April Fool (37 page)

“One of those newspapers would be good, Officer Flynn.”

“Naw, it would only depress you.”

Flynn doesn't want him to see beyond the headline. This is the confirmation Faloon wanted, this is a setup, this pit stop is staged. This is Flynn's career case, he's not going to let the perp walk, he wants him to run, his mauled body will be recovered in the high grass behind the Texaco station.

When Flynn flagrantly turns his back and walks to a convenience store for his ice-cream bar, Faloon doesn't budge. When Flynn returns chomping on it, he's unhappy to see that the Owl hadn't taken advantage of his leniency, and slams the door shut, and they take off.

 

Dinner at the Clearbrook RCMP is a takeout double patty slid through the meal slot, which Faloon has almost polished off when a constable comes down the aisle for him, jingling keys. “Your lawyer's here.”

Mr. Beauchamp's voice comes like rolling thunder down the hall. Then it's Flynn, his spiel about how he was hiding the Owl from the media. Then a thunderclap: “Don't give me that blather! You had me chasing all over God's kingdom!”

The Owl can't remember the great one being so riled. He hopes it doesn't have anything to do with his phone call to Garibaldi Island, after he finally got his rights under the Charter. Mr. Beauchamp's wife answered, weary and wiped, like she just got home from work. She didn't know where Mr. Beauchamp was. Sounded a little cheesed.

His counsellor is standing just outside the secure area, dressing down the Roadkill Warrior. “Why wasn't I
told
? I ought to have you up on charges for kidnapping.”

“Sir, I can't believe the dispatcher didn't tell you. We move people all the time in high-profile cases, I got Buddy Svabo's okay…”

“If you've destroyed my marriage, Flynn, I hope you roast in hell!”

 

Arthur stares out the window of 807 Elysian Tower at the lingering agony of the June sunset. Presumably this tangerine sky is glowing for Margaret too, at Blunder Bay or wherever she is. The potluck at the community hall must be long over. She'll be relaxing by the beach, on a driftwood log, watching her first sunset in thirteen weeks. That's why she's not answering the phone, she's enjoying herself. Maybe with friends, Al and Zoë.

Margaret will have a laugh when she finds her answering machine clogged, unable to absorb more of his alternating contrite and jocular apologies, his dreary twaddle about the mischievous designs of Sergeant Flynn, about how he missed the last ferry, how every air taxi service was booked.

The only human he reached was Lotis, and the connection was bad. She was on her way–by bicycle or bus, it was unclear–to the Wanderlust, Angella's suburban waterhole. “I love to go a-wandering,” she sang, her words breaking up. Arthur persisted in the face of her lilting reassurances. Hey, boss, relax a little. Margaret came down safe, she's looking great. The ceremony was a hoot, the Garibaldi Pipers played “My Bonnie Lassie.” The press loved it, it was beyond hokey.

He finally rouses Reverend Al. “She was having dreams of luxuriating in a bath and sleeping in a bed. Can't blame her for not answering the phone, this is her first private moment, she's probably enjoying being alone.” He retracts that too late. “Prefer to have
you
there, of course, but that wasn't to be. Anyway, she sacked out half an hour ago.”

“Did you explain why I wasn't there?”

“Told her you fled out of fear of the Highland Pipers.”

“That I avoided them was the only amazing, saving grace.”

“Arthur, please accept this from a friend. She's a little depressed. It was an important time for her, and you weren't there. She accepts that. She understands that this is a critical time for you too, for your trial. She wants you to concentrate on it. She doesn't want you to think about her or worry about her.”

The warm, reassuring pastoral tone only makes Arthur more anxious.

 

30

R
uffled and sour after a restless night, Arthur arrives in court a minute before starting time. Faloon's already in the dock, in natty suit and silk tie and rimless spectacles. Nicholas is not a thug, that is the statement, he's a gentleman thief. (A successful one. “I got real lucky in France, Mr. Beauchamp.”)

The jurors goggle at the returned exile. Photographs hadn't prepared them for his clerkish look, a small man dwarfed by the sheriffs. Forewoman Ellen Sueda frowns, as if struggling to see him as a killer. When Kroop shuffles in, he too spends a few moments contemplating this late arrival. Missing is Arthur's junior, still on the trail of Angella's alibi.

“For the record,” says Buddy, “the accused has been taken into custody and is present.”

“Do you confirm that, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“Indeed. Mr. Faloon invited arrest on becoming aware the Crown's case was falling apart.”

That editorial has Buddy sputtering. Improper, low! Beyond the bounds! Sitting too close, Ears recoils from a light wet spray.

Kroop waits until Buddy peters out, then flourishes his water pitcher. “Mr. Gilbert, this is empty.”

“I'm sorry, sir, I assumed the sheriff's staff…”

“Their role is to ensure order and security. Your tasks are less exalted, Mr. Clerk. While you set about getting the water I will see counsel in my chambers.” There's a tautness to Gilbert–for
a moment, Arthur has the impression he's a rubber band about to snap. As court adjourns Gilbert walks determinedly from the room.

