The Endless Knot (13 page)

“How bad is it going to be?” I asked.

Zack shrugged. “It depends on how prepared Howard is. Have you seen him?”

“We had breakfast together – at Humpty’s.”

Zack’s smile was faint. “How’s he doing?”

“He’s a little under the weather. He’ll be all right. Howard is a good man, Zack.”

“That may be true,” Zack said. “But he’s not my client.”

“Still …”

“There is no ‘still,’ ” Zack said. “Howard is the Crown’s chief witness against my client. His testimony can send Sam Parker to jail.”

“So you’re going to tear Howard apart.”

“I’m going to do what I have to do for my client.”

“No matter what,” I said.

Zack’s gaze didn’t waver. “No matter what. There’s a saying among criminal lawyers: ‘If you don’t have blood on your hands, you’re not doing your job.’ ” He turned his chair. “I do my job,” he said, then he wheeled over to the doors, hit the accessibility button, and disappeared inside.

After Zack left, I went to the courtroom in search of Howard. He wasn’t there. It was entirely possible Garth Severight and the Crown were keeping Howard hydrated and calmed, but somehow I doubted it, and when I went back to the lobby and saw a young lawyer from the Crown’s office frantically scrutinizing the lobby and the street, I knew I’d been right to worry. So far, Howard was a no-show.

I took a place on the bench beneath the mural and waited. I knew that, as he always had, Howard would come. The lobby emptied of press, interested parties, and spectators, and I was suddenly alone with that hollow-pit-in-the-stomach feeling I’d had as a child when I was late coming over from the dorms and I’d arrived to find the school halls empty and silent.

I had just about given up hope when Howard appeared. He no longer looked defeated or hungover. He just looked drunk. He was fumbling with a small metal tin of breath-mints, and he’d obviously given himself a fresh shellacking of Crown Royal. I took the tin from him, popped the corner, and handed it back to him. He threw a handful of mints into his mouth.

“Feeling better?” I asked.

“Like the bottom of a latrine,” he said. “But I’ll get through.”

I sniffed his breath. “You do realize that those things aren’t working,” I said.

Howard studied the label on the tin with a drunk’s care. “Freshens the breath,” he read. His eyes were sorrowful. “Seems like you can’t believe in anything any more, doesn’t it?”

His words were prescient. The first witness that morning was not Howard Dowhanuik, but his son, Charlie. When the court clerk called Charlie’s name, my heart lurched, but I wasn’t surprised. As promised, Zack had dropped by Charlie’s house with the baseball on Saturday afternoon. When I’d gone upstairs to help Pete unpack, Charlie had stayed behind with Zack. Now Charlie was in the witness box.

I stared at Zack, but he didn’t return my gaze. As Garth Severight took Charlie through his testimony, Zack never once looked my way. Charlie’s story was simple. He had approached Garth over the weekend and offered to substantiate Howard’s story. Garth had jumped at the offer.

Severight’s eagerness made sense. Howard was not an ideal witness. According to Zack, Linda Fritz knew Howard had a drinking problem and that he was hostile. She would willingly have left him off the Crown’s witness list except for one fact. Howard was prepared to testify that he had heard Sam Parker threaten Kathryn Morrissey and that he had seen Sam raise and aim the gun. Without Howard’s testimony, there would be a gaping hole in the Crown’s case. Howard might have been a compromised witness, but the Crown needed him. Charlie’s testimony could plug up the holes.

When Charlie took the stand, Brette Sinclair put her mouth to my ear. “Finally – something interesting.”

Hair neatly brushed back, shoes shined, suit pressed, Charlie was the epitome of the responsible citizen. He was also a very effective witness who told his story well. According to Charlie, his father had called him the evening of the shooting and asked him to come to the condominium. Although he and his father were estranged, Charlie had agreed. His father had been agitated on the telephone, and Charlie had been concerned that something had happened to a family member. As soon as Charlie arrived, his father described an incident that had happened twenty minutes earlier. According to Howard, he had been out in his yard when he heard a man shouting. In May, the trees between Howard’s condo and Kathryn’s were leafing, but he had a clear view of what had happened. The man, whom Howard recognized as Sam Parker, raised a gun, pointed it at Kathryn Morrissey, and pulled the trigger.

