Man in the Shadows

by Gordon Henderson

  Conor stayed outside. The priest, the same man he saw the night of his argument with his father, looked out the door and beckoned him inside. He shook his head politely and mouthed, “No, thanks.” He thought for a second, and added, “Non, merci.”

  He walked along the quiet streets of Lowertown. The market stalls were empty, the hawkers and hustlers relaxing before another busy harvest week. As he passed his father’s flat on Sussex Street, he hesitated but dared not peek inside. Lapierre’s and the many other bars were closed on Sunday, the drinkers sleeping off the night before. Thomas probably was, too.

  Ottawa was such a small town, he thought he might have run into his father by now, but Conor spent most of his time in Uppertown and Thomas rarely left Lowertown. He wasn’t sure what lured him to the front of his father’s flat. He knew Thomas had been arrested on the night of the assassination and had been freed when all the evidence pointed to James Whelan. He wanted to commiserate with him, but he was afraid of his anger. He wanted to ask Thomas for his forgiveness, but would he allow it? It was all so confusing. He had always craved the spotlight, but now he wanted to hide. He had worked so hard to create an impression of self-assuredness, but now he was uncertain and insecure. He was scared of tomorrow. Tomorrow morning, the trial would begin. Tomorrow, he would see James Whelan face to face.

  He kept walking past his father’s door.

  IT was pandemonium outside the courthouse. The street was overflowing with people, many of whom had gathered for hours just to catch a glimpse of the bloodthirsty Fenian. A thousand tickets had been issued, but there was room for only four hundred people in the courtroom. Police and citizens were trading insults as Conor and the Trotter family were ushered past the fractious lineup.

  They took their seats awaiting judge, jury and accused. A full-length portrait of Queen Victoria, in a gilt frame, hovered over the bench. Her Majesty would be staring down on Patrick James Whelan as his life went on trial.

  JAMES Whelan was still blinking, trying to adjust to the bright light, as he was led into the courthouse. The crowd greeted him with hisses, boos and jeers. He hung his head low in self-defence. As long as he could remember, he had been told British justice could not be trusted. Now his life depended on a British North American judge and a system that had failed his people for centuries.

  Sitting in his prison cell, he had slowly come to understand his terrible fate. Marshall had used and deserted him. No legendary Fianna soldier would appear and miraculously save him. Only one man stood between him and the gallows, and he was hardly an Irish warrior. His lawyer, John Hillyard Cameron, was impressive, distinguished, eloquent—and also the grand master of the Orange Lodge.

  “This should make a few heads turn, over at the lodge,” Cameron had joked, trying to cheer Whelan up.

  The Orangeman was James Whelan’s only hope. He was not going to help himself. In prison, he had decided what he would do: he would not lie; he would declare his innocence, but he would not betray the guilty man. Like the Irish heroes of the past, he would remain faithful and loyal, even to the death. He really had no choice. If he told the truth, Marshall—or whatever his name really was—would certainly have his wife killed, and maybe his family in Ireland. And who would believe him anyway? They all wanted him dead. Everyone wanted him to hang except his “Loyal True Blue and Orange” lawyer.

  Whelan took his place in the prisoner’s dock in the middle of the courtroom between two grim-faced policemen. His eyes were barely visible under his thick red eyebrows. He had changed in jail. His red beard was fuller, his complexion more pallid, his broad shoulders slumped. He had lost a lot of weight, but he still wore his tailored suit well. He placed his black silk hat neatly on the bench beside him and glanced around the courtroom. He saw his wife, Bridget, dressed in black, already looking like a widow. She had come from Montreal. He supposed she felt it was her duty to be there. She looked at him blankly. He had abandoned her by going to Ottawa, and he had brought shame on her family by associating with Fenians. Did she think he was guilty of this murder? It didn’t matter; she probably didn’t care anymore.

  He searched for other friends or family, saw none and hung his head. He stood impassively when Chief Justice William Buell Richards entered, and he raised his head only when the court clerk read the charge. The first time most people in the room heard him speak was when he declared, in a clear but shaky voice, “Not guilty.”