Kroop rarely invites barristers to his sanctum, and Arthur has never been so favoured. On the way in, he brushes by Jasper Flynn. “Really sorry about yesterday, Mr. Beauchamp. I'm going to find who screwed up.”

Arthur's too miffed to respond. The unreachable Margaret Blake will be on his mind all day, a crucial day, this trial is about to take an unexpected shift.
She doesn't want you to think about her.
(Means what? She wants you to forget about her?)

There's a sense of the nineteenth century about the Chief Justice's space–musty and murky, curtains closed to sunlight, a brass desk lamp. No computer. On the wall is a Gainsborough, a girl chasing a butterfly: unexpected lightness, therefore eerie. Framed nearby, a photo of a steely-eyed young man in a 1950s haircut on his call to the bar. No pictures of loved ones–Kroop married the law.

He motions them to chairs, then sits behind his desk and glowers at Buddy for a few moments, as if measuring his words.

“Mr. Svabo, I hesitated to interrupt in front of the jury, even as you were careering out of control. You have allowed Mr. Beauchamp to get under your skin. You may not be as used as I am to his grandstand gestures.” He waves the subject away. “Gentlemen, there's no reason this should slow us up. The accused will be asked to confirm his plea of not guilty. Before we proceed with the rest of the case, I'll want his consent to be tried on such evidence as was heard in his absence.”

Kroop wants to seal off any avenue to appeal. Arthur doesn't blame him, and assents, subject to Faloon being allowed to read the evidence taken so far. He can do that in his cell overnight–Arthur doesn't want this trial delayed.

“Excellent,” Kroop says. “From the outset, I've had misgivings about trying an accused
in absentia
. Rich fodder for the
Appeal Court. But now he's here, and fit to be tried. Himf, himf. Please don't expect me to grant bail, Mr. Beauchamp.” A sweet, small smile.

 

During the break, Arthur waits on the vine-draped terrace, trying to keep his mind on the task ahead, the day's remaining witnesses. He's playing with his cellphone, and only realizes he's dialling home when Buddy joins him. He switches off before it rings.

Buddy is still rankled at Arthur's bold claim his case is falling apart, but he's rarely able to maintain his grudges, and they are soon talking timetables. “Next up, I got two exhibit guys and then the brain-dead screws who let Faloon escape.”

“To save these fellows further humiliation I will admit their evidence. What about our disappearing friend Harvey Coolidge?”

“We're kissing Harvey off, Internal Revenue wants him to stick around Kansas. Don't pretend that doesn't make you happy–you got his statement, he was nowhere near Brady Beach that night. Sure, make a case. Harvey's running scared, Harvey's got no alibi for April 1. Only one more element is needed–a miracle. Like maybe Harvey's DNA is an exact match for Faloon's.”

Arthur shrugs. Harvey doesn't matter any more. Angella matters, only Angella.

She appears below, as if conjured, frilly blouse, pleated skirt, looking lost, stopping by a potted ficus in the Great Hall, staring up at the angled roof, the blue-tinted skylight. Her eyes settle for a moment on the hawk-nosed barrister above, then she walks toward the stairs in her little penguin gait, arms held out like vestigial wings.

“She's a reluctant witness,” Buddy says, “doesn't want to be dragged through this, you can't blame her. Jasper's trying to sell me on letting her go. My useless junior too. They say it's overkill–so we prove Nick has a habit of attacking women, why gild the lily? Until a few days ago, I was thinking about
scrubbing her. But now you've got the jury so confused with side issues, I can't pull my punches.”

Arthur seeks a neutral subject. “What's holding us up?”

“Problem with Gilbert, he's balking at returning to court. How many witnesses are you calling, big guy? Put Faloon on the stand, let me at him.” He throws a one-two, perky again, a man who bounces back. “We sum up Thursday, maybe Friday, does that sound fairly ballpark?”

Arthur isn't ready to make commitments. He is obliged to give notice of Dr. Munni Sidhoo's evidence–her signed report is on its way by courier–but will wait until Angella is on the stand.

There is a stirring as Gilbert appears, stoop-shouldered and wan. With him is the Chief Registrar, who gives him a pat on the back, sends him into Court 67, and departs.

Kroop sits with his characteristic expression of stifled rage, his face made more fearsome by the mock cherubic smile he aims at his clerk. “Mr. Gilbert, do you have something you want to say to me?”

“Not really, sir.” The tone is sullen, a hint of rebellion.

“I've been waiting nineteen minutes, Mr. Gilbert.”

“I'm aware of that, sir.”

“And what do you have to say about it?”

“Nothing, sir.”

Kroop looks stumped by the unexpected pluck, asks sardonically, “Was it union business, Mr. Gilbert?”

“As a matter of fact, sir, yes. With respect, I would prefer to discuss it in your chambers, not in public.” A transformation is happening, Gilbert standing taller, speaking firmly, drawing from the deepest wells of fortitude.

“Come, come, let's hear your grievance.”

“It isn't written in the rules that the clerk must fetch water for anyone, sir, including the presiding justice.”

During the frozen hush that follows, Gilbert begins to lose what little composure he'd mustered. Most jurors are ill at
ease, but Martin Samples seems transfixed as he takes in this sadomasochistic standoff. Five stars.

