Evil Eye

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by Michael Slade


  The designation QC in B.C. is a joke. Past days of political patronage made it a brown-noser's badge, and ass-kissing the powers-that-be remains the route to go. A Queen's Counsel ought to be the best there is, and QC solely a mark of professional distinction, but truth is the most courageous lawyers practicing criminal law are shut out because they do the job too well. Lyndon Wilde was QC because the Crown passed out the initials, while Vic Knight—the paladin of the defense bar—had no QC

  after his name. Vic Knight considered that his badge of distinction.

  Hatchett loathed Knight.

  Her seething animosity went back to a trial before she became Chief Justice of the Supreme Court, back before she served on Cal Cutter's Court of Appeal, back to her first assize as a trial judge.

  Knight was defending.

  The charge was first-degree murder, and the Crown's circumstantial case turned on taped statements by the accused. The victim was a child whose stripped skeleton was found buried near the Fraser River nine months after she vanished. Death caused during a sexual assault is first degree, so the Crown used lack of clothes to infer that motive.

  The accused was an oddball in the Valley farm town where the victim lived. Misdiagnosed as retarded at an early age, he'd spent all but the past year in mental institutions, and since his release had been a vagrant on the streets. Pressured to crack the case, GIS hauled him in.

  Statements made to a person in authority must be proved by the Crown to be voluntary: not the result of hope of advantage or fear of prejudice induced by the police. Before the British Parliament shipped Canada's Constitution home with a Charter of Rights and Freedoms in 1982, finally freeing the country from quasi-Colonial status, statements made by an accused to an undercover cop escaped the "voluntary rule" if he was blind to the hidden "authority."

  Questioning a suspect is never conducted according to the Marquis of Queensberry rules. The Mounties use the full extent of the law lawmakers give them. It took Serious Crimes and GIS several hours to break the oddball down, and when they were through he was a psychological mess, curled up in a fetal ball on the grilling-room floor. Again and again, visible cops hauled him up from the cells, using the good guy/bad guy Mutt and Jeff technique, probing his emotions with photos of the corpse, threatening hypnosis or polygraph tests, asking him to imagine how such a crime occurred, then once his imagination was going, shipping him back to the cells where

  his cellmate—the invisible cop—asked him what he told them.

  His statements led to the charge.

  Hatchett took one look at the oddball in the dock and thought, My friend, you're going down. In the legal profession a judge like her is called a "streamliner": one who decides beforehand how a case should end, then streamlines the evidence admitted toward that result. A voir dire, or "trial within a trial" without the jury present, was held to determine the admissibility of the statements.

  "Sergeant," Knight asked the visible cop about the grilling upstairs, "short of physical violence, injecting truth serum, or electroshocks, what third-degree method didn't you use?"

  "None," said the cop forthrightly.

  "Do you think what he said to you was voluntary?"

  "No," he answered.

  Hatchett ruled out the upstairs statements as she preplanned to do.

  Which left the invisible cop.

  "Mr. Knight," Hatchett said at the end of the day, "will you be calling evidence on the voir dire?"

  "Yes, My Lady."

  "Who?"

  "A psychiatrist."

  "Which psychiatrist?"

  "Dr. Jasper Goodman."

  Hatchett bounced her palm off her forehead, telling him what she thought of that without leaving biased comment on the record.

  The headshrinkers' parade is the phoniest charade in any trial. There are Crown psychiatrists; there are defense psychiatrists; and on the stand you wonder if they're testifying about the same accused. Cynics might say it all depends on who's paying the bill. Dr. Jasper Goodman, in thirteen years as a shrink, had never given evidence for the Crown. Crown counsel and Crown-minded judges alike thought him a charlatan.

  "Dr. Goodman," Knight said the following day, "did you examine the accused in light of his psychiatric history?"

  "I did."

  "What, if any, conclusions did you draw?"

  Goodman placed his hand on two stacks of documents each a foot high. "As a child, Dan was misdiagnosed as retarded, when in fact he has dyslexia, a learning disability. Through oversight—Dan's an orphan—he spent twenty years institutionalized with people half his IQ, leaving him mentally ill. He suffers from what we call a 'borderline state/ and finds it difficult to separate fact from fantasy, or fantasy from delusion. He'd be totally unreliable as a witness, and any statements made by him should not be believed without independent corroboration."