  The crowd jumped with excitement. Journalists rushed out of the room to report his impudence. Conor felt his own heart miss a beat, even though he had expected a plea of innocence. Chief Justice Richards pounded his gavel, demanding silence. When the commotion calmed down, he instructed the prosecutor, James O’Reilly, to state the case for the Crown.

  James O’Reilly was from County Mayo, just north of Galway, where the O’Dea family was from. Like John Macdonald, he practised law in Kingston. Like D’Arcy McGee, he wore a beard but shaved his moustache. And like both, he was known for his quick wit. He displayed no sense of humour this day, however, as he eased himself out of his chair and walked toward the jurors.

  “The evidence we will present will prove beyond the shadow of doubt that James Whelan is guilty of the murder of D’Arcy McGee.” Looking each juror in the eyes, he listed the facts of the case: Whelan had told friends in Montreal that he would like to see McGee dead; he had come to Ottawa after the Montreal election to plan the execution; he had been seen in the parliamentary visitors’ gallery, shaking his fist at McGee the night of the murder; he had carried a recently fired revolver, and the bullet matched the one that killed McGee; his boots matched one of the footprints, and a man wearing a long grey coat was seen near the scene of the crime.

  Conor noticed a fly buzzing about. It landed on James Whelan’s forehead. He didn’t bother to swat at it. He just stared at the prosecutor. Conor wondered how Whelan felt, listening to such harsh words spoken against him, especially in an Irish accent.

  “Patrick James Whelan had the misguided motive of an Irish revolutionary,” O’Reilly concluded, “and he shot D’Arcy McGee in cold blood that terrible April night.”

  The courtroom theatrics fascinated Conor, but as the case proceeded, the plodding nature of the delivery of evidence bored him. He was sure McGee would have approved of the odd casting, though: a Catholic prosecuting a Fenian and a Protestant defending him in front of a stone-faced Irish-Catholic judge. This was the New World in a nutshell. His mind was still wandering when he heard his name. “The Crown calls Conor O’Dea.”

  CONOR walked anxiously to the stand. He was certain of what he saw, but uncertain what it meant. As D’Arcy McGee would have said, he knew the bare facts, but he hadn’t yet grasped the angle on the story, the perspective that provided its true meaning and significance.

  James O’Reilly calmly asked him to recount the events leading up to McGee’s murder. Conor retraced his steps as best he could, describing their last words together, how they parted, and where he was when he and Will Trotter heard the gunshot.

  “When you turned the corner onto Sparks Street, did you see anybody?” James O’Reilly asked.

  “After I heard the shot, I was running at full speed and I might have missed something, but all I saw was Mr. McGee’s body lying in front of the boarding house.”

  “Did you know it was him immediately?”

  Conor cleared his throat. “I recognized his white hat on the ground beside him.”

  “You recognized him from down the street by his clothing?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you were right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  James O’Reilly walked across the courtroom dramatically, as if deep in thought. He looked at the jurors when he asked Conor, “Did you see anyone else on the street?”

  “No, sir,” Conor answered. “When I rounded the corner and first saw Mr. McGee, the street was empty.”

  O’Reilly quickly changed direction. “Then what did you do?”

  “I rushed to
Mr. McGee’s side, and my friend Will Trotter ran to the newspaper office.”

  “Did you see anybody then?”

  Conor knew the importance of his testimony to the prosecution. He couldn’t help glancing over at Whelan. The prisoner was watching him with a hint of curiosity.

  “I saw a man hiding by the liquor store down the street,” Conor continued. “I yelled at him, and he ran away.”

  “Did you see his face?”

  “No, I did not.”

  “Did you see where he ran to?”

  “I thought he ran into Offord’s House, across the street from the Toronto House. I followed him there. Or someone there.”

  “Again, did you see his face?”

  “No. The building was vacant and it was dark inside.” Conor felt a pang of shame. He knew that many in the courtroom must have felt he had lost the opportunity to catch the killer. He continued, sheepishly, “Someone was in the back. But he got away.”

  “Did you see any trace of him?”

