent with,” I agreed.
“Your testimony is going to be key, because in his original statement Pétit claimed he never laid eyes on that saw.
"“A DNA expert is going to testify that the blood is Pétit’s. That ties him to the saw.”
“And I tie the saw to the victim,” I said.
Cloutier nodded.