Barney's Version

by Mordecai Richler

  Opening for the Crown, Mario Begin, QC, said, “My learned confrère will no doubt remind you again and again that there is no body, but the truth is we do have sufficient facts at our disposal to prove that a murder was committed. And far from there being no body, I prefer to put it to you that the corpse of the murdered man has not yet been found. Look at it this way. Between the accused’s first phone call to the police, which was awfully clever of him, and the second inquiry by Detective-Sergeant Sean O’Hearne, he had a long day in which to dispose of the murdered man. And, remember, we are dealing with a self-acknowledged liar. Mr. Panofsky has admitted that he lied twice to the Sûreté. I put it to you that he lied not twice but three times about that revolver. First of all, he told Detective-Sergeant O’Hearne that he had no idea how the revolver got to be lying on his very own bedside table. And then confronted with the fact that there was an empty chamber in the revolver, he lied again, saying that the revolver had been left behind by his father, who never knew how to load a gun properly. I find that amazing, considering that his father had been an experienced police officer. But the third lie is what concerns us here. Yes, the accused finally admitted he had fired the revolver, but only in jest, over the victim’s head. But as you will learn from Detective-Sergeant O’Hearne, the accused did break down in the end and confess to murder. He said, quote, I shot him through the heart, unquote. These were his own words. ‘I shot him through the heart.’

  “Now this is not easy for me. Like you, gentlemen of the jury, I am not without compassion. We are talking about a husband who came home to find his wife and best friend in bed together. Surely he couldn’t have been pleased. But, without making light of the accused’s distress on finding his unhappy wife in bed with another man, it was no licence for murder. ‘Thou shalt not kill’ is one of the commandments in the covenant that his people made with the Lord, and, as we all know, when it comes to the Chosen, a deal’s a deal. I will not detain you here with a windy and fanciful opening statement, because I can rely on the evidence at hand to prove that the accused is guilty of murder. There is the revolver, and the missing bullet, and the victim, who we are told was last seen diving into the lake. Had he drowned, his body was bound to float to the surface within weeks, if not days. But maybe he’s still alive, and just possibly I’m the last descendant of the Czar of Russia, whose family was most cruelly murdered on the orders of the Communist Leon Trotsky né Bronstein. Or possibly Mr. Moscovitch — without money — his passport left behind — climbed out of the lake on the opposite shore and, clad only in his bathing suit, hitchhiked back to the United States. If you can believe that, I’ve got a property in a Florida swamp that I’d like to sell you.

  “Gentlemen of the jury, you must not let your feelings for a wronged husband impose on your good natures. Murder is murder is murder. And, once you have heard the evidence, I expect you to find the accused guilty as charged.”

  Then it was John Hughes-McNoughton’s turn to shine.

  “I honestly don’t know what I’m doing here. I’m amazed. In all my years at the bar, I’ve never had a case like this. Open and shut, if you ask me. I’m expected to defend my client, to the best of my humble abilities, against a charge of first-degree murder, but there is no body. What next? Will I be asked to defend an honest banker against a swindling charge, when there is no money missing? Or a respectable citizen accused of burning down his warehouse, when there has been no fire? I have such respect for the law, our distinguished judge, my learned confrères, and you, gentlemen of the jury, that I must apologize in advance for this case ever having come so far, an insult to your intelligence. But here we are, faute de mieux, so I must get on with it. As you have already heard, Barney Panofsky, a loving husband and provider, turned up expectedly at his cottage in the Laurentians one morning and found his wife and his best friend in bed together. Imagine the scene, those of you who are also loving husbands. He arrives, bearing treats, and discovers himself betrayed. By his wife. By his best friend. My learned confrère will ask you to believe that Mrs. Panofsky was not committing adultery. Oh, no. She was not wanton. Consumed by illicit lust. Wearing an alluring nightgown, she snuggled into bed with Mr. Moscovitch because he was trembling, and she wished to warm him. I hope you are touched. But, to come clean, I’m not. Were there no more blankets available? Or a hot-water bottle? And how come when the accused surprised the two of them in bed, how come the wife to whom he was devoted was no longer wearing her revealing pink satin nightgown? Was Mrs. Panofsky, unlike the trembling Mr. Moscovitch, insensitive to cold? Or was she obliged to shed her protective nightgown in order to facilitate penetration? I leave that up to you to decide. I also trust you to decide why a married woman, entering another man’s bedroom in the absence of her husband, did not stop to put on her readily available dressing-gown. I also must ask, if her embracing Mr. Moscovitch was so innocent, why did she flee the cottage in such haste? Why didn’t she stay on to explain? Was it because she was consumed by shame? Justifiably, if you ask me. You will hear medical evidence of a residue of male sperm found on Mr. Moscovitch’s sheets, but don’t let that worry you. He probably masturbated during the night.”

