by Mel Bradshaw
Pain. Injustice. This was the worst thing that had ever happened to Shawn, and he hadn’t squealed. Now he wanted credit for having passed the test, acknowledgement that he was one of the tough guys.
“I—” Sensation crowded thought from his head. It felt as if the burn was moving through his blood vessels up his arm. He expected he’d be feverish soon.
“No need to say anything,” Scar whispered.
The other man pulled Shawn to his feet, still whistling the old Police song “Every Breath You Take”.
“And remember,” said Scar, “we have friends at court. C’mon, Chuckles.”
As the growl of the two motorcycles faded, Shawn burst into the shop and made for the dairy cooler. On returning from the washroom, Dwayne had glanced out the window, puzzled—but not worried—by the sight of the three crouching men. Now he sprinted out from behind the counter, catching up with his brother just in time to see him rip open a pound of butter and hold it to his left palm.
“A burn?” he said. “Run cold water over it.”
The customer washroom’s one tap produced only a lukewarm blend, so Shawn headed for the staff sink. Dwayne brought him a bag of ice.
“What happened?” he asked.
No need to say anything, thought Shawn, but the words were already spilling out of his mouth. “He wanted to show me something on his bike. I touched something I shouldn’t.”
Ice was starting to numb the pain. Shawn pushed more of his arm under water.
“Is that the guy Scar the police were here asking about?” Dwayne wanted to know.
“You didn’t come out while they were here.”
Shawn’s voice was still so distorted by stress that Dwayne couldn’t tell if this was a reproach or not. “No,” he admitted.
“Good. You didn’t think it was any of your business, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, it still isn’t.”
Dwayne wondered if he’d done wrong. If he’d thought his brother was getting hurt, of course he’d have been out there with him. From the counter, though, the situation hadn’t looked dangerous.
Ted had attended Shawn’s bail hearing more at Nelson’s urging than at Markus’s.
“You’ve been pretty involved in this investigation,” said the detective in a phone call Tuesday night. “You’re going to want to know what’s going on, and you’re not going to be reading any blow by blow in the papers.”
“I’d rather not have to look at him,” said Ted.
“Yeah, well chances are you’ll soon be seeing him around the neighbourhood. Everyone gets bail these days. Come on, Ted. You’ll be a witness at his trial, so you’d better get used to Shawn Whittaker, murder suspect. And—who knows?—maybe the sight of him will trigger the memory of something more the prosecution can use.”
This last remark made Ted uneasy, as did the bail hearing judge’s suggestion that the nature of the evidence against Shawn told in favour of his release. They had—on the witness stand, Nelson had confirmed this at last—Shawn’s DNA on the chewing gum. They had Ted’s computer, a thread from Shawn’s hoodie on the window glass, Shawn’s fingerprints in the truck and on one of the CDs stolen from Ted’s house. What more did they want? Karin’s hair under Shawn’s fingernails?
Ted struggled to keep an open mind. Taking a deep breath, he rehearsed the names of innocent men convicted of murder and only long years later exonerated. Donald Marshall, David Milgaard, Guy Paul Morin, Stephen Truscott. It was hard to imagine Shawn Whittaker in their company—hard but not yet quite impossible.
The next hurdle was the preliminary hearing, which Nelson thought would be scheduled sometime before the end of the year. Meanwhile, there were to be long weeks when Ted heard nothing from the detective.
At Thanksgiving, he drove to Montreal as promised, staying with his parents for the long weekend and a few days more. His younger brother Patrick was directing his first play, a student production of Rosencrantz and Guildenstern Are Dead, and Wednesday, October 11 was opening night. Patrick, who’d been only seven when Ted had moved to Toronto, was himself of two minds as to whether Ted should attend. He wondered if the subject might be upsetting. But Ted found much of the play merely absurd and, at the same time, took naïve pleasure in Stoppard’s reframing of the Hamlet story so as to cut the young prince’s interminable dithering.