  Knight argued what Dan told his cellmate were not the words of an "operating mind," and since they might be fantasy induced by the officers upstairs, should be excluded as unsafe and unreliable. Hatchett accepted Goodman's opinion for most of the statements, but ruled there were "islands of rationality re: the crime," and since these were "internally consistent, each with the others," provided "buttressing corroboration that made them safe to be weighed by the jury."

  Legalese is a deadly language. If a judge says the moon is made of green cheese, it's made of green cheese . . . until the appeal. The truncated statements went in and the jury heard them.

  Then came the wild card.

  "Mr. Knight," Hatchett said, "your client has disappeared."

  The lawyer turned to find the prisoner's dock empty. On checking, he found Dan curled up in a fetal ball on the floor, fingers stuck in his ears. Astute enough to realize the trial was a railroad, Dan had withdrawn his presence.

  "My Lady," said Knight, his mind sparking fast, "I don't think he's fit to continue."

  To stand trial, an accused must be mentally sound enough to instruct counsel. Hatchett had no alternative but to adjourn so Dan could be assessed at FPI. A week later, court reconvened for a fitness hearing. The same jury would determine whether Dan was fit, so the Crown had to call two shrinks who, given Dan's history in the document piles, supported Goodman. "He's fit enough

  to be tried," they stated, "but don't trust any confession without objective backup."

  On the chessboard of the courtroom. Knight had the queen in check.

  The only thing more important to Hatchett than imprisoning scum was her winning record with the judicial elite. Thanks to the "Crown" shrinks backing Goodman, a conviction based on the statements she had let in—for it was too late to close the barn door—was doomed in the Court of Appeal. Only an acquittal would save her winning streak.

  From that point on, there were two defense counsel in court. When it came time to sum up, Hatchett ordered the court reporter to type without tape recording, then played two-faced for the jury. The Crown theory was put in a monotone. The defense theory rang out in the blast of Clarence Darrow. It looked balanced in print, but if you were there, Wow!

  The jury acquitted.

  Dan was released.

  Arid soon killed again.

  All that court attention was the highlight of his life.

  To this day, Hatchett believed Knight had coached him to fall down in the dock.

  And finally, with this trial, she would settle the score.

  When judged for art direction, color, and pizzazz, British courts opened on Broadway, Canadian courts off Broadway, American courts in Poughkeepsie. With no wig or haughty use of *ithue" for "issue," Hatchett's Court was stuck in the twentieth century, unable to pretend Mozart or Johnson was on trial. It may have slipped a notch, but not as far as Down South, where judges dressed like refugees from a Baptist choir, dowdy black robe tossed over street clothes, while the accused sat hidden among his "defense team," hard to differentiate the attorneys from the crooks, were they planning to try a case or play a game of football, how many lawyers do you need f
or a group hug? Yes, American courts could use a shot of Andrew Lloyd Webber, just as Hatchett's Court could use a shot of justice.

  Hanging Judge Begbie's Heritage Courtroom provided the perfect stage: carved oak, with velvet bunting, and polished brass. Hatchett sat high on her throne in

  this Court of the Crimson Queen, face to face with the scum in the dock, isolated as he should be. No fat overblown "defense team" here, just two barristers a side, senior and junior, and let's get on with it. Corporal Kidd was on the stand, dressed in Red Serge, standing tall like Mounties do when they give evidence, civilian witnesses sit, but not the Force. Lyndon Wilde QC in black silk, starched white, and striped gray morning pants could be a Victorian undertaker at a royal funeral. The perfect stage for a prima donna to preen, he tugged his pocket watch from his vest, flipped it open, confirmed the time, snapped it shut, and said, 'Thank you, Corporal, I'm through with direct." Then turned to Knight. "Your witness,"

  The Vulture rose to his feet.