  Conor knew where this was leading, and he got to the inevitable point. “I saw footprints in the snow.”

  James O’Reilly triumphantly introduced as evidence a boot that matched the footprint. He declared that he would later prove it belonged to James Whelan. Whelan silently shook his head, but all eyes were on O’Reilly as he posed his next question to Conor. “You say you never saw his face, but this man you were pursuing, do you recall what was he wearing?”

  “He was wearing a long grey coat and a black cap.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, sir, I am.”

  James O’Reilly triumphantly held up a grey coat and showed it to the jurors. “This is the coat found in James Whelan’s room. Did the coat look like this?”

  Conor had sworn to tell the truth, and the truth was “Yes, sir. The coat looked like that.”

  Hillyard Cameron rose to cross-examine Conor. He spoke firmly. “Would you please tell the court how many men you saw yesterday wearing a similar coat?”

  James O’Reilly jumped up to object that the question was immaterial, and Mr. Justice Richards agreed. Conor thought the question was a good one, but he never got a chance to answer.

  THE next witness was Mary Ann Trotter. She recounted the moment of D’Arcy McGee’s death. She had heard him fumbling with his keys and was opening the door for him when he was shot. She saw a flash. And McGee’s falling body. But she saw no one on the street.

  Then she told a story Conor hadn’t heard before. Just hours before the murder, James Whelan came to the Toronto House, looking for a drink. Mrs. Trotter served him tea. Whelan insisted she give him a pen and paper, but she refused and he left.

  Conor considered the impact of her testimony. O’Reilly was trying to show that Whelan was checking out the location before the murder. But, he thought, so what? A boot print, a grey coat and strange behaviour on the night of the murder did not add up to convincing evidence. The prosecution needed an eyewitness. Rumours were flying through the courtroom. Maybe tomorrow.

  THE next day, James Whelan appeared in the prisoner’s dock with a green ribbon in his lapel. Again, the courtroom was packed. Everyone was eager to hear from a short, stocky man from Quebec, Jean-Baptiste Lacroix.

  Lacroix had appealed to give his testimony in French, but Mr. Justice Richards refused. The predominantly English-speaking crowd in the courtroom was relieved. It didn’t strike Conor as fair.

  James O’Reilly got to his point quickly. “Tell the court what you saw on Sparks Street the morning of April 7, Monsieur Lacroix.”

  “I saw two men,” Lacroix answered in a thick accent. “One was just about to enter a house on the south side of the street. I saw another man come up behind him, raise his arm and fire a gun.” The courtroom crowd rumbled with excitement. The judge scowled, and there was immediate silence. No one wanted to miss a word. “After he fired the shot, the man walked toward me, but I walked away as fast as I could. I did not cross over to see the man. I was too frightened.”

  Conor was perplexed. He had been there, if not the instant the shot was fired, then just seconds after. Why hadn’t he seen Lacroix?

  O’Reilly carried on. “Did you ever see the man who fired the shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where?”

  “In the jailhouse.”

  “Do you see him in this room?”

  Lacroix pointed toward James Whelan in the prisoner’s dock. “Yes, that is the man there.”

  Conor thought Hillyard Cameron appeared shaken. Lacroix claimed to be an eyewitness. There were unanswered questions and clear discrepancies in his testimony. Cameron had to expose them and discredit this witness, or his case would be lost. He walked toward Lacroix like a predatory animal sizing up a smaller beast.

  “Mr. Lacroix, did you see anyone else on Sparks Street that night?”

  “No. I did not.”

  “So there is no one who can substantiate your testimony that you were there?”

  “I suppose not.”

  Cameron looked doubtful. “You say you saw Mr. McGee shot?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why didn’t you go over to him?”

  “As I said, I was much too frightened.”

  Cameron nodded. A logical answer, he thought. And an opportunity. If he could establish Lacroix as a coward, it would be an easy step to portray him as a liar. He looked at the jury but spoke to Lacroix. “If I have this straight, you abandoned the victim.” He paused, sighed and let the thought settle. “Then where did you go?”

