Man in the Shadows (26 page)

Conor knew where this was leading, and he got to the inevitable point. “I saw footprints in the snow.”

James O’Reilly triumphantly introduced as evidence a boot that matched the footprint. He declared that he would later prove it belonged to James Whelan. Whelan silently shook his head, but all
eyes were on O’Reilly as he posed his next question to Conor. “You say you never saw his face, but this man you were pursuing, do you recall what was he wearing?”

“He was wearing a long grey coat and a black cap.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, sir, I am.”

James O’Reilly triumphantly held up a grey coat and showed it to the jurors. “This is the coat found in James Whelan’s room. Did the coat look like this?”

Conor had sworn to tell the truth, and the truth was “Yes, sir. The coat looked like that.”

Hillyard Cameron rose to cross-examine Conor. He spoke firmly. “Would you please tell the court how many men you saw yesterday wearing a similar coat?”

James O’Reilly jumped up to object that the question was immaterial, and Mr. Justice Richards agreed. Conor thought the question was a good one, but he never got a chance to answer.

THE
next witness was Mary Ann Trotter. She recounted the moment of D’Arcy McGee’s death. She had heard him fumbling with his keys and was opening the door for him when he was shot. She saw a flash. And McGee’s falling body. But she saw no one on the street.

Then she told a story Conor hadn’t heard before. Just hours before the murder, James Whelan came to the Toronto House, looking for a drink. Mrs. Trotter served him tea. Whelan insisted she give him a pen and paper, but she refused and he left.

Conor considered the impact of her testimony. O’Reilly was trying to show that Whelan was checking out the location before the murder. But, he thought, so what? A boot print, a grey coat and strange behaviour on the night of the murder did not add up
to convincing evidence. The prosecution needed an eyewitness. Rumours were flying through the courtroom. Maybe tomorrow.

THE
next day, James Whelan appeared in the prisoner’s dock with a green ribbon in his lapel. Again, the courtroom was packed. Everyone was eager to hear from a short, stocky man from Quebec, Jean-Baptiste Lacroix.

Lacroix had appealed to give his testimony in French, but Mr. Justice Richards refused. The predominantly English-speaking crowd in the courtroom was relieved. It didn’t strike Conor as fair.

James O’Reilly got to his point quickly. “Tell the court what you saw on Sparks Street the morning of April 7, Monsieur Lacroix.”

“I saw two men,” Lacroix answered in a thick accent. “One was just about to enter a house on the south side of the street. I saw another man come up behind him, raise his arm and fire a gun.” The courtroom crowd rumbled with excitement. The judge scowled, and there was immediate silence. No one wanted to miss a word. “After he fired the shot, the man walked toward me, but I walked away as fast as I could. I did not cross over to see the man. I was too frightened.”

Conor was perplexed. He had been there, if not the instant the shot was fired, then just seconds after. Why hadn’t he seen Lacroix?

O’Reilly carried on. “Did you ever see the man who fired the shot?”

“Yes.”

“Where?”

“In the jailhouse.”

“Do you see him in this room?”

Lacroix pointed toward James Whelan in the prisoner’s dock. “Yes, that is the man there.”

Conor thought Hillyard Cameron appeared shaken. Lacroix claimed to be an eyewitness. There were unanswered questions and clear discrepancies in his testimony. Cameron had to expose them and discredit this witness, or his case would be lost. He walked toward Lacroix like a predatory animal sizing up a smaller beast.

“Mr. Lacroix, did you see anyone else on Sparks Street that night?”

“No. I did not.”

“So there is no one who can substantiate your testimony that you were there?”

“I suppose not.”

Cameron looked doubtful. “You say you saw Mr. McGee shot?”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you go over to him?”

“As I said, I was much too frightened.”

Cameron nodded. A logical answer, he thought. And an opportunity. If he could establish Lacroix as a coward, it would be an easy step to portray him as a liar. He looked at the jury but spoke to Lacroix. “If I have this straight, you abandoned the victim.” He paused, sighed and let the thought settle. “Then where did you go?”

“I went home.”

“Did you speak to anybody about what you had seen?”

“No. I said I was fright—”

“Ah yes, you were too frightened. Did you go to the police?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

Lacroix just stared at him.

Cameron didn’t let go. “Were you still too frightened, Mr. Lacroix?”

“Yes,” he answered quietly.