Ted stayed for the party following the performance and slept in Thursday, starting back down the highway to Mississauga well into the afternoon. Arriving home after ten, he realized he had no milk for next morning’s breakfast cereal. That’s when he considered going back to the Handy Buy. He knew he might meet Shawn there. Could he handle that? The prospect made him gag: he remembered all too vividly the young man’s triumphal raised thumbs on being granted bail. But then again, nothing had yet been proven against the accused. Why should Shawn’s liberty deprive Ted of the right to shop in his own neighbourhood? Ted would act as if there were no issues between them. He would leave all that to the state. He wouldn’t chat, but would thank Shawn for his change and leave at a normal pace without looking back.
Shawn, however, was not around. Dwayne was in sole possession of the store.
Dwayne was not only older than Shawn by a couple of years, but taller with a longer face. He wore yellow-tinted glasses in brown plastic frames. Ted and Karin had once characterized the difference in the boys’ personality like this. If something they were liable to buy were on sale—soda water, for example—Shawn would be practically yelling the savings to them across the parking lot. Whereas the first Dwayne would know about the twenty per cent discount would be when he read on the receipt what amount the till was subtracting from the regular price. At the same time, if Karin wanted three cases of the soda, Dwayne would be the one who’d volunteer to carry it out to her car.
Ted lingered at the counter after he had paid for his carton of milk and had the bag in his hand. “This is hard on both our families,” he said.
“It is,” Dwayne agreed.
“I’m grateful to you for telling the police about the time Scar came to the store.”
“I didn’t,” said Dwayne. His face flushed in confusion under the fluorescent lights.
Ted felt no less confused. “I understood a guy with a long jaw and a big moustache drove in here in a compact car of some sort and bought cigarettes from you a week before the end of August.”
“Oh—yeah.”
“You thought I meant the second time,” Ted guessed.
“How’d you know about that?”
Patiently, monosyllable by monosyllable, Ted got the story out of Dwayne—a story to make a brother anxious—of how two bikers had ridden into the lot two days after the bail hearing and of how, when they left, Shawn’s hand was badly enough burned that it still wasn’t right nearly three weeks later.
“Has Shawn said anything about it?”
“Only that it was an accident. He’s not a squealer, say what you like about him.” Dwayne sounded reluctant to speak, but impelled to set the record straight. “That’s what they don’t understand about him. He didn’t need to be warned.”
He’s proud of his brother, Ted realized with a shiver. Dwayne must have forgotten who he was talking to. Best leave it there. But Karin’s husband turned in the door of the Handy Buy. “Dwayne, I think I have to let the detectives know about this.”
“If you want to make more trouble for us. But nothing I’ve told you proves Shawn did the things they say.”
“Is that Mr. Ted Boudreau?” The voice on the phone next day was male and distantly familiar. “Eliot Szabo here. I was on a panel you moderated, the Friday of the Labour Day weekend.”
Day of hated memory.
“Yes,” said Ted. “How are you?”
“Okay—but this is a little spooky. I’m the Crown that’s been assigned to prosecute the man charged with your wife’s murder that night.”
“Oh.”
“Exactly. I know I said some things that, if I were in
your situation right now, I might find pretty hurtful. So I’m wondering if you’d like me to withdraw from the case and, hopefully, leave the field to some real blood-and-thunder prosecutor. Officially, crime victims don’t get to shop around for Crowns the way the accused get to shop around for lawyers. But I’m willing to plead conflict of interest on the basis of our close and long-standing friendship—never mind that we’ve only met once.”
As Eliot Szabo spoke, Ted visualized the lawyer with loosened tie patting his high forehead and diffusing the tension between Lionel Kerr and Rose Cesario. Ted remembered Szabo saying his sympathies were with the accused, but that he’d switched from defending them to prosecuting them for the money. Words spoken in jest, but possibly true.
“Are you telling me you wouldn’t give this case your best shot?”