Kroop's face convulses, his wattles flapping, as he rises several inches from his seat, as if about to swoop down on his clerk. Gilbert looks wildly about, picks up a stapler, raises it defensively.

“Why, you snivelling, spineless moron–put that down!”

Gilbert stares at his poor weapon, lets it fall, and stumbles from his station, unfurling a handkerchief. Strangers from the audience join him, help him to the door. In his utter misery, in his bleakest moment, he has stirred the hearts of even hardened courtroom habitués.

Kroop roars, “Bring me another clerk!”

 

After a brief recess, a replacement is conscripted from the registry, an older woman, a veteran. As the room settles again, Arthur finds himself puzzling over why Holly Hoover, with her big hair and bruised eye, is back in the witness stand. He'd forgot about her in the recent excitement. When last seen, Holly was under a barrage, accused of being addled on uppers, arming herself with Rohypnol, marching off to Brady Beach to demand satisfaction for Eve's rebuff.

“Mr. Beauchamp, we've already thrown away half the morning with utter nonsense. Can we not pick up the pace?”

Hoover is looking immeasurably sad. How cruel of Arthur to have bullied this young woman, to have accused her of the worst of crimes.

“I doubt if I shall have more questions, but I'd like her available.”

That causes murmurs and shuffling, disapproving looks from the press. Hoover shrugs, gives Jasper Flynn a cold stare. She tosses her curls and leaves without a look back.

“Good,” Kroop says, “we're moving right along. Mr. Prosecutor?”

Buddy is confused by Arthur's sudden lack of interest in a key player. “Excuse me?”

“Next witness, please.”

“Sorry, milord, I have to see who's ready.” Buddy prods Ears to his feet, out to the witness room. Flynn follows.

“In my day, when I served Her Majesty in these courts, I had my witnesses primed and waiting. I don't see Mr. Beauchamp being unready.”

This isn't a good development, this clubby affection for Arthur–it's liable to turn the jury against him. Few, except Samples, give any sign of liking the miserable fellow.

Ears brings in a young woman from the Ident Section who hand-delivered the semen swab to forensics, then to Dr. Sidhoo. No stranger had opportunity to contaminate it, that is the thrust of her testimony.

The final police witness, who dusted the fingerprints in Cotters' Cottage, is laboriously taken through photographs showing their locations. Known Individual EW, lower right bathroom sink. Known Individual JF, upper refrigerator door. Arthur is restless, it's not of interest, and his thoughts fly to Bungle Bay. There she is, in the laundry room. She's found the discoloured tablecloth, a yellow stain he couldn't get out. She's fed the lemon pie to the goats without tasting it.

He refocuses as Adeline Angella is ushered in by Flynn. As she takes the oath, she looks defiantly at Faloon, then Arthur. She is stiff at first, shoulders back, breasts taut against the fabric of her frou-frou blouse. But she soon achieves a rapport with Buddy, becomes less wooden, more confident, garnishing her answers with the weary smile of one doing a distasteful but necessary duty.

Her testimony is almost an echo from ten years ago: different venue, different jury, same script. “I was researching an article about the fascinating world of the jewel thief.” “I realize now I was naïve, but I invited him up so we could continue our conversation.”

Fearful of being crossed up by Arthur, this reluctant witness has laboured over the transcripts of ten years ago, when she
stood up to him, brave and unbowed, winning the jury. Today, a little passion has been lost, as happens when a performer has lived with her lines too long. The jury seem confused about why they're hearing about these old events.

As her tale reaches its climax (“Suddenly there was a knife to my throat”), a student-at-law from Tragger Inglis approaches Arthur tentatively, as if he'll bite. He accepts her envelope: two copies of Munni Sidhoo's validated analysis.

When Buddy runs out of questions, Kroop asks, “Would you like to start now or this afternoon, Mr. Beauchamp?” A few days ago, before Kroop deserted the prosecution, he would have ordered him not to waste minutes of precious time.

“A few initial questions, milord.” He will banish Angella to that state of judicial limbo known as being under cross-examination. “I understand, Ms. Angella, that you appear here reluctantly.”

“I would have preferred not to do this again.”

Arthur nods. “This is difficult for you?”

“Very. It means one more time reliving my…my experience…” The sentence dies, incomplete, as she watches Arthur leaf through a glossy magazine.

“Let us rewind the clock. Ten years ago, the version you just gave was accepted by a jury.”

“Yes, I told the truth.”

“It led to my client's conviction and a ten-year prison sentence.”

“Yes, it did.”

“Six months after he was convicted,
Real Women
published your explicit account of the events you've described.” He holds up the magazine. “Your experience, as you put it.”

“Yes. Well, I'm a writer.”

Arthur asks about the cross-country lecture tours mentioned in her Web site, the many times she relived her experience before breakfast clubs, service clubs, women's groups.

“I want women to understand the trauma, what a victim has to go through, being bullied by lawyers.”

Kroop interrupts. “Bullied, madam?” Presumably he finds the proposition ludicrous. “We will adjourn to two o'clock. Witness, you may not discuss your evidence with anyone while you are under cross-examination.”