Howard told his son he had dialed 911 and reported the shooting. He had not left his name. Charlie suggested that 911 probably logged all incoming phone calls, and that Howard should prepare to be interviewed. He then made a pot of coffee for his father and stayed with him until a police constable arrived.

Zack’s eyes were hooded as Charlie testified. There were no interruptions to mar the silken flow of Charlie’s performance. When Garth Severight returned to his place at the Crown’s table, he was purring with satisfaction.

As Zack approached the witness box, Garth was still preening. Zack’s voice was warm. “Hello, Charlie. It was good of you to come forward the way you did.”

Charlie shrugged. “I try to do the right thing.”

“Still, a lot of people – especially young, successful people – might not have bothered.” I gazed at the jury box. For the first time since the trial started, the young jurors had dropped their masks of ironic detachment. Charlie D was famous. Suddenly, they were into the trial big time.

“Your testimony was very helpful in giving us a picture of exactly what happened that afternoon,” Zack said. “For example, you said that after you explained to your father that his call to 911 would have been logged and the police would be coming to his house, you made him a pot of coffee. Considering that you and your father were estranged, that was a friendly thing to do.”

“It was a necessary thing to do,” Charlie said firmly. “My father was drunk. He was in no condition …”

Severight was on his feet. “This is hardly relevant.”

Mr. Justice Harney overruled him. “It speaks to the competency of the case’s only eyewitness. I’ll allow it.” He turned to Charlie. “You may continue.”

“As I said, my father was drunk. I thought the coffee might sober him up so he could give a coherent explanation of what he’d seen.”

Zack was cool. “So your father wasn’t in a state where his words could be trusted?”

Severight was on his feet again. “The witness is not an expert on degrees of drunkenness, m’Lord.”

Zack smiled at Severight. “I’ll rephrase that. Charlie, could you describe your father’s state when you arrived at his condominium that evening.”

“He was slurring his words. His gait was unsteady. At one point, he tried to pour himself a drink and he missed the glass. He was very emotional – maudlin even.”

“Can you elaborate on that?”

“As I said, my father and I were estranged, and he was crying about that.”

“Anything in particular trigger this show of remorse?”

“He said that what Sam Parker did made him ashamed of himself.”

Zack narrowed his eyes. “Why would your father be ashamed of himself?”

Charlie turned towards the jury. “Because when Sam Parker’s child was betrayed, Sam did everything in his power to protect her.”

“And your father didn’t protect you?”

“How could he?” Charlie said. “He was the one who betrayed me.”

CHAPTER

8

After Charlie left the stand, there was silence in the courtroom. His revelation about Howard’s state on the night of the shooting was the stuff of prime-time drama, but it was Charlie’s anguish that stilled our tongues. A glance at the jury box was enough to see that the jurors had been deeply affected by Charlie’s pain. The notetaking man with the angry combover had capped his pen. Apparently, Charlie’s testimony had convinced him that human beings were a waste of ink.

I didn’t know whether it was a blessing or a curse that someone from the office of the Crown had decided to sequester Howard until it was time for him to testify, but as he climbed into the witness box, the question was irrelevant. Sam Parker’s freedom depended on what happened next.

Garth Severight greeted his star witness with the gush of a high school debater meeting a political idol. His game plan was built around Howard’s status as a former premier and a man of integrity; come hell or high water, he was going to stick with it. At first, it seemed Garth had made a good call. The hostility in the courtroom was palpable, but drunk or sober, Howard was a pro who had spent a lifetime gauging audiences. Our ex-premier delivered his testimony with enough self-deprecating references to his own bad judgment, pride, and stupidity to disarm all but the meanest of his foes.

It was a credible performance and, again, one that was not interrupted by the defence. Throughout Howard’s testimony, Zack peered over his glasses, faintly amused at Howard’s rueful admissions of fallibility, stone-faced as Howard acknowledged that he had been disloyal to his son. If Garth Severight sensed a storm brewing, he didn’t show it. When he finished his examination, the Chief prosecutor strode back to the Crown’s table and resumed his seat with the satisfied air of a man who once again could feel the wind beneath his wings.

