Thirst for Justice

by David R. Boyd

  “I can’t say yes” was Taisha’s tremulous response.

  The courtroom erupted in chaos. Michael grabbed Quarrington’s arm. Klinsmann slammed his gavel on the polished wood of his desk with enough force to put a dent in it. “Order,” he shouted. “Order in my courtroom!”

  The bedlam abated but there was still an audible buzz.

  “Ms. Smith, I’m going to ask you the question again, since your answer seems to contradict the foreman’s statement regarding the jury’s verdict of guilty. Is this your verdict?”

  Again she hesitated. She looked once more toward her daughter and then spoke in a slow but clear cadence. “No, that is not my verdict.”

  “On what grounds?” thundered Klinsmann. “The defendant admits the actus reus and the mens rea. He committed the crime, confessed, and failed to offer a viable defense—”

  “Objection.” For the first time in the trial, Quarrington raised his voice to maximum volume, thundering at the judge. “Your honor, it is completely inappropriate to badger a juror. And grossly objectionable to try to bully her into a verdict that she disagrees with! We have a hung jury. A mistrial.”

  “Overruled!” Klinsmann shouted back. “I’m not badgering or bullying anybody, and if you make that suggestion again I’ll find you in contempt.”

  Taisha Smith took advantage of the sparring between judge and attorney to compose herself. “The doctor did the right thing.” The courtroom quieted at her words. “He didn’t hurt anybody. He was trying to save children’s lives.”

  Mad Max was beside himself now. “I specifically excluded the necessity defense from the jury’s consideration. The legal elements of the defense were not adequately made out. You, you—” Klinsmann spluttered. His hands were tied. He couldn’t disqualify a juror at this point in the trial.

  Marconi and her team were stunned, looking at each other in total disbelief.

  The trial was over. The jury was hung. Michael, at least for now, was a free man. But Klinsmann wouldn’t let go. “Why did you change your vote?”

  “I can’t say,” said Smith.

  “You must, or I’ll have you jailed for being in contempt of court!”

  Taisha couldn’t let that happen. She needed to be with Shirelle. She weighed the severity of the moment, fearful of those who had blackmailed her and knowing her life as a single mother would never be simple again. She drew a deep breath. And another. “They said something terrible would happen to my daughter.” She stood tall, refusing to be intimidated now by the judge.

  “Who’s ‘they’? Who said that to you?”

  “A man.”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The courtroom erupted again.

  Quarrington jumped in. “Your honor, this is a clear case of jury tampering. It requires an immediate and full investigation. However, that is a completely separate matter. This trial is over. In light of what has transpired, I urge you to fulfill your obligation to dismiss the jury and release my client.”

  Klinsmann threw his arms in the air and sat, cheeks scarlet, as he reviewed his options. He looked at the jury with distaste and said, “You’re dismissed.” Then he turned to face Michael. “Mr. MacDougall,” he spat, “the government retains the right to retry the case. Ms. Marconi, I’d like a word with you in my chambers, immediately. Mr. Quarrington, your presence is not required.”

  Chapter 49

  That afternoon, Michael was returned to his cell at SeaTac. He was waiting for Quarrington and Yavari to arrive and explain what would happen next. When summoned to the visitors’ room, Michael was surprised to see Cassie Harden-Hernandez waiting to speak with him.

  “Hello, Dr. MacDougall.”

  Michael looked at Cassie suspiciously. “What now? More bad news?”

  Cassie shook her head. “There won’t be a second trial. You’re a free man.”

  Michael responded with stunned silence, then fired off a volley of questions. “How can that be? How do you know? Are you sure?”

  “It’s true. I’m sure. The decision was made at the top, the very top.”

  Michael was overcome. His knees buckled, but Cassie caught him before he fell and held him upright as he regained his balance. Their eyes met.

  “Thank you,” he whispered. “I need to sit down.”

  Cassie helped him into one of the plastic chairs.

  “I can’t believe it,” he said.

  “That’s not surprising. I imagine it will take a while to sink in. Your lawyers are being served with papers as we speak. I’ve got to run to the airport,” Cassie said. “My flight to DC leaves at 7:30. It’s been too long since I saw my husband or slept in my own bed.”

  Michael pulled himself together. “Listen, thank you for coming here, and for doing whatever you did. There’s no way for me to adequately express my gratitude.”

  “You can do me a favor.”

  “Really? What?”

  “Think about going back to medicine, will you? Forget about everything else and use the special skills that God gave you. Save lives, even if it’s just one at a time.”

  Michael sold most of his few possessions and returned to Africa. He joined an aid organization with a lower public profile and a desperate need for doctors. Assigned to the war-torn Darfur region of the Sudan, he reimmersed himself in humanitarian medicine.