“When did you lose your fright? One, two, three days later?”

As O’Reilly jumped to his feet, Cameron waved his arm in the
air dismissively. “The important question is, Mr. Lacroix, when did you hear there was a reward for information about the crime?”

Lacroix was starting to sweat. “Wednesday.”

“That was three days later.”

“Yes.”

The smaller animal was now firmly in the predator’s grasp.

“Mr. Lacroix, where did you hear that there was a reward?”

“At Lapierre’s Tavern.”

Conor looked up, startled.

“Please tell the court what you heard about the reward in the … uhmm, bar?”

“Some said it was large,” Lacroix answered. “Others said it was small. I didn’t know.”

Cameron paused, then spoke firmly. “It was $16,000, Mr. Lacroix. A lot of money.” He was walking away from Lacroix as he asked, “Did you tell people you saw Mr. McGee’s murder before or after you heard about the reward?”

“Before,” Lacroix practically shouted.

“But you told the authorities after,” Cameron shouted back, sarcastically adding, “didn’t you?”

As Lacroix nodded, Hillyard Cameron rolled his eyes. But the predator was not finished. “Mr. Lacroix, is it not true that when you first went to see the defendant in jail, you said you did not recognize him?”

“No, I said it was difficult for me to recognize him because he wasn’t dressed the same way.”

“But if you were able to recognize him by his face, what difference would his clothes make?”

Lacroix looked confused. Cameron deliberately looked exasperated.

“So tell the court when you finally did recognize him.”

“I did when I saw him dressed in the same clothes.”

“So you recognized him by his grey coat, is that right?”

As Lacroix uttered a feeble “No, it was him,” Cameron sadly shook his head. “I’m glad my overcoat is black,” he muttered under his breath, but loudly enough for the jury to hear. “No more questions, my Lord.”

The predator let the smaller beast go.

N
o matter how Hillyard Cameron tried to prevent it, the noose was tightening around James Whelan’s neck. As each new person testified, the defence lawyer did his best to challenge their stories or their credibility. It was an uphill battle.

He knew that for his client to live, he had to deal with the murder weapon. James O’Reilly had made quite a spectacle of brandishing the gun. “It had recently been fired,” he declared. “One chamber is empty. It housed the bullet that killed D’Arcy McGee.”

Dramatic, impressive and easily refuted, thought Cameron. Yes, Whelan owned a Smith and Wesson, and yes, that was the make of gun that had been used to kill McGee. But it was also the most popular revolver in Canada.

Much of Cameron’s case, and James Whelan’s fate, would depend on the testimony of Euphemie Lafrance. She was a tiny young woman with fearful eyes, a vicious cough and a thick French accent.

“I used to work for Monsieur Starr,” she told the court. “I make the beds.”

“Including James Whelan’s?”

“Yes.”

Cameron could see how nervous she was. She might have expected he would treat her as harshly as he had Lacroix. Instead,
he spoke gently and fatherly. “Did you have an accident in Whelan’s room?”

“Well, yes, with the pistol.”

Cameron picked up Whelan’s revolver. “With this pistol?”

“If that is Monsieur Whelan’s, then yes.” She coughed quickly, then resumed her story. “It was between his mattress and the pillow. I found it making his bed. It was natural.”

She stopped talking, as if looking for approval. Hillyard Cameron said simply, “Go on.”

“I picked it up and it went off, wounding my arm.”

“When did this happen?”

“Maybe six weeks after the new year.”

“Before Mr. McGee was killed?”

“Oui.”

The word seemed to echo through the courtroom,
Oui.
She was saying that Whelan’s gun did not kill McGee. Conor was stunned.

Perhaps Hillyard Cameron should not have smiled so broadly, because juries don’t approve of lawyers gloating, but the trial was starting to turn in his favour. He had one more key question: “Do you have a scar?”

Euphemie Lafrance rolled up her sleeve and showed what was clearly a scar. It certainly looked as if a bullet had grazed her arm. There was commotion in the courtroom as people strained to see. John Hillyard Cameron sat down, smiling. But his triumph would be short-lived.

JAMES
O’Reilly stood confidently and declared, “I would like to call Joseph Faulkner to the stand.” Conor recognized Joe Faulkner immediately from the election campaign in Montreal. Faulkner was one of McGee’s critics, but he was no hothead. He sincerely believed
D’Arcy McGee had been inciting the Fenians with his virulent attacks. “A noble man,” McGee had described him. “A fool to disagree with me, but true to his convictions nonetheless.”