  Savouring the jury’s laughter, an emboldened Hughes-McNoughton went on to say, “But, given that the accused was understandably shocked by what he chanced on in that bedroom … his adored wife, his cherished friend … it was still no licence for murder, and I put it to you there was no murder. Or there would also be a body. Mr. Moscovitch and the accused quarrelled, that’s true, and both of them had a good deal to drink. Too much to drink. Mr. Moscovitch elected to go for a swim, a bad idea in his condition, and Mr. Panofsky, unaccustomed to the intake of so much liquor, passed out on the sofa. When he wakened, he could not find Mr. Moscovitch anywhere inside the house or on the dock. He feared he had drowned. Mark you, he did not flee the scene, like Mrs. Panofsky. Instead, he immediately summoned the police. Hurry, he said. Now does that sound like the action of a guilty man? No. Certainly not. But, as you have already heard, a shot was fired from the service revolver that belonged to Mr. Panofsky’s father, Detective-Inspector Israel Panofsky. A good deal has been made of the fact that the accused initially lied about the weapon found on the premises. Given that the officers of the Sûreté are our protectors, this is regrettable. But it is also understandable, for, at the time, Barney Panofsky was both grieving and fearful. So he twice tried on fumbling, evasive responses about the provenance of the revolver. But he finally volunteered the truth when he could have remained silent and asked to speak to his lawyer. Remember, this son of a detective-inspector, raised to revere the law, was not coerced into telling the truth. Happily the citizens of this province,” he proclaimed, pausing to nod at O’Hearne, “do not live in a Third World country where suspects are beaten up by the police as a matter of course. No sir. We are fortunate in our Sûreté and have every reason to take pride in the decorum of its officers.

  “So Mr. Panofsky told Detective-Sergeant O’Hearne the truth. He had fired a shot over the head of Mr. Moscovitch in jest. Surely had it been otherwise, our astute officers would have found blood — in the cottage, on the grounds. Somewhere. They searched inside and outside, they brought in dogs, but could find no blood, or evidence of a struggle anywhere, and these are men who know how to go about their business. They came up empty because Barney Panofsky was telling the truth. So where, you may well ask, is the missing Mr. Moscovitch? He is surviving somewhere, not for the first time, under an assumed name. Really, as the Crown has already argued, then how come he left all his clothes behind? Well, did he? Does Detective-Sergeant O’Hearne know exactly how many clothes Mr. Moscovitch brought with him? Can he testify, under oath, that Mr. Moscovitch did not in fact make off with a shirt, a pair of trousers, and shoes and socks? Ah, but he left a bank book behind, and there have been no withdrawals from his account since. But how do we know there are not other accounts in other banks? Other countries, even. Mr. Moscovitch was no ordinary man. He was sick, a drug addic
t, and a reckless gambler. Did he flee, and assume another identity, to evade drug dealers, bookmakers, or casino proprietors to whom he owed great sums of money? You will hear from witnesses, including a celebrated Canadian novelist and an internationally famous American painter, who knew both Mr. Moscovitch and Mr. Panofsky in Paris, that Mr. Moscovitch has disappeared before, for months at a time. And I will introduce into the evidence a short story by Mr. Moscovitch, but I am obliged to apologize in advance for the obscene, and occasionally blasphemous, language, which may offend you. The story is titled ‘Margolis’ and is about a man who walks out on his wife and child, and assumes a new identity elsewhere. Mr. Moscovitch, you will be surprised to learn — as Barney Panofsky was astonished to discover — does in fact have a wife and young child, living in Denver, and they hold him in such high regard that they are not here today. You will learn from witnesses, and I will introduce cheque stubs to prove, that time and again Mr. Panofsky bailed out his friend when his gambling debts became insupportable — the very same friend he would find in bed with his wife.