  * * *

  Michael was back to saving lives. Not as many as he would like, but many more than if he was behind bars. The days blurred together, turning into weeks and stretching into months. Time began its slow healing process. At the medical clinic in Um Gunya, south of Nyala, the capital of South Darfur, Michael spent two hours trying to repair a boy’s leg destroyed by a land mine intentionally shaped like a toy. A brightly colored, oddly shaped item lying in the dusty soil was an irresistible attraction to a Sudanese youngster but packed enough explosive punch to blow off a child’s hands or feet. This boy had walked on one leg, leaning on a friend, to reach Um Gunya. He wore a faded purple T-shirt emblazoned with the image of Shaquille O’Neal and carried his lower left leg wrapped in paper like a package of meat from a butcher’s shop. Michael was unable to save the severed limb. A prosthetic leg could theoretically be attached, but cash-strapped aid organizations working in the Sudan had none of those.

  As was their custom, Africans improvised. Michael had seen everything from metal pipes to old rifle stocks used as artificial limbs. Perhaps the most eye-catching was a man who had a panga, a scimitar-shaped machete, attached to the stump of his severed right arm. Captain Hook paled in comparison. As for the Sudanese boy with the newly amputated leg, he would probably make do with a piece of wood scavenged from the local forest. He’d be a new recruit for the increasingly popular sport of amputee soccer. Michael finished sewing the stitches. His hands remained steady, as always. Michael leaned over the young child and gave him an awkward hug before he walked out of the surgery.

  That night, with sleep elusive, Michael returned to the clinic, nodding at the Sudanese nurse monitoring the patients. He walked from person to person, some lying on tables, some on the floor, checking their charts, listening to their chests, taking their pulse, moving on. He didn’t speak to anyone and moved, wraith-like, through the moonlit room.

  At the last bed Michael paused. There were two tiny infants in it, twin girls. One was crying, fists clenched, while the other quietly watched the world. He had delivered them three weeks ago, prematurely, from a teenaged girl who ran away from the clinic as soon as she could stand. Michael picked up the crying baby and held her against his chest, gently rocking her back and forth as he paced the length of the tent, careful not to step on any of the outstretched hands or feet. He hummed a nursery rhyme, unable to remember the words. The baby gradually calmed down, eyelids flickering, fighting to stay awake before surrendering to the siren song of sleep.

  Michael returned
the baby to the bed, where she snuggled against her sister for warmth and comfort. Then he stepped outside to look at the starry sky.

  Acknowledgments

  I would like to thank Dr. Simon Pulfrey, Dr. Elin Raymond, Dr. Amir Attaran, Dr. Kevin Chan, and Dr. Jeanette Boyd for their generous willingness to answer questions about Africa and the medical profession. I owe a debt of gratitude to many kind mentors and readers, including William Deverell, Karen X. Tulchinsky, Jack Hodgins, Ethan Smith, David Ohnona, Ken Rempel, and Paul Richardson. For the enthusiastic response of the folks at Pender Island’s speakeasy I am deeply grateful. Thank you to Susan Renouf for her unwavering belief that this was a book that should be published and her yeoman editorial efforts. Finally, my everlasting appreciation to Margot and Meredith, the loves of my life.

  Any factual errors, exaggerations, or inconsistencies are the author’s sole responsibility.

  About the Author

  David R. Boyd is currently the UN’s Special Rapporteur on human rights and the environment and an associate professor of law, policy, and sustainability at the Institute for Resources, Environment, and Sustainability at the University of British Columbia. He is the award-winning author of eight books, including The Optimistic Environmentalist and The Rights of Nature. He lives on Pender Island, B.C.

  Copyright

  Copyright © David R. Boyd, 2020

  Published by ECW Press

  665 Gerrard Street East

  Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4M 1Y2

  416-694-3348 / info@ecwpress.com

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any process — electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise — without the prior written permission of the copyright owners and ECW Press. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Editor for the Press: Susan Renouf

  Cover design: Michel Vrana

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Title: Thirst for justice : a novel / David R. Boyd.

  Names: Boyd, David R. (David Richard), 1964– author.

  Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20200248340 Canadiana (ebook) 20200248359

  ISBN 978-1-77041-240-8 (softcover)

  ISBN 978-1-77305-492-6 (PDF)

  ISBN 978-1-77305-491-9 (ePUB)

  Classification: LCC PS8603.O983 T45 2020 DDC C813/.6—dc23

  The publication of Thirst for Justice has been generously supported by the Canada Council for the Arts which last year invested $153 million to bring the arts to Canadians throughout the country and is funded in part by the Government of Canada. Nous remercions le Conseil des arts du Canada de son soutien. L’an dernier, le Conseil a investi 153 millions de dollars pour mettre de l’art dans la vie des Canadiennes et des Canadiens de tout le pays. Ce livre est financé en partie par le gouvernement du Canada. We acknowledge the support of the Ontario Arts Council (OAC), an agency of the Government of Ontario, which last year funded 1,737 individual artists and 1,095 organizations in 223 communities across Ontario for a total of $52.1 million. We also acknowledge the contribution of the Government of Ontario through the Ontario Book Publishing Tax Credit, and through Ontario Creates for the marketing of this book.