“I’d give it my best shot, and my best might even be better than that of a colleague only six years out of law school. For example, I know the defence bar’s delaying tactics and know how to show them up. I put guys in jail. Shoplifters, no—what’s the point? Murderers, yes. Since I changed sides of the courtroom, I’ve never had a jury verdict go against me. Hell, Ted, I don’t even know what your penal philosophy is. As moderator, you didn’t get a chance to lay it out for us at the panel. All I’m saying is that, if part of the horror of that night is the memory of my lame attempts at humour on a subject that was about to become more than academic for you, you don’t have to have anything more to do with me. No hard feelings.”
Ted could have asked for time to think the offer over. But the fact that the offer was being made showed a level of consideration he couldn’t count on receiving from any other Crown counsel. Ms. Haughton hadn’t even wanted to talk to him.
“Thanks, Eliot,” he said. “I’ll stick with you.”
“Reckless words. Now the police will be sending you a Victim Impact Statement form. It’s four pages long. Fill it out and return it to one of the detectives. This won’t be used in court until sentencing. Still, the sooner we get started on it the better. Our boy isn’t pleading guilty at the moment, but he could do so at any time. We have to get a copy to Natasha Cullen, and it’ll help give me an idea of where you’re coming from.”
The third Saturday in October, Ted had dinner at Raj and Nancy’s. They had invited another couple and a single woman named Ingrid. Nancy very sensibly got inquiries about the court case out of the way at the beginning of the evening. No one wanted to pretend the murder hadn’t happened. No one wanted to linger on it, at least in public. Ted participated in the subsequent conversation about federal politics, global diplomacy, the direction the economy was headed—the other man was a colleague of Raj’s at the Rotman School of Management—without having a lot to contribute. He hadn’t been reading the papers very carefully or listening to as many newscasts as he once did. It wasn’t that he felt unable to concentrate so much as that what happened in the world mattered less to him.
He hadn’t yet opened the envelope from the police. He kept thinking that the victim was not he but Karin. She should have been filling in the Victim Impact Statement. Reaching from the grave with fiery pen or sawing out with her bow a savage song of indictment.
When the six diners moved back from the table to the living room for more coffee and brandy, Ted found himself sharing a two-seater sofa with Ingrid. She’d been so quiet all evening that he’d scarcely noticed her. She wore a sleeveless black dress that made her arms look fat and a lot of black make-up around the eyes. Ted understood that she was a musical friend of Nancy’s. He thought the dramatically slanted cut of her straight, black hair was intended to make an impression on the concert stage.
Nancy brought the cream pitcher to their corner. “Did I tell you, Ted, that Ingrid’s a cellist?” she said.
“I don’t believe so,” he replied. He looked again at Ingrid. “I don’t recall seeing you at any of the opera orchestra parties, Ingrid. Where do you play?”
“She’s with the Kitchener-Waterloo Symphony,” Nancy answered for her before serving the rest of the party.
Ted and Ingrid chatted about the acoustics of the hall, the farmers’ markets in the K-W area, the universities, and other amenities until the other couple took their leave. Ted was about to follow when Nancy asked him to sit and stay a moment longer.
“You know, Ted, a cello really should be played. Now this idea is mine, not Ingrid’s, but would you mind if she borrowed Karin’s Commendulli, just while you’re sorting out what you want to do with it? Not for her orchestra work, perhaps, but for recitals.”
“I’d like to think that over.”
“Have a brandy and think it over now,” Nancy urged.
“Ingrid,” said Ted, “can I let you know in a few days?”
“Of course.” Ingrid’s hand dived into her chic little purse and quickly surfaced with a business card for Ted. “My cell number’s there. I can see this suggestion is coming rather suddenly. There’s no rush, really.”
That should have been the end of it, but Ted couldn’t stand up: his hostess was still planted squarely in front of him.
“Ingrid has a van. She could follow you home and pick it up tonight. It’s sad to think of that extraordinary instrument just sitting there.”
Cry me a river, thought Ted.
“Nancy,” Raj called from across the room, “have you seen the Anna Netrebko CD?”
“Coming,” she called back. “Really, he’s infatuated with that woman. Before that it was Renée Fleming. And before that . . .”
As she drifted away, Ted excused himself to Ingrid and retrieved his coat.