As Zack manoeuvred his chair towards the witness box, my pulse spiked. He had told me once that if he’d had the lousy luck to be born in Spain, he would have been up shit creek because the continental European legal system didn’t permit cross-examination. That day, Zack wasn’t the one with the lousy luck. From the moment Zack gave Howard a sympathetic half-smile and bade him good morning, Howard was doomed.

“How tall are you, Mr. Dowhanuik?”

The question came out of left field, and Howard looked confused. “A little over six feet,” he said finally.

“You just told us that you happened to be gazing over your fence when you saw Mr. Parker enter Ms. Morrissey’s yard. Is that correct?”

“Yes.”

“But in his testimony, Constable Gerein said that the fence that separates your property from Ms. Morrissey’s is six and a half feet tall. To see what you described in your testimony, you must have been standing on tippytoe, Mr. Dowhanuik.”

There was a burst of nervous laughter in the courtroom. When Howard remained mute, Zack wheeled closer. “Were you standing on your tippytoes, Mr. Dowhanuik? That’s a question.”

“No,” Howard said.

Zack’s face wrinkled in exasperation. “Then how did you see what was going on?”

“I … there was a little stepladder against the fence.”

“A little stepladder – that’s right. Constable Gerein noted that too. So you heard a man’s voice, picked up your little stepladder, and moved it to the fence so you could see what was going on. Is that correct?”

Howard flushed crimson. “No, I was standing there.”

“On your little stepladder?”

“Yes.”

Zack made a moue of disgust. “Why ever would you be doing that?”

“I was watching.”

“You were watching Ms. Morrissey?”

Howard nodded.

“The court clerk needs your answer in words, Mr. Dowhanuik.”

“Yes,” Howard said. “I was watching Ms. Morrissey.”

“Was this the first time you spied on Ms. Morrissey when she was in the privacy of her yard?”

Howard’s face was an unhealthy crimson. “Not the first time, no. I’d been watching her for a week. Since the book was excerpted in the paper.”

“What are you, some kind of peeping Tom?”

Garth exploded from his seat. “Objection. Objection, m’Lord. Objection.” Rat-a-tat-tat.

Arthur Harney winced at Garth’s volley, but he sustained the objection.

“I’ll try again,” Zack said agreeably. “Mr. Dowhanuik, tell me why you were standing on a stepladder spying on your neighbour.”

Howard’s fire might have been dampened, but there was still a spark. “I wanted her to know that I was watching her.”

“Were you attempting to intimidate her?”

“I wanted to remind her that I was there.”

“You wanted to remind her that you were there?” Zack repeated the explanation mockingly. “After you moved next door to her, you and she spent many intimate hours in each other’s company. Ms. Morrissey’s a well-known journalist. Did she need you standing on your little stepladder peering in on her to remind her that you were her neighbour?”

“She needed to know how it felt to have her privacy violated,” Howard said defiantly. “She needed to know what it had been like for Charlie and me.”

“So you were angry at her for what she’d written about your family in her book.”

“Yes.”

“Is that why you didn’t go to her aid after she was shot?”

Howard’s head dropped. “I called 911,” he muttered.

“But after you called 911, you didn’t go to Ms. Morrissey to ascertain how badly she’d been wounded or to reassure her, did you?”

“No.”

“You weren’t in any danger, Mr. Dowhanuik. The assailant had fled the scene. You’ve testified to that. But instead of doing what 99 per cent of the people in this courtroom would have done, you left Ms. Morrissey out there bleeding and alone and you … What
did
you do after you called 911?”

Howard seemed confused. “I called my son,” he mumbled.

Zack sighed. “Now again, that doesn’t strike me as the course of action 99 per cent of us in this room would have followed. Why did you call Charlie?”

The casual use of Charlie’s name hit a nerve. For the first time, Howard seemed to realize that the defence knew more about his actions that afternoon than Garth Severight had led him to believe.

