Trial of Passion (50 page)

The psychiatrist attempts to interrupt, but Kimberley's torrid stream of consciousness will not be dammed. “Jonathan, I can't hold
on.
Come inside me. Yes, you can. Oh, please, don't. Oh, my God! Stop! Oh, Jonathan!”

“You
must
return to the courtroom, Kimberley.”

Perhaps she doesn't hear him, so lost in bliss is she, writhing, her hips moving with sensuous rhythm, her legs splayed apart. Dr. Kropinski rises hurriedly from his chair and moves to her.

“Kimberley . . .”

“Oh, please help me, God! Yes, yes, there, there! Oh, yes. Right
there!
Oh, God,
yes!
” An exuberant scream of fulfilment.

“Kimberley, please.” He is gently shaking her by the shoulder.

She sighs deeply. “Wow.”

“You're back in the courtroom with me. Do you understand?”

“Sure.” She giggles. “He looked so
funny,
Dr. Kropinski. He had lipstick all over his face. I laughed and laughed. And you know what? He turned me around on my tummy and
spanked
me.” She emits another gay peal; then, as if disappointed that her merriment has been met with silence, frowns and shrugs. “I guess you had to be there.”

“You will awake. At the count of three you will awake.”

She sighs. “Will I remember?”

“You will remember.”

“Oh, dear.”

“One, two, three.”

When she comes to, she is clearly puzzled for a moment. Then her face expands in surprise, eyes enlarging, mouth opened in a silent gasp, and she brings both hands to her mouth, covering it, then her entire face. Fingers part, and she peeks between them, at Patricia.

“Gag me,” she says.

She flashes a quick look at Jonathan as a muted shade of Shameless red continues to rise up her throat and cheeks.

The lights go on. Wally Sprogue, flushed, too, a sheen of sweat upon his forehead, adjourns court breathlessly. Most of the jurors seem shell-shocked as they retreat from their bunker, but the doughty Hedy Jackson-Blyth casts an accusing look at me, as if I have pulled off some unworthy stunt, destroying a young woman for the sake of a mere acquittal.

Kimberley is now being led out by Dr. Kropinski, a protective arm around her shoulders. One of her hands is still clasped over her eyes, but with the other she pulls from an open handbag a large blue handkerchief — her gift from Jonathan — and veils her face with it. Jonathan is looking at her with immense solemnity and awe.

The audience files out, stupefied, silent. Beside me, Augustina is trying to hide a secret smile as she studies Jonathan, who is still dazedly staring at the emptying court.

Patricia shakes my hand. “Win some, lose some. You were brilliant, of course, you son of a bitch.”

“Nonsense. You were much the sharper of us. Managed to fumble my way through it, that's all.”

“I'll enter a stay.”

“If you'd be so kind, may we have a formal verdict from the jury?”

“You're entitled to that. Help me drown my sorrows in the El Beau Room?”

“I'm sorry, I may have to run for the ferry.”

All but a few of the audience have left — a young man remains, eyes closed, head lolling, an accidental victim of Dr. Kropinski. We watch as SheriffWillit shakes him awake.

Jonathan hugs Jane Dix, then offers his hand to me.

“Arthur, I can't tell you. . . .” He is lost for words. “I'll talk to you later, I'm numb. “What is this curious, distant glitter in his eyes? Not relief, not joy . . . something more potent. He blinks damply, parts hurriedly from me, and races from court, deserting Jane, who looks bewildered at this sudden retreat. Too much manly pride to permit a show of tears?

“Judge would like to see counsel,” says the clerk.

The courtroom door opens again, and here comes a beaming Gowan Cleaver, hand outstretched.

“I'll meet you in chambers,” says Augustina, and she beats a hasty retreat, leaving me to deal with the miscreant. Gowan heartily grasps my hand.

“So I hear O'Donnell gives great head. Everyone in the building is talking about it. Fantastic coup, Arthur.”

“Finished your argument, Gowan?”

“Just.”

“Then do me a favour.”

“Yours is but to ask.”

“I'd like you to run down to the nearest florist and buy five dozen roses for Augustina Sage.”

“Arthur, that's asking a bit much. Christ, we can get one of the
students . . .”