In bed that night, not having Karin in his arms was torment. The strange thing was that while she was alive, many women looked attractive. Karin would agree—this actress yes, that one no. Now no woman was touched with any beauty. Ted had sexual feelings all right, but no object. Self-pitying? Damn right! He reminded himself to think of it from Quirk’s side of the grave. He’d lost so much in losing her, but she’d lost everything.
Nancy phoned next afternoon. “Forgive me, Ted,” she said. “I was tipsy and behaved badly. I’m sorry.”
“It’s okay.” She’s grieving too, he reminded himself. “You’ve been a tower of strength,” he said. “I don’t know how I’d have got through these early days without you.”
“Thanks for not chewing me out. Raj accused me of trying to set you up with Ingrid, and I wanted to make sure you didn’t feel that’s what I was doing. I know it’s barely been seven weeks. I’d hate you to think I’d be that tacky.”
“You’re a class act in my books,” said Ted. “Bona fide.”
“It really was about the cello. I thought it was what Karin would want.”
“Tell me,” said Ted, “do you think Karin would want me to fill out a Victim Impact Statement?”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a form in which I tell the court what the effects of the murder were—are.”
“Lord Almighty, Ted, doesn’t the judge know?”
“Seems not.”
“Well, Karin was a great believer in education.”
When Ted did open the envelope, it bothered him that, even though the form could only be used after a finding of guilt, the convicted criminal was still referred to as the accused. There were three sections. Ted imagined what Karin might write under each heading: Emotional Loss—total; Physical Injury—dead; Financial Impact—need for cash much reduced.
The enclosed guidelines said that not all parts of the form had to be filled out and that indeed a Victim Impact Statement could be filed without using the form at all. Those needing more direction could attempt to answer a series of questions for each of the three headings. The first question pertaining to Emotional Loss was, “Has the crime affected your lifestyle?” Ted doubted whether anyone who could think in such terms would need to fill out the forms at all. Lifestyle was for the un-impacted.
The package also included repeated warnings about what not to say. Describe the impa
ct of the crime on your life, but don’t describe the crime. Make no criticisms of the accused. Make no recommendations as regards sentencing. Ted drew up an experimental draft in his head.
The murderer (a purely descriptive term), whom I’ll refrain from calling a brutal scumbag, deprived me of a loyal and passionate lover, a promising musician, a woman blessed with all the beauty of good health, the mother of my child, and an inexhaustibly fascinating friend. The cause of death, which I won’t mention, makes me sick every time I think of it and I can’t help thinking about it every day. The cracker of my dear wife’s skull (sorry, it just slipped out) is, so far as I’m concerned, not deserving of any particular punishment. That call should be made by a judge who never heard of Karin Gustafson and couldn’t care less.
Tuesday morning Ted set aside for serious work on the VIS. While he was making himself a pot of coffee, it came back to him that Graham Hart had written an essay on the subject for a journal special issue or bound anthology a year or so ago. Ted’s library was well enough organized that he soon had the piece open in front of him on the kitchen table.
Never one to pull his punches, Graham had let it go to press under the title “Just Desserts or Just Nonsense? How Victims’ Rights Victimize Offenders.” He took the position that a criminal trial is a proceeding that pits the prosecution, acting in the name of the state, against an accused. Adding an ill-informed third party, the private victim, creates distortions. Sentences handed down after a consideration of impact statements are apt to be mutually inconsistent and harsher overall. Vengeful and punitive crime victims push the system away from the worthwhile public policy goal of reducing incarceration rates. Prisons are expensive and should be saved for the most dangerous offenders, not for those with the most articulate or impassioned victims. Is it really worse to kill a well-loved society woman than a friendless bag lady? Graham also pointed out that some victims recover more quickly than others. How can a housebreaker know in choosing his target whether he is stealing from someone that will move on right after the burglary or from someone that will go to pieces? Giving victims the right of allocution in a sentencing hearing invites intemperate outbursts and inappropriate criticisms of the justice system. Graham denounced sympathy for crime victims as generating—in the words of criminologist Ezzat A. Fattah—“