  Six-foot-four, lean, lanky, and stooped in black on black, Knight had short black hair, dark hooded eyes from late nights in the law library, a Nixon beard that needed reshaving before he could clean his razor, and a deep resonant voice. Sporting black trousers to augment his robe, he had the Paladin, Johnny Cash, Oliver Stone look in court. Crown lawyers called his waterfront home 'The House That Drugs Built." Crown lawyers called him "The Vulture" because he made carrion from flesh on the bones of their cases.

  "Corporal Kidd," Knight began, "why are you in Red Serge?"

  "I was told to wear it."

  "By whom?"

  "Mr. Wilde."

  "Why?"

  "You'll have to ask him."

  "You're on the stand, you're wearing it, so I'm asking you. Tell the jury when you usually wear Red Serge."

  "For regimental functions and formal occasions."

  "Do you wear it on Canada Day?"

  "Not for several years."

  "Why?"

  "It's wool with a tight collar and July first is too hot."

  "Have you worn it for any other trial this year?"

  "No."

  "Last year?"

  kt No."

  "The year before?"

  "Mr. Knight/' Hatchett snapped. "The Red Serge is my order."

  "And why is that, My Lady? Because there's a—"

  "Don't question me. This is my Court and I determine the rules. Now get on with it, and leave the dress code to me."

  "Are my collar tabs straight enough?"

  "I'm warning you, Mr. Knight."

  "Corporal Kidd, explain again, what made you think this murder was an 'inside job'?"

  "Winifred Parker, the first witness, the neighbor across the road—"

  "Nosy Parker."

  "Yes, Nosy Parker, saw no one but Nick Craven—"

  "Corporal Craven."

  "Yes, Corporal Craven, approach the murder house from Mary Hill Road. When I arrived, the front and back doors were locked with no sign of burglary or tampering. Corporal Craven told rne he'd locked his mother in, and that she would never open the door to a stranger at night."

  "So, from that you deduced she knew her killer and let him in?"

  "Yes."

  "Okay, if we assume only Corporal Craven used the front, and Dora Craven was locked but not bolted . . . not bolted, right?"

  "Yes, locked but not bolted."

  "And Dora Craven was locked but not bolted in, and she didn't open the door to anyone she didn't know, and no one got in by burglary or tampering, is that enough to prove your theory?"

  "Enough for me," said Kidd.

  "The back of Dora Craven's house overlooks Colony Farm?"

  "Yes."

  "Can Nosy Parker view back there from her house on Mary Hill Road?"

  "No."

  "Is there a public footpath across the face of the hill?"

  "Yes."

  "A dark, unlit path Nosy Parker can't view?"

  -Yes/'

  "One end turning down to Colony Farm and the other going toward Port Coquitlam Town Center?"

  -Yes/'

  "And does that path skirt the back porch and rear door of the murder house?"

  "Yes."

  "Shortly before Dora Craven was killed, were there two murders on Colony Farm Road?"

  "Yes."

  "A psychotic madman named Glinter Schreck murdered two sheriff's deputies taking him to Colony Farm's Forensic Psychiatric Institute for a court-ordered mental remand?"

  "Yes."

  "How did he kill both deputies?"

  "He crushed their skulls."

  "And then he escaped across Colony Farm?"

  "Yes."

  "In the direction of Dora Craven's home?"

  "Yes."

  "Where you soon found her dead in the kitchen?"

  "Yes."

  "Dead from a crushed skull?"

  "Yes, but she was clubbed. The deputies were both stomped."

  "Clubbed like a Mounted Policeman was also clubbed in Coquitlam that night?"

  "Yes."

  "And he was clubbed at a time when Corporal Craven was miles away on Colony Farm talking to officers investigating the deputies' deaths?"

  "Yes."

  "Clubbed at a time for which Corporal Craven has a rock-solid alibi?"

  "For the Member's clubbing, yes."

  "So if Dora Craven's house was found unlocked or burglarized, with a skull-crushing madman loose nearby, given those facts and nothing else, surely logic would point a finger at Schreck?"

  "If," said Kidd.

  "Take a look at Photo thirteen in Exhibit two entered

  by the Crown. Is that the locked kitchen in which Dora's body was found?"

  The clerk passed Kidd the exhibit. "Yes," said the Mountie.

  "What's that on the floor in the far corner?"

  "Two bowls and a box."