  “I will not suffer the grieving Mr. Panofsky to testify in this courtroom. Falsely accused, he has already endured enough. Two betrayals. His wife. His best friend. But I am counting on your good sense to acquit him. In conclusion, and at the risk of being adjudged indiscreet, I must confess that there is nothing like a lawyer’s life. Why, this case is so nonsensical, so lacking in substance, that I feel guilty accepting my fee. And from here I go on to defend a man accused of stealing the Crown jewels from the Tower of London. But there is a problem. There are no jewels missing. You have a similar problem to deal with here. A respectable man charged with murder. Problem. There is no body. Thank you very much.”

  O’Hearne testified that when he had come to the cottage he had discovered that I had fresh calluses on the palms of my hands, which I claimed to have acquired digging an asparagus trench. Far from being happily married, it seemed, on questioning me further, that I kept a mistress in Toronto, a Jewish woman. “You fucking keep her name out of this,” I had said. I had lied three times to him about the hidden [sic] revolver before I said, “I got him right through the heart, and then I buried him out there in the woods, where those pricks are searching right now.” I had been a hostile witness, given to obscenities, taking the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ in vain more than once. Finally I became violent and had to be restrained. Obviously contemptuous of the gentile officers of the Sûreté du Québec, I had called him, said O’Hearne — apologizing for the crudity of my language before quoting me — a functionally illiterate prick.

  I had to admire that bastard. The accused, O’Hearne went on to say, whose library included many books on the Index, some by Freemasons, others by known Communists, many by his coreligionists, had said, “I’ll bet the last book you read was your Dick and Jane reader, and you’re still probably trying to work out the plot. Where did you learn how to question a suspect? Watching Dragnet? Reading True Detective? No, I would have known. Your lips would still be chapped.” Obliged to give me the benefit of the doubt, in spite of his detective’s instincts, O’Hearne had made inquiries in New York. They revealed that the murdered — or missing man, he said, smirking — had never returned to his apartment. His bank account was untouched to this day.

  Hughes-McNoughton tried his best to defuse the dumb and damning statement I had made about shooting Boogie through the heart, pointing out that I was a sarcastic guy, with a weakness for irony, and that my so-called confession was actually torn from the rock of my outrage. But, as he glanced at the jury and then at me, I could sense Hughes-McNoughton took me for a gone goose. Increasingly desperate, he fell back on a melodramatic ploy that would have been unworthy of even Perry Mason. “What if I told you,” he said, addressing the jury, “that I was now going to perform a little miracle? What if I now counted to five, and then Bernard Moscovitch walked right through those doors into the courtroom. One, two, three, four … FIVE!”

  The jury sprang awake, all eyes on the doors, and I also wheeled about, just about spraining my neck, my heart thudding.

  “You see,” said Hughes-McNoughton, “you all turned to look, because you all have more than reasonable doubt that there ever was a murder committed.”

  The stunt backfired. The jury clearly resented being suckered, the victims of a cheap trick. Mario Begin, QC, could not restrain his glee. Compounding my distress, I caught a glimpse of Miriam, in the rear of the courtroom, seemingly about to faint.

  Hughes-McNoughton paraded witnesses to my good character, unavailingly. Zack, less than sober, an obvious roué, cracked too many jokes. It would have helped if Serge Lacroix had not recently dyed his hair blond and worn a diamond earring. Leo Bishinsky should not have flown in from New York with an adoring bimbo half his age, who stood up and waved to him as he sat down in the witness-box. But if I was going to be hanged, it was the lovable Irv Nussbaum who was to blame. My pal Irv insisted on being sworn in on the Old Testament, wearing a yarmulke. He said I was a pillar of the community, a fund-raiser of fund-raisers, who had done more than his share for the Israel Bond Drive. He would be proud to call me his son.