I scribble a note on the back of a business card, and hand it to him. “We'll be in Wally's chambers. You may leave them with his clerk.”

“Look, I'm sorry about that screw-up “

I walk off. This minor chore seems an insufficient purgatory, but Gowan has found me in a generous mood.

A boisterous Wally brings a bottle of single malt from his bar, offers rounds to the non-teetotallers, a more-than-generous dollop for himself.

“Your chap likes to spice it up with a little kink, I gather. A spanking good time, eh? Yes, I figured it out almost from the beginning. Obvious as a billboard that she never really blacked out on that couch. No, she fell asleep later, on the bed, during a pause in their games. Freaked out when she was jumped from behind, brought the whole childhood trauma back. Of course Beauchamp had to make a big production of it. Overdid things a bit, I thought; I might have handled it another way, but what the hell.”

Comfortable, slouched in a chair, I refuse to be baited by Wally in his effort to sand the gloss from my victory. “I've underestimated you, Wally. You saw through our little scheme.”

Augustina shrugs helplessly in agreement.

“I know you only too well, Beauchamp. So what's the right way to end this?”

“May I suggest you direct the jury to acquit.”

“Fair enough.”

A directed acquittal — the remedy
de rigueur
when the case blows up in Her Majesty's face — will be bloodless and quick. No speeches, no laborious lectures on the law, no deliberation, no choice, no delay. I have a five o'clock ferry.

After we work out the mechanics of this, Patricia gulps down her
whisky. “I'm going to tend to Kimberley.”

Gundar joins in the escape, but Wally seems in no hurry to dismiss Augustina and me and tops up her glass. “Must be distracting, Beauchamp, having such an attractive young woman at your side all week. I'd find it damn hard to keep my mind on business. Not that appearance makes a difference, of course. Inappropriate to judge people by their looks. Kimberley Martin, for instance, a bit of a fluff-head, don't you think? Her boyfriend's a handsome chap, but essentially a prick. I'd tell your client to take a long holiday, Beau-champ. Remy doesn't seem the forgiving type.”

I rise. “Time presses, Wally. I must get ready to go. “The
Queen of Prince George
leaves in an hour and a half. I doubt that I will find a charter on a long weekend.

“Returning to your alternative lifestyle, eh, Beauchamp? My guess is we'll see you back here when the novelty wanes.”

When Augustina also seeks to take her leave, Wally waves her over to her seat. “Stay, stay. Don't fly away. I was going to take you out for a drink, Beauchamp, but I guess I'll just have to make do with your junior.”

Augustina tries to wiggle out of this. “Gee, Wally, I'd like to, but …” A furtive glance at me; she's trying to devise a credible excuse.

But just then the clerk walks in, almost buried in roses of a myriad hues. “For you, Miss Sage. They were just delivered.”

Augustina gapes at them, enfolds them in her arms. “Who the hell?” She finds my business card, reads the flipside aloud: “‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.' Oh, Arthur, you dear lovely man.”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes. It seemed appropriate: His son was one of the great judges of our century.” I leave unspoken the inference we are not in the presence of similar greatness. We bid sweet adieu to his forlornly smiling lordship and walk out arm in arm.

In
the corridor, reporters throng me like squawking chickens, hungry for their sound bites. I bid them have patience until proceedings formally close.

The two psychiatrists are in the mezzanine, in earnest colloquy. Jonathan is pacing, head down, absorbed in other worlds until I arrest his attention.

“We're moving for a directed verdict,” I tell him.

“Great,” he says absently. “Is she still here?”

“Who?”

“Kimberley.”

“Why?”

“I think I need to talk to her.”

“That would be most unwise. Clarence de Remy Brown may not approve of your having further intercourse — social though it may be — with his fiancée. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I just want to tell her I have no ill feelings. And to apologize for putting her in such an awkward position . . . rephrase that, embarrassing situation.” He himself seems much embarrassed.

“I advise against it.”

But there she appears, with Patricia, emerging downcast from the witness room: She no longer has eyes for Jonathan. Patricia leads her to court, and as Jonathan steps forward I grasp his elbow, restraining my restive steed from galloping off to her. I wait for Augustina, who has rushed off somewhere to put her flowers in water; then we lead in our client.

