Denial

by Beverley McLachlin

  I sigh, a show of patience. “Let me put the question this way, then. At the time, Constable, you viewed Mrs. Quentin’s reactions and state of mind as completely consistent with coming down and finding her mother dead in the circumstances you have described?”

  “Yes, I suppose I did.”

  “And later, when Mr. Quentin placed his hand on his wife’s, he looked at her with concern?”

  “Yes.”

  “Another loving moment?”

  “I don’t know.”

  This is as good as it’s going to get, I decide. “No further questions,” I say.

  CHAPTER 36

  WEDNESDAY, THE THIRD DAY OF the trial, and Nicholas is still missing in action. Presumably he appeared to take Vera home last night and dropped her off at court this morning. But I haven’t seen him, not in the courtroom, not in the corridors beyond.

  “Is Nicholas still staying with you?” I ask Vera in the witness room before the trial gets going. She is wearing a smart suit with a diamond pin on the lapel. A bygone token of affection from her husband? I wonder. Every day, Vera Quentin looks stronger, better.

  “Yes, Nicholas has been very good. He prepares me a lovely dinner every night and sits with me in the evening.” She pauses, anticipating my question. “He can’t be here today. A special lecture.”

  As if, I think. By now the whole law school knows that during yesterday’s cross-examination I suggested that Nicholas had reason to off his grandmother before she could change her will. Nicholas won’t be going near a lecture hall for some time.

  “Perhaps he’s upset. But he shouldn’t worry,” I say. It’s the nearest I’ve come to circling back to the events of Tuesday morning. I expect another outburst, but Vera answers with equanimity.

  “No, as you know, I was angry that you suggested Nicholas might somehow have been involved in the death of his grandmother. I still am, and I still hold you to my condition that you not raise the matter again. However, it seems that Nicholas is less concerned than I. When I raised the incident with him, he said, Ms. Truitt did the right thing. We need to get you out from under this, Mother, however we can.”

  Good for you, Nicholas, I think. Working with Mom, holding her together so she can get through this trial. But underneath I know he is seething at the suggestion that he could have killed his grandmother, just as he was when I interviewed him.

  Vera hesitates as if pondering whether to reveal a secret. “Nicholas is proud. And much stronger than I had imagined.”

  I want to ask her what she means, but the knock on the door preempts me; the sheriff has come to claim her. Jeff and I pick up our computers and head into the courtroom.

  Today, the police procession continues with the police officer who took Vera’s statement the morning after the murder.

  “I call Detective Sergeant Mercer,” Cy says with a flourish of his gown.

  Detective Sergeant Mercer strides purposefully down the aisle to the witness box. A bulldog of a man, he looks neither left nor right as he seats himself on the bench. Black hair lacquered back; black eyes locked on Cy’s. Mercer is here to tell us about the murder investigation, and he means business.

  Cy goes through the preliminaries and then gets to the events of the morning after the murder. “Did you attend at 1231 West Thirty-Ninth Avenue in Vancouver, Detective Sergeant?”

  Detective Sergeant Mercer is old-school and speaks without notes. “I did. I received a call from officers asking me to attend at a suspicious death at nine thirty-two in the morning and proceeded immediately to that address, accompanied by Constable Wiggins.”

  “Tell the jury what you found, Detective Sergeant.”

  “One of the officers who had responded to the 911 call met me at the door. The forensics unit—FIU—had already taped off the den, but they let me pass so I could inspect the body. They showed me the needle marks in the deceased’s arm, told me they suspected an overdose of some kind as cause of death, but would confirm with an autopsy. Then I went to the living room and met with two persons who were seated on the sofa and identified themselves to me as Mr. Joseph Quentin and Mrs. Vera Quentin.”

  “Do you see Mrs. Quentin today?”

  “I do. Mrs. Quentin is the woman seated in the prisoner’s box.”

  “And what happened then, Detective?”

