I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel (32 page)

Bull-like, thick-necked Walt Lorenzo embraced the Bible with even more ardour than his comrades-in-arms, an audible smooch on the spine. There seemed a corollary there: the more flagrant the intended perjury, the more showy the reverence.

He was methodical in answering Lukey's questions, describing in monotonic detail his laborious campaign to bond with the accused. The pridefulness that was so apparent in his written statement had been coached away; he'd been told to stick tightly to a script.

He seemed less than razor sharp – certainly duller of mind than Knepp – so I expected him to be not as good a counterpuncher. I hoped he would reveal himself in cross as the lousy ham actor Gabriel had made so bold as to call him to his face.

Smitty again wandered in late after another successful dining experience, and upon settling into his chair he closed his eyes, seemingly lulled to sleep by the witness's emotionless recounting of how he infiltrated the enemy camp.

Finally Lorenzo slogged his way to Day Nineteen – confession day – when he'd shared with Gabriel his tale of dealing a death blow in an alley scuffle. “I told the accused it was him or me; I had to kill him.”

“Give us that in your own words,” Lukey said.

Lorenzo seemed unable to elaborate. “I said, ‘It was him or me. I had to kill him.' ”

“Just for the record,” said Lukey, “was there any truth to that story?”

“It was my invention, sir.”

Supposedly overcome with a burning need to share, the accused had described how he'd planned to waylay Mulligan at the fishing hole and send him to his reward for having mistreated children at “some kind of Indian school in Saskatchewan.” Lorenzo's account of this alleged conversation was remarkably similar in wording and sequence to his written version, right to the end: “He shot him as he flailed.”

“Your witness.”

I drew a half-chewed pencil from my mouth as I gained my feet.
“I understand you've earned quite a reputation as an undercover performance artist.”

He didn't hear the sarcasm. “Thank you, sir. It's something I'm often asked to do.” Warming to the topic: “I've been told I have a way with people.”

“A talent for the stage.”

“Maybe.”

“Ever had any training as an actor?”

“No, sir. I just have whatever talent God gave me.”

“Is this your specialty – posing as a prisoner?”

“Not really. Mostly it's drug purchases. I guess I've done the jail thing five, six times, different places across the country. Ontario, the Maritimes. Even Iowa, on loan to the U.S. Bureau of Narcotics.” His hubris finally showing.

“Typically you would play the role for how long?”

“That varies. I got one confession after three hours. On average, I'm at it maybe a few days.”

“But this operation took nineteen. Ever heard of anything similar, outside the
USSR
? An undercover officer sharing a suspect's cell for three weeks?”

“No, I guess that wouldn't be the usual experience.”

“Unheard of, in fact. There were times, I'll bet, when you wanted to give up.”

“Well, that wasn't my decision, totally.”

“Whose decision was it?”

“The officer in charge.”

“Your good friend Roscoe Knepp.”

“I've known him for some years, yes.”

“And he said, ‘Keep at it, Walt. Give it another week, another few days' – that sort of thing?”

“He encouraged me.”

“Throughout your twenty-one-day tenure at Oakalla Prison Farm, you met with him privately at least a few times a week?”

“Yes, in an interview room there. When I was supposed to be seeing, like, a lawyer, maybe, or the visiting priest.”

“You'd consult, plan tactics.”

“And I'd write out my notes from the previous day or two.”

“And he'd coach you.”

“No, sir, he'd ask questions. Debrief me.”

“You've known Roscoe since you were young constables in Grande Prairie, Alberta – 1947 to 1950, is that correct?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Kept in contact over the years?”

“Sure. Our wives too. We'd call each other. Exchange Christmas cards.”

“Visit each other on holidays?”

“Sometimes. Camping with our trailers, that sort of thing. Cookouts.”

“You'd go off to places together too. Reno, where else?”

“Fishing lodges. Disneyland with our kids.”

“You consider him one of your very best friends.”

“One of many, sir.”