  “I went home.”

  “Did you speak to anybody about what you had seen?”

  “No. I said I was fright—”

  “Ah yes, you were too frightened. Did you go to the police?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  Lacroix just stared at him.

  Cameron didn’t let go. “Were you still too frightened, Mr. Lacroix?”

  “Yes,” he answered quietly.

  “When did you lose your fright? One, two, three days later?”

  As O’Reilly jumped to his feet, Cameron waved his arm in the air dismissively. “The important question is, Mr. Lacroix, when did you hear there was a reward for information about the crime?”

  Lacroix was starting to sweat. “Wednesday.”

  “That was three days later.”

  “Yes.”

  The smaller animal was now firmly in the predator’s grasp.

  “Mr. Lacroix, where did you hear that there was a reward?”

  “At Lapierre’s Tavern.”

  Conor looked up, startled.

  “Please tell the court what you heard about the reward in the … uhmm, bar?”

  “Some said it was large,” Lacroix answered. “Others said it was small. I didn’t know.”

  Cameron paused, then spoke firmly. “It was $16,000, Mr. Lacroix. A lot of money.” He was walking away from Lacroix as he asked, “Did you tell people you saw Mr. McGee’s murder before or after you heard about the reward?”

  “Before,” Lacroix practically shouted.

  “But you told the authorities after,” Cameron shouted back, sarcastically adding, “didn’t you?”

  As Lacroix nodded, Hillyard Cameron rolled his eyes. But the predator was not finished. “Mr. Lacroix, is it not true that when you first went to see the defendant in jail, you said you did not recognize him?”

  “No, I said it was difficult for me to recognize him because he wasn’t dressed the same way.”

  “But if you were able to recognize him by his face, what difference would his clothes make?”

  Lacroix looked confused. Cameron deliberately looked exasperated.

  “So tell the court when you finally did recognize him.”

  “I did when I saw him dressed in the same clothes.”

  “So you recognized him by his grey coat, is that right?”

  As Lacroix uttered a feeble “No, it was him,” Cameron sadly shook his head. “I’m glad my overcoat is
black,” he muttered under his breath, but loudly enough for the jury to hear. “No more questions, my Lord.”

  The predator let the smaller beast go.

  31

  No matter how Hillyard Cameron tried to prevent it, the noose was tightening around James Whelan’s neck. As each new person testified, the defence lawyer did his best to challenge their stories or their credibility. It was an uphill battle.

  He knew that for his client to live, he had to deal with the murder weapon. James O’Reilly had made quite a spectacle of brandishing the gun. “It had recently been fired,” he declared. “One chamber is empty. It housed the bullet that killed D’Arcy McGee.”

  Dramatic, impressive and easily refuted, thought Cameron. Yes, Whelan owned a Smith and Wesson, and yes, that was the make of gun that had been used to kill McGee. But it was also the most popular revolver in Canada.

  Much of Cameron’s case, and James Whelan’s fate, would depend on the testimony of Euphemie Lafrance. She was a tiny young woman with fearful eyes, a vicious cough and a thick French accent.

  “I used to work for Monsieur Starr,” she told the court. “I make the beds.”

  “Including James Whelan’s?”

  “Yes.”

  Cameron could see how nervous she was. She might have expected he would treat her as harshly as he had Lacroix. Instead, he spoke gently and fatherly. “Did you have an accident in Whelan’s room?”

  “Well, yes, with the pistol.”

  Cameron picked up Whelan’s revolver. “With this pistol?”

  “If that is Monsieur Whelan’s, then yes.” She coughed quickly, then resumed her story. “It was between his mattress and the pillow. I found it making his bed. It was natural.”

  She stopped talking, as if looking for approval. Hillyard Cameron said simply, “Go on.”

  “I picked it up and it went off, wounding my arm.”

  “When did this happen?”

  “Maybe six weeks after the new year.”

  “Before Mr. McGee was killed?”

  “Oui.”

  The word seemed to echo through the courtroom, Oui. She was saying that Whelan’s gun did not kill McGee. Conor was stunned.