  “Constable Wiggins and I pulled up chairs and asked if we could talk to Mr. and Mrs. Quentin. They agreed, and we conducted a conversation.”

  “Can you describe the state of each of the persons you have mentioned?”

  “Mr. Quentin was calm, steely. Mrs. Quentin appeared upset and very emotional. There was a pile of used tissues on the floor beside her chair, and she was still weeping. From time to time Mr. Quentin patted her hand, trying to help her hold herself together. He told us what he knew—his wife had stayed overnight with the deceased. She called him around eight a.m. and told him her mother was dead. He came over right away, opened the locked front door with his key, and verified the death. His wife told him she had come downstairs and found her mother dead. Constable Wiggins reduced what Mr. Quentin told us to a statement that he read and signed.”

  “I ask the clerk to show you exhibit one in these proceedings. Do you recognize this document?”

  Naomi, our clerk, hands the document to the detective sergeant, who studies it and pronounces, “This is the statement Mr. Quentin signed.”

  “What about Mrs. Quentin?”

  “After Mr. Quentin signed his statement, we asked Mrs. Quentin for her statement. We had no reason to suspect her of the crime at the time so we didn’t administer a caution. We were just gathering facts. I was afraid that in her distraught state she might have difficulty answering coherently, but she dried her eyes and said, Certainly.”

  The detective sergeant shifts in his seat and for the first time refers to his notes. “Mrs. Quentin told us that she had given the deceased two sleeping pills and put her to bed around nine the night before. She then ensured the doors were locked and the alarm system on, activating the bypass for movement within the house since her mother often got up during the night. She proceeded upstairs to her bedroom, where she remained all night. When she came down in the morning, she found her mother dead and called her husband to tell him. She told us she had slept soundly and heard nothing during the night.”

  Cy nods. “Did the question of morphine come up?”

  “Yes. I asked Mrs. Quentin if there were drugs in the house. She said yes, the nurse who looked after her mother after surgery had left some morphine in the upstairs bathroom. She led us there, but the cupboard was empty. No morphine. No needle. Nothing. So we came back downstairs. Constable Wiggins reduced what Mrs. Quentin relayed to a statement that she then read and signed.”

  Jonathan hands Naomi a sheaf of papers, which she passes on to the witness and jurors.

  “We have no objection to the document going in,” I say. Had Cy not put Vera’s statement in as part of the Crown’s case, we would have done so in cross-examination. If nothing else, Vera Quentin has been consistent—what she said the morning after the murder is precisely what she says now.

  Cy mops up a few desultory details and turns the witness over to us. I stand, and zero in on what matters. I want only one thing—that Vera was shocked and bewildered at how her mother could be dead. Detective Mercer obliges.

  “I assumed she was telling us the whole truth—everything she knew.”

  Quit while you’re ahead, I tell myself, and sit down. We break for lunch.

  CHAPTER 37

  NOW WE’RE INTO THE AFTERNOON and on to motive. Cy has called Detective James Stellarton to provide the underpinning upon which his case rests—that Vera Quentin, exhausted with her mother’s endless pleading, finally succumbed to her demand to end her life.

  Cy presents the witness, clothed in a black suit and tie to match, with a sheaf of papers.

  “Yes, I recognize this document,” Detective Stellarton states. “It’s an email chain we obtained, mes
sages between the deceased Olivia Stanton and her daughter, Vera Quentin.”

  “Ms. Truitt has had notice of this,” Cy advises, shooting me a glance. He seems to be going out of his way on this case to underline that I’m getting full disclosure. “May the document be marked, my Lady?”

  The clerk duly stamps the document. We’re up to exhibit fifty-three now. I know what they say—that Olivia Stanton continued to pressure her daughter to help her die right up to the time of her death.

  “There are many messages, Detective,” Cy continues when the marking is done. “Could you direct the jury to the passages that relate to this case?”

  “Page three, two-thirds down, June 13, 2019, we see this exchange:

  Olivia: I can’t sleep, and I can’t bear to be awake. I can’t stand the pain. I want to die.