“Do you know the defendant?” O’Reilly asked.

“Yes,” Faulkner answered, to Conor’s surprise.

“Did you know D’Arcy McGee?”

“Of course.”

Conor felt that Joe Faulkner looked very credible on the stand. He wondered where O’Reilly was going to go with his questioning.

“During the election last summer, how would you characterize Mr. Whelan’s behaviour?”

“He was against McGee.”

“Mr. Faulkner, would it be fair to say that you recall James Whelan as a particularly vocal member of the opposition?”

Faulkner hesitated. Sometimes men said things they didn’t mean. Jim Whelan was a braggart, not at all like the quiet, subdued man perched in the prisoner’s dock. He drank too much, said too much and said it too loudly.

The judge interrupted his deliberation. “It is a perfectly clear question. Please answer.”

“Yes, he was vocal,” Faulkner replied, knowing well that further questions would demand a fuller and more damning response.

“Did you overhear any conversations involving Mr. Whelan concerning Mr. McGee?”

“Well, when Mr. McGee was speaking at Jolicoeur’s Saloon, I distinctly heard him yell, ‘McGee’s a traitor and deserves to be shot.’”

“‘He deserves to be shot,’” O’Reilly repeated. “What else did you hear?”

“I remember him and another man talking about Mr. McGee. The other man was encouraging Whelan and calling McGee every name in the book. He asked him, ‘If you got the chance, would you shoot
him?’ Whelan said, ‘I’d take McGee’s life as quick as drink a cup of tea.’” There was a gasp from the courtroom crowd. “Whelan did a lot of bragging. I remember the other man patting his back affectionately. He knew I was listening to their conversation. I don’t think Whelan knew.”

“What exactly did the defendant say?”

Joseph Faulkner answered carefully and deliberately. Each word seemed to hang in the air. “He said, ‘If McGee is elected, the old pig won’t reign too long. I’ll blow his bloody brains out before the session is over.’”

James O’Reilly smiled proudly. Whelan’s eyes were widening with fear. He had developed a slight twitch at the side of his mouth. Conor also noticed that the jurors were no longer looking at the defendant with curiosity; they were glaring at him with contempt.

“Thank you, Mr. Faulkner. No more questions.”

HILLYARD
Cameron approached Joseph Faulkner carefully. This was not a man to toy with or belittle. No doubt he had heard Whelan say those things, but that did not mean he carried them out. “Mr. Faulkner,” he began cordially, “the other man—‘the stranger,’ as you called him—do you remember what he was wearing?”

“Not really, but he was carrying a grey coat, I believe.”

Cameron smiled. Another man with a grey coat. It was a step forward. A small one. But a step nonetheless. “Can you describe the other man?”

“I’m sorry, but not really. He was of medium height and wore a black hat well over his head. He had sideburns, I think. I saw him, but I’m not sure I would recognize him again. I know that’s not a very satisfactory answer—in fact, it’s rather strange—but it’s the truth.”

Hillyard Cameron had been taught as a young trial lawyer never to ask a question if he did not know the answer, but he allowed
himself to be swayed by the enticing thought of another man as a possible suspect. Was Faulkner thinking what he was thinking? He took a chance and asked an unprepared question. “When you first heard of the murder of D’Arcy McGee, what did you think?”

“I thought, ‘Good God! It’s nobody but Whelan that shot him!’”

Cameron turned away from the jurors so they would not see his look of horror and embarrassment.

He knows his case is lost, Conor thought.

THE
parlour in Mrs. Trotter’s boarding house was decorated with large, ornately carved dark furniture. Much of it had come with the place and belonged to the landlord, George Desbarats, but Mary Ann Trotter’s own knick-knacks and keepsakes were everywhere, adding her personality to the room. Meg sat alone on the sofa, curled up in a blanket. She had been reading the newspaper reports on the trial, but the paper lay in disarray on her lap. She was breathing deeply, gently falling asleep.

She did not hear him enter the house.

He moved stealthily, settling in a chair across the room. For a few minutes, he simply watched her. In sleep, she was so tranquil, so calm. He could use some serenity now. He kept staring at Meg. Her right eye twitched. She sensed someone in the room. Clutching the blanket, she opened her eyes in terror.