  Sliding in sweat, I felt I was now destined to join a long line of Jewish martyrs. Captain Dreyfus, languishing on Devil’s Island for years before he was not adjudged innocent, yet accepted a pardon. Menahem Mendel Beilis, victim of a blood libel in Kiev in 1911. Accused by the Black Hundreds of the ritual murder of a twelve-year-old Christian boy, he endured two years in prison before he was acquitted. Leo Max Frank, son of a wealthy Jewish merchant, charged with the murder of a fourteen-year-old girl, tried and convicted, and lynched by a mob in Georgia in 1915. I passed the time making mental notes for my address to the court before I was to be sentenced. “I did not poison your wells,” it began, “and neither did I murder your babes in quest of blood for my Passover matzohs. If you prick Panofsky, does he not bleed? …”

  And then, eureka, that unredeemed rapscallion Maître John Hughes-McNoughton did produce a miracle, calling his surprising last character witness to the stand. It was the good Bishop Sylvain Gaston Savard, then still a total stranger to me. The wee, twinkly, black-robed bishop pitter-pattered into the courtroom, beaming beneficently at the startled jury, three of whom immediately crossed themselves. In his ringed, manicured hands that noble churchman carried the leatherbound hagiography he had written in praise of his aunt, Sister Octavia, that anti-Semitic bitch. As I looked on amazed, but reduced to silence by a swift kick from Hughes-McNoughton, the bishop announced how I — notwithstanding I had been born a Jew, like Our Saviour, come to think of it — had agreed to pay for an English translation of his little book. In his grating, squeaky voice, he went on to say that, furthermore, I had volunteered to manage a campaign to finance the building of a statue of Sister Octavia that would stand at a crossroads in St-Eustache, and I was a fund-raiser of fund-raisers, as somebody had noted earlier. His testimony done, the bishop acknowledged me with a nod like a blessing, arranged his skirts, and sat down.

  The rest was a charade, and a crestfallen Mario Begin, QC, knew it. But all the same he went through the motions, producing witnesses of his own who testified to my violent nature, recounting insults, bar-room brawls, and other unseemly behaviour on my part.

  Forget it.

  I’m sure most of you have seen The Godfather, Part II, by Martin what’s-his-name. You know, like the name of that guy, the opera singer, who played the lead in South Pacific. Martin Pinza? No. Wait. I’ve got it. Well, nearly. Marty with a second name closer to Don Quixote’s squire. Martin Panza? Martin Puzo.81 Anyway, during the investigation of the Mafia in The Godfather, Part II, one of that band of criminals, a protected witness, had agreed to serve as a canary. But Al Pacino flies that man’s father in from Sicily, and just as the treacherous mafioso is about to start singing, the old man enters the courtroom, sits down, and glares at him. The would-be canary is struck mute. And now, even as a flustered Mr. Justice Euclid Lazure was summing up, my darli
ng of a bishop smiled sweetly at the jury, his hands folded on his lap.

  The jury deliberated for a respectable two hours before pronouncing me innocent in time for them to hurry home and catch an exhibition hockey game, the Canadiens vs. the Washington Caps, on Radio-Canada. I leaped up to hug Hughes-McNoughton and then rock Miriam in my arms.

  One final thought. In the years leading up to my trial, whenever I was caught in bumper-to-bumper traffic on the highway leading to my cottage, creeping along behind a battered, rust-eaten pick-up truck with a sticker on its rear bumper that read JESUS SAVES, I used to think don’t count on it, buster. Now I am no longer so sure.

  10

  Bad news. Check out page one of these meandering memoirs and you will see that Terry was the spur. The splinter caught under my fingernail. I started out on this story of my wasted life as a riposte of sorts to the scurrilous remarks McIver had made in his autobiography about Boogie, my three wives a.k.a. Panofsky’s troika, and the scandal I will carry to my grave. Okay, okay. It’s a bummer of a first book. But not as embarrassing as the great Gustave Flaubert’s initial efforts. In Rage and Impotence he told the story of a man buried alive who devours his own arm. In Quidquid Volueris, his hero is the son of a black slave girl and an orangutan. Mind you, he wasn’t sixty-seven when he sat down to scribble those yarns, but a mere fifteen-year-old.

  Anyway, my point is that after having written a kazillion words, this doorstop of a manuscript has suddenly been deprived of its raison d’être. That inconsiderate bastard has died on me. Heart attack. He was en route to a reading–cum–book–signing at McGill when he went into a spin on Sherbrooke Street and collapsed on the sidewalk, clutching his chest. Had he been rushed to the hospital he might have been saved, but passers-by took him for a lush, and simply walked around him. Bonjour la visite.