  "A cat food bowl? A water bowl? And a cat's litter box?"

  -Yes," said Kidd.

  "So Dora Craven wasn't the only person living in the house?"

  "A cat's not a person."

  "Obviously you've never lived with one."

  The jury laughed.

  "Have you, Corporal?"

  Kidd shook her head. "I'm allergic to cats."

  "The night of the murder, did you see the cat in question? Did you meet Jinx?"

  "Yes."

  "Where?"

  "Scratching the back door."

  "Inside or outside?"

  "Outside," said Kidd.

  "Scratching the scratches we see on the door in Photo nine?"

  "Yes."

  "Was the cat in the house when the door was opened with a skeleton key?"

  "No."

  "You saw Jinx later?"

  "Yes, when I returned from questioning Parker."

  "So if Jinx lived in the house with Dora, and you met Jinx outside wanting in, is it logical someone let Jinx out earlier?"

  "Yes."

  "Have you any reason to assume Dora Craven herself didn't let the cat out?"

  "No."

  "And if she opened the back door to let Jinx out, what if Giinter Schreck was lurking outside? Would that not explain how he got in uninvited without leaving a mark?"

  "His feet would be muddy."

  "Perhaps he removed his boots to sneak up to the door. I repeat: if she opened the back door to let Jinx out, what if Giinter—"

  "It might," said Kidd.

  "If he killed Dora Craven and fled, would closing the door behind him leave it locked but not bolted like when you arrived?"

  Kidd nodded.

  "Yes or no, Corporal?"

  "Yes," she said.

  "I think it's time we took a closer look at madman Giinter Schreck. . . .

  MADMAN

  Vancouver

  Wednesday, December 8, 7993

  Any blonder and the German would be an albino. His Nordic face bore angles like iceberg facets, with eyes the pale blue of Arctic floes, under hair and brows the pla
tinum of polar caps. Having dropped skis in a travel bag beside his suitcase near the door, shedding his alpine jacket revealed a turtleneck sweater over skintight ski pants. The Cariboo—where the Hanging Judge lashed and strung up American rowdies—was fast becoming a region for German cowboys, and Whistler, he told Zinc, was now known in Europe as North America's best ski resort. The agents at the Federal Intelligence Service in Cologne competed for the perk of flying the extradition papers here. When DeClercq returned to Special X after arguing racial politics with Chan, he found Zinc and the German discussing Schreck by the Bert and Ernie section of the Strategy Wall.

  "Jurgen Miiller, Robert DeClercq," Chandler introduced them. "Jurgen corrals right-wing militants and neo-Nazi groups."

  The two shook hands.

  "Wolfgang Schreck,~ the German said. "This name is known to you?"

  *The Werewolf." DeClercq replied, again surprising Zinc with his research breadth. Miiller frowned as if he wished the name were unknown.

  "Schreck's father?" Chandler guessed.

  "Grandfather," said Miiller. "Hanged in 1948, after the 'Doctors' Trial/ He worked with Josef Mengele at Auschwitz-Birkenau. developing 'plague bombs' for Goring's Luftwaffe. Both men were fascinated by twins and used them as TPs.* 1

  DeClercq caught the question mark in Chandler's eyes. 4fc Test persons." he said.

  "The Angel of Death—the camps' name for Mengele, because on a whim he could condemn or spare—yearned to solve the genetic blueprint of twins, in the hope he could duplicate it in German women to produce multiple births of blond-haired, blue-eyed Aryans. The Werewolf used twins to study plagues, injecting one with typhus, cholera, anthrax, and other pathogens, while the double provided the perfect 'control* to assess each germ's effect. One camp had a tower off the medical labs, and up there the Werewolf did vivisection when the moon was full. Here is a quote"—he flipped open his notebook—"'from the Nuremberg Trials. The Jew knew it was over,* testified Schreck's assistant, *so he didn't struggle when they led him naked into the lab and tied him down. Then Schreck picked up the scalpel, and that's when he screamed. Without anesthetic, the doctor cut him open from chest to groin—* "

  Both DeClercq's and Chandler's eyes flicked to the photos of Jack MacDougall's disemboweled corpse further along the wall.

 

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