Zack withheld his next blow, but he made certain Howard knew it was coming. “I asked you a question, Mr. Dowhanuik,” he said. “The jury has heard your son’s version of what happened after he arrived at your condominium. What’s your version?”

“Charlie advised me.”

“Really. Now that is interesting. You hadn’t committed a crime. Unless we count the peeping Tom incident.” Zack waved his hand towards the Crown’s table. “I know. I know. I withdraw the characterization of the witness. But, Mr. Dowhanuik, this is where I’m having a problem following your thought processes. I know you were angry at Ms. Morrissey, but she’d been shot and you had witnessed the shooting. Why would you just hop off your ladder and leave Ms. Morrissey out in her yard alone and bleeding while you called your son for advice?”

“Because I was drunk,” Howard said.

“Ah,” Zack said with a Cheshire smile. “Finally, we’ve arrived at the crux of the matter. You were drunk. Were you so drunk, you couldn’t navigate the distance between your house and Ms. Morrissey’s? Officer Gerein paced off the path between where you were standing on your little ladder and the spot where Ms. Morrissey was enjoying her wine. He testified it was less than ten metres. That’s not much of a walk. It was still early – 4:30 in the afternoon. How many drinks had you had?”

“I don’t know,” Howard said. “It had been a difficult time.”

“You mean the time since you became aware of what Ms. Morrissey had written about Charlie in your book.”

“Yes.”

“The fact that you’d played the role of Deep Throat for her must have made the situation even more depressing.” Zack wheeled closer to the witness box. “And you were already depressed, weren’t you? You were using the prescription drug Paxil?”

“Yes.”

“And …” Zack looked at his notes. “Your drug regimen also includes prescriptions for high blood pressure, high cholesterol, and something else …” Zack squeezed his eyes shut in concentration. “Chronic back pain – Charlie said you were also being treated for chronic back pain.”

Garth Severight rose to protest Charlie’s information as hearsay, and Mr. Justice Harney upheld his objection. It didn’t matter. The knockout punch had been delivered. Howard knew that his son had revealed everything to the defence. Bruised, battered, and desperate, Howard was a fighter on the ropes, but Zack kept pummelling. “That’s quite the chemical stew, Mr. Dowhanuik. I’m certain your doctor didn’t suggest that you add alcohol to the mix.”

“No, my doctor told me not to drink.”

“And still you drank.”

“I did.”

“How many drinks have you had today, Mr. Dowhanuik?”

“I don’t know.”

“More than three?”

“Yes.”

“Five? Six?”

“I don’t measure.”

“Do you have a flask of liquor with you right now?”

“Yes.”

“And you’ve taken all your medications?”

“Yes.” Zack turned his chair so that his back was to Howard. “We’ve been pretty close to each other for the past twenty minutes. Do I wear eyeglasses?”

“I didn’t notice.”

Zack turned, faced Howard, and adjusted the black wire-framed glasses he’d worn throughout the cross-examination. “Let’s try again, Mr. Dowhanuik. What colour was the dress Ms. Morrissey was wearing on May 16?”

“I don’t remember.”

“Blue. Ms. Morrissey was wearing a blue dress. Attention to detail doesn’t seem to be your strong suit, Mr. Dowhanuik. But we’ll persevere. On the afternoon of the incident, was Ms. Morrissey sitting or standing.”

“Sitting at a kind of little table.”

“Was she reading or staring off into space, or what?”

“I think she was reading.”

“Just to let you know, there was no reading material found at the scene, Mr. Dowhanuik, so wrong again.” Zack glanced over at Garth Severight. “Usually, the Crown does a better job of coaching its witnesses.”

Severight popped out of his chair. “I object.”

“Sustained,” Arthur Harney barked. “Cheap shot, Mr. Shreve.”

“I apologize, m’Lord. So, Mr. Dowhanuik, Ms. Morrissey was sitting at her little table. Then, according to your version of events, my client entered her yard through the side gate and said what?”

“I don’t remember his exact words.”

“You remembered them an hour ago.”

Howard pinched the bridge of his nose and stared at his knees.