  Vera: I’ll ask the doctor for opioids. They will help with the pain.

  Olivia: Do you think I want to spend my remaining years in an opioid coma? I prefer to die now.

  Vera: Then do it yourself.

  Olivia: No, I don’t know how to, how many pills to take. And what happens if it doesn’t work? You’ll just call 911 and pump me out. Or Maria or somebody. I can’t do this without your cooperation. And the doctors won’t do it, damn the law.

  Vera: I can’t do it, Mother. I just can’t. Don’t ask me to do this. Please.

  Olivia: You’re weak, Vera. An ineffectual poet, and not even good at that.

  Vera: Mother, I’ve had enough.

  “That particular exchange ends there?” Cy asks.

  “Yes. But there are several others similar in content. July fourteenth. July twentieth. Three in early August, the last on August fifth, a few days before Olivia Stanton’s death.”

  I watch as the jury follows Detective Stellarton through their copies as he reads. Different words, the same narrative.

  Help me, Vera.

  No, I can’t.

  Followed by insults from the deceased. The foreman’s lips are pursed tight. He doesn’t like this. I can only hope that might mean he feels a touch of sympathy for Vera.

  “So, viewing these emails as a whole, Detective, do you see any patterns?”

  Cy is careful not to lead, but it isn’t necessary. Detective Stellarton is well rehearsed and knows just what to say. “In the month leading up to the date of Olivia Stanton’s death, her demands that her daughter help her to end her life become more frequent. At the end, we see three demands within a period of ten days.”

  “So we see an escalation in the deceased’s demand that she be allowed to end her life in the weeks and days before the murder?”

  “Definitely.”

  “And with that escalation, increased pressure on her daughter to accede to that wish?”

  I’m on my feet. “Objection.”

  “Sustained,” says the judge, glaring at Cy.

  “Very well.” Cy limps back to his table. He’s happy; he’s got what he wanted. “Your witness.”

  I move into the well of the court to cross-examine. “Detective, would you agree that in the excerpts you have just read, Vera Quentin consistently maintains that she will not kill her mother—in the face of considerable pressure and even abuse?” I ask.

  “Yes, that is true. Of course, these emails are only a partial record. We don’t know what Mrs. Quentin may have said to her mother in person.”

  “But in every conversation between Vera Quentin and her mother that we do know about, she adamantly, clearly, and unequivocally refused her mother’s demands to help her to end her life,” I press.

  “That is fair to say,” Detective Stellarton assents.

  “And you worked hard to find all the conversations you could?”

  “Yes, that’s my job.”

  “You went through the phone records of Vera Quentin?” I ask.

  “That’s right. We couldn’t recover the calls, but there were texts on her cellphone.”

  “Did Olivia ever talk about death in her texts to her daughter?”

  “A few times she said things like I want to die.”

  “And how did Vera respond?”

  “Nothing much. I can’t recall.”

  “Let me refresh your memory.” I wait while Jeff hands out copies to the clerk for the witness and the jury. “This is a transcription of two of many texts between the deceased and her daughter in August 2019, and the only two mentioning death. Do you agree?”

  “If you say so. Yes, I agree.”

  “I direct you to page one, line thirteen, of the call transcript, witness. Would you read it?”

  “Vera, I want to die.”

  “And the response?”

  “Mother, you’re not ready to die.”

  “And on the second page, the day before Olivia Stanton died, please read the highlighted portion, Detective.”

  “From Olivia: I can’t go on any longer. You must help me.”

  “And the response?”

  “Mother, we’ve been through this. I can’t do what you want. I just can’t.” Detective Stellarton lifts his eyes to the jury. “You can see the pressure building.”

  “You can also see Vera’s clear intention to resist that pressure, however insistent her mother’s demands,” I snap. Cy starts to rise, but Justice Buller waves him down.

  “If you say so,” Stellarton says. When I don’t answer, he finally concedes. “Yes.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” I say, and sit down.