The jurors fumble into their seats, still shaken — all but the forewoman, Jackson-Blyth, and the broker, Goodman. The former is frowning, the latter, smiling.

Wally Sprogue, so recently outduelled by me on the fields of chivalry, looks as if he's been pouting. “Ms. Blueman?”

“Ms. Martin can be excused from the stand?”

“No one has any more questions? Very well, the witness is excused from court.” Kimberley, sitting behind Patricia, makes no
motion to leave. Tight of lip and stiff of neck, she seems determined to brazen it out for the trial's denouement.

Patricia formally closes her case. “That is all the evidence for the Crown, m'lord.”

Wally turns to the jury. “Ms. Foreperson, jury members: The charges before you require proof the complainant did not consent. When the evidence points entirely in the opposite direction — and I think you will agree there was consent here
beyond
a reasonable doubt — it becomes the judge's duty to direct the jury to find the defendant not guilty on all counts. I so direct you. I take it you do not need to retire and consider that verdict.” He smiles unctuously. But Hedy Jackson-Blyth has raised a hand. “Ms. Foreperson, you have a question?”

She rises with a look that intimates she feels male mischief is occurring here. “The defendant kissed her while he thought she was unconscious. He admitted that. Are you saying that is not a sexual assault?” She has a firm, emphatic way of making a point, doubtless perfected in union halls. The other jurors shuffle awkwardly — they do not seem in support of their leader. Goodman is grimacing, expressing disgust.

“Madam, we are not debating societal mores here,” Wally retorts — perhaps too quickly, but he is cranky: His word has been challenged.

“No, I just want it clear. Can a woman consent to being kissed unawares, when she has her eyes closed? Or are there different kinds of consent?”

Wally is about to say something, then pauses, reflects. This feminist spear-thrower may have aimed her political dart too correctly: right down Wally's affirmatively acting throat. “Well . . .” he says. “Strictly speaking, no, it's not
true
consent, but . . .” He struggles, a hint of panic in his eyes.

“I'm not saying it's a serious type of assault, but wouldn't it be a very bad precedent? I don't know if I could play a part in it, your
honour. Unless you're sure that's what the law says.” She can barely keep the scorn from her voice.

He turns to me for rescue. “There's a principle that applies to this, isn't there, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“De
minimis non curat lex.
The law does not concern itself with trifles.”

Jackson-Blyth will not let up. “Well, if unwanted touching is a trifle —”

But Kimberley sharply breaks into this disputation, her voice fierce. “Oh, for God's sake, I
wanted
him to kiss me. And it wasn't any trifle.”

Someone gasps. Jackson-Blyth reddens. “I'm sorry,” she says. She looks around at her frowning comrades. “Well, I guess the verdict is not guilty.” They nod. She sits awkwardly, ruffled.

“Very good,” says Wally. “Now, before we adjourn — can I have the jury's attention?”

They are distracted by Kimberley, who is slowly gaining her feet. She takes a deep breath, regards Jonathan for a moment, then begins to glide out, head high, curls dancing.

“A final word of thanks to you, members of the jury. You have made sacrifices to serve your country, giving up home, family, and workplace….”

No one is listening to this saccharine dirge. They are watching Kimberley make an about-face at the doorway. She smiles gamely, blows a campy kiss to the audience, raises her arms in theatrical surrender, and departs.

“. . . I could tell by your faces you had an obvious grip on the issues. . . .”

Wally stalls as Jonathan rises and walks quickly up the aisle.

“And, ah, I observed you paid attention throughout. . . .”

Heads are turned as Jonathan accelerates towards the door and disappears, sending it shut with a thud.

His audience lost, Wally sighs. “That's all. We'll adjourn.”

“What the hell's with Jon?” Augustina asks.

“He has madly rushed off on an ill-advised mission to seek Kimberley's understanding and mercy. Go in pursuit, quickly. Put the collar on him and don't let him talk to reporters.”

They are all in the mezzanine, demanding, threatening, circling us like jackals. I toss them a few bones, homilies about our noble system ofjustice and its pursuit of truth; I express pleasure in the exoneration of innocence and I pray that both parties involved in this minor fuss will heal their wounds and enjoy tranquil lives and splendid careers.