Zack was unrelenting. “Do we need ask the court clerk to read you the words that you swore were true an hour ago. I’m confused, Mr. Dowhanuik. An hour ago, you swore under oath that you remembered exactly what my client said to Ms. Morrissey. Word for word. And now you don’t remember. Could you give us a paraphrase?”

“I don’t think so.”

“But you
testified
. You swore on the Bible that what you were about to say was the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God. You were so confident of your memory then that you swore that you could relate exactly what was said on May 16. That was five months ago, Mr. Dowhanuik. All I’m asking is that you paraphrase what you said an hour ago. Surely you can remember what you told us an hour ago?”

Howard stared fixedly at the knees of his pants, as if he hoped that somehow the answer would appear there. It didn’t. After an agonizing wait, he finally responded, “No, I can’t.”

Zack was looking intently at the jury. Aristotle understood the mix of pity and terror an audience feels at the fall of a good man. Zack might or might not have read Aristotle, but he could read a jury and he knew this one had had enough. When he spoke again, his voice was kind.

“Mr. Dowhanuik, no one here today wants to humiliate you. As my friend pointed out repeatedly, you are an expremier. Why don’t I just take a stab at relating what was said, and if anything I say differs substantially from what you swore to an hour ago, you sing out. Fair enough?”

“Yes,” Howard said.

“Good,” Zack said. “Now, I’m an ordinary guy. I don’t have total recall. A lot of time, I have problems remembering where I parked my car, but I think I can convey the gist of your testimony about the conversation between Ms. Morrissey and my client. According to you, when Ms. Morrissey spotted my client, she said ‘What are you doing here?’ He replied, ‘This is destroying my family. I thought perhaps if we talked …’ At that point, Ms. Morrissey cut him off, saying, ‘Your lawyer has already been in touch with my publishers. You have no grounds for a lawsuit. The book is in the stores. It’s too late …’ Am I in the ballpark so far, Mr. Dowhanuik?”

“Yes,” Howard whispered.

“You told us that, at that point, Mr. Parker took out a pistol, aimed it at Ms. Morrissey, and said, ‘How does it feel to know this might be the last day of your life?’ And then you remember a gunshot. Surely, you can fill us in on the circumstances of
that
moment. A man’s freedom depends on your answer. What happened in the seconds before the shot was fired, Mr. Dowhanuik?”

“I don’t remember. It was all so fast. One minute she was sitting in her chair drinking wine, the next she was on the ground bleeding.”

Zack exhaled as if relieved at the completion of a distasteful task. “Thank you, Mr. Dowhanuik, the people appreciate your co-operation.”

Like a felon, Howard bolted from the witness box. Zack wheeled into his exit path, blocking him. “You were a lawyer, Mr. Dowhanuik. You must remember that you’re supposed to wait for Mr. Justice Harney to tell you that you may step down.”

For a brief and heartbreaking moment, the two men at the centre of my life faced each other. Whether it was the booze or the disgrace, Howard was unsteady on his feet; in his wheelchair, Zack was a coiled spring. “You didn’t let me finish,” he said. “Ms. Morrissey was not found bleeding on the ground. She had gone inside her home, and was putting pressure on her wound. She, too, called 911. When the
EMS
arrived, she opened her front door and admitted them herself.

“Mr. Dowhanuik, I hope you know that our encounter today has brought me no pleasure. My friend is right in saying that most of us know you as a fine, upstanding citizen, the clear-eyed leader of our province, but liquor and drugs have a way of distorting vision, of making a person see things, not as they are but as he wishes they might have been.” Zack wheeled over to the jury box. “Members of the jury, judges of facts, when you deliberate over Mr. Dowhanuik’s testimony, remember what you saw today – a man stitched and bruised from a drunken fall, his eyes bloodshot, his hands trembling, who, despite what I’m certain was diligent coaching from the Crown, was unable to get his story straight. Ask yourself if you would want your fate determined by the testimony of this man. Ask yourself if the testimony he delivered and then couldn’t remember an hour later was the truth or some drunken, drug-addled fantasy he spun out of his desperation and guilt.” Zack wheeled back to the defence table. As if as an afterthought, he threw Howard the sentence that liberated him. “Oh, no more questions.”