  Not a bad day, all in all, Jeff and I reassure each other as we head out. The main police evidence is in, and our case is still standing. We head for home.

  CHAPTER 38

  THE FOURTH DAY OF THE trial is occupied with medical evidence and crime scene officers, laying out the physical evidence on which the Crown’s case hangs.

  Olivia Stanton passed away as a result of an overdose of morphine—enough to overwhelm her internal systems and shut down her breathing—administered at some point between 11:00 and 11:15 p.m. with the estimated time of death between midnight and 1:00 a.m. Officer after officer catalogue the forensic details of the crime scene investigation. The room where Olivia drew her last breath has been measured, the exact placement of the cot that served as her bed marked. All surfaces have been inspected and fingerprinted. No unknown fingerprints were found in the room or on anything in the house. Vera Quentin’s fingerprints, some very fresh, were everywhere.

  We consented to the reports going in, even the report from Dr. McComb, Vera’s personal psychiatrist, attesting to her general anxiety disorder diagnosis and her state of anxiety prior to her mother’s death, and we ask a few questions in cross-examination here and there.

  You would have expected to find fingerprints of the accused, given that she visited often and was staying with her mother that night?

  Yes, probably.

  You are sure you tested all the surfaces?

  Yes, of course, the crime scene people are always professional.

  But our interventions are few—best to let this cortege of death pass as quickly and quietly as possible. In odd moments, my mind wanders to May. It’s been days since we’ve heard from anyone. Not for lack of trying. I’ve called Deborah and Damon, but the phone just rings.

  It’s three fifteen before the security expert testifies. The linchpin in the Crown’s case is the contention that Vera Quentin was the only person in the house when Olivia Stanton was killed. And that contention depends on what Tony Dasilva says.

  Cy takes him through the basics. Tony confirms Joseph’s testimony that the locks on Olivia’s house were changed after a recent break-in; that only four keys, all accounted for, had been made; and that the keys could not have been reproduced without that being recorded. He describes the alarm system, how it worked, how it could be bypassed. Yes, people often put the alarm on but set the bypass for movements within the house, makes sense if you have pets, kids, or an elderly occupant given to wandering in the night.

  “Did you go back to the residence after the death of O
livia Stanton, Mr. Dasilva?” Cy asks.

  “I did. I attended at the residence on the morning of August 11, 2019, at the request of the police. I was attended by an officer”—he consults a note—“a Constable Olmec. A woman.”

  “And what did you and Constable Olmec do and find?”

  “We checked the locks. All in good order.”

  “What else did you do?”

  “We went around the house, checked all the windows.”

  “Tell the jury what you found, Mr. Dasilva.”

  “We checked all the windows and found all to be secure.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Dasilva.” Cy sits. “Your witness.”

  Time to cross-examine. This time Jeff does the honours.

  Jeff stands. “You have just told the jury you checked all the windows of Olivia Stanton’s house, Mr. Dasilva. Would you tell us what steps you took to check each window?”

  “Basically, we checked all the glass and all the frames to see if they were secure or whether a window could have been pushed in or opened in some way from the outside. If I can have a copy of my report, I can show you exactly what I did.”

  Cy half-rises as Clerk Naomi distributes the report to the witness and the jurors. “There are twenty-seven windows in this report. If the defence takes the witness through each of them, we will be here until tomorrow.”

  “Do not fear,” Jeff says smoothly. “I am only interested in one window. Mr. Dasilva, will you go to page six of your report, the window labeled number twenty-three?” Jeff waits while the witness and the jurors page through their copies of the report. “Tell the jury what you see.”

  “I see a photo of a basement window, located in the northeast portion of the basement wall. That is a concrete wall. It is a three-pane casement window, all panes intact.”

  “Let’s not worry about the panes, Mr. Dasilva. I’m interested in the outer frame that surrounds the panes. Did you examine that frame?”

  “Yes, I did.”