I wasn't getting much traction. “Okay, back to your efforts as a jailhouse informer. Despite your persistence, the accused declined to talk about the case for twenty straight days, yes? Except to say he was being framed for murder.”

“As I explained, he was a little slow to warm up to me.”

“He was quiet, uncommunicative, right? You'd play some cards, some chess, but he hardly ever talked.”

“That's … Yeah, well, Natives are like that, I found.”

There came another sound from the back, like a half-smothered expletive – Brady, of course – and I pressed on quickly. “When you told him you supported the Communist Party, what was his reaction?”

“He kind of nodded and smiled. I took that as approval.”

“And when you said you were part Indian, how did he react?”

“Pretty much the same. I think he appreciated my sharing that.”

“It was a lie, of course.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Another approach you made was to suggest an escape plan. What did you propose exactly?”

“I never got into details. He didn't seem interested.”

“Did the accused strike you as slow on the uptake?”

“No, he was pretty smart, actually. A reader. He was learning French.”

“Beat you regularly at chess.”

“I wasn't really trying.”

“And you didn't think this smart fellow had guessed what your real game was?”

“Apparently not.”

“Come now, Corporal, from the outset it was clear, was it not, that he distrusted you?”

“I can't say what was in his mind.”

“So on Saturday, the twenty-sixth of May, you tearfully regurgitated to him some nonsense about a murder you claimed to have bottled up.”

“You could put it that way, I guess.”

“Over a game of cribbage?”

“Yes, sir.”

I read to him from his notes:
I told him my secret was torturing me and he was the first person I'd ever told this, because he was like a brother
. “Suddenly he's like a brother? Where did that come from?”

“I considered it important to let him know how close I felt to him.”

“And so when you told your tale of a back-alley brawl, breaking a man's neck, you felt this intelligent young fellow fell for that hook, line, and sinker?”

“Yes, sir.”

“In fact, witness, he said you were a lousy actor who wouldn't be winning any Oscars with that pitiful performance.” Commotion at the press table.

“He didn't say that. He told me how he planned to kill Professor Mulligan.”

“What exactly do you claim he said?”

“He told me he planned to confront the deceased at his fishing hole and make him take his clothes off so he could fake a suicide, but the deceased tried to grab his rifle and there was a tussle and he, ah, threw him down over the rocks, into the river, where he shot him …” – a pause as he fought to get it exactly right – “… as he flailed.”

Again, almost word-perfect from his original notes. The only difference:
he hurled him
became
he threw him
. Those notes were signed and dated
27-05-62, at 0910 hours
. In more relaxed format, May 27, at nine-ten in the morning. Sunday, not Saturday.

“Give us that in your own words,” I said, mimicking Lukey.

“Exactly?”

“Yes, the words the accused spoke to you. Each and every one. I don't want to be surprised later on to find you've added or amended something.”

“Okay, well, the accused said, ‘My plan was to confront' … no, ‘meet the deceased' … or he would have said ‘Dr. Mulligan' … I didn't write down his exact words, just a summary.”

“Why not the exact words?”

“I memorized the substance. It was some time later before I could put things on paper.”

“How much later?”

“Well, I had to wait for the morning – that would be around nine o'clock. A meeting with my lawyer was scheduled.” He put
lawyer
in wiggling finger quotes.

“That doesn't register on the transcript, Corporal.” Hammersmith's tone seemed almost apologetic. Throughout, he had been treating this poseur with the benevolence owed a favourite son-in-law.

“Sorry, milord. The lawyer, unquote, was actually my case officer.”

“Sergeant Knepp,” I said.

“Yes, sir.”

Smitty's eyes were still closed but I knew he was listening. Was that a smile? Did he feel I was finally making some limping progress?

“So something like twelve or thirteen hours after this allegedly teary cribbage game, you sat down with Roscoe to write this up?”

“I recorded my conversation with the accused to the best of my memory.”

“I see, and did Roscoe try to jog your memory with little additions here and there?”

“No, sir.”

I waited, staring hard at him, daring him to break the silence, expand on his simple answer. It was a technique I'd seen Smitty use many times to good effect – encouraging witnesses to go off script.

Finally he said, “I know what you're implying.”

“What am I implying, Corporal?”

“That my memory isn't perfect.”

“I'm implying a lot more than that, but surely you agree that your memory in fact isn't perfect?”

He had to think about that. “I guess not. No one but God is perfect, I guess.” Then, earnestly: “Mr. Beauchamp, I would never lie about something like this. I would never lie in a courtroom.”

Said like a polished, seasoned liar, but others not so cynical – most of those who packed that courtroom, the jurors – likely heard sincerity. I'd expected Lorenzo to come across as shallow and vainglorious, had prepared poorly for him.

“So here we have the two of you in a cell, confessing to your crimes. The accused was emotional, choked up. Surely to goodness the whole wing of cells could hear your wailing and sobbing.”

“I didn't say we were loud. Nobody was wailing.”

“So my client spoke in a low voice? Hard to hear him?”

“I got most of it.”

“You said, and I quote, ‘He got very choked up so I didn't get his full meaning.”

“He was talking about the deceased presiding over an Indian school in Saskatchewan, and he'd committed or been involved in some physical or sexual assaults – that's the gist of what I heard. He was clear about pretty well everything else.”

“Come on, now, Corporal, let's be fair. If all this transpired
as you claim it did – a major cathartic scene, emotions running high – the accused's words could easily have been misconstrued. Correct? Is that fair?”

“I always recorded to the best of my ability what he said, so help me God.” (Only later, on reading the transcript, did I become mindful of his tendency toward extraneous pieties. One assumes he saw Gabriel, an atheistic communist, as an enemy of the Church. More motivation for him to lie, though it may seem unchristian to say so.)

“According to your version, there was some kind of struggle for the rifle. During that, the deceased fell over some rocks into the river. He could have stumbled, right?”

“I have in my notes, sir, that the accused hurled him down over the rocks.”

“Gabriel could easily have said,
I heard him go down over the rocks.”

“That's not what he said. Because he added, ‘I shot him as he flailed.' ”

“But you're not sure those were his exact words. He was talking in a low voice, you said, sobbing and gasping, so he was hardly distinct. He could have said,
I shouted at him as he flailed.”

“That's definitely not what I heard.”

It was nearing four-thirty. The last witness, the last day of this hearing. I couldn't allow it to end on such a contrary note; I sought a rhetorical flourish: “What you did hear correctly, Corporal, was a calm affirmation on Day Four, when you asked him what he was in jail for. In his exact words, his answer was …?”

He looked from me to Lukey, to the judge, but got no help. “He said, ‘I'm being framed for murder.' ”

I resisted the urge to punch that home. Why spoil the moment with overkill? I sat.

Hammersmith remained stone-faced. “Ten o'clock tomorrow.”

From “Where the Squamish River Flows,”
A Thirst for Justice
, © W. Chance

DESPITE THAT LOVELY LITTLE TOUCH at the end, Beauchamp was clearly disappointed with the day's effort. A loss to Knepp, a draw with Lorenzo, when he had needed to deliver each a shattering blow.

The bits of cross-examination reproduced above show the best and the worst of him, and the worst of him was sad indeed. Note how often he telegraphed his punches. Be it remembered, however, that at twenty-five he was far from attaining the form of his prime years, when he could disarm a witness with a smile while slitting his throat.

Nor had he learned to make full use of his large, commanding voice or imbue it with emotion. (In subsequent years he got over inhibitions about doing so by fortifying the defence table's water pitcher with gin.)

It should surprise no one that the troika of Knepp, Lorenzo, and Jettles defended so well against our young challenger. These were not rookies; all had been in court many times, the two senior officers battle-hardened veterans, all led expertly by their commanding officer, Leroy Lukey, who had drilled them relentlessly. (This was confirmed to me by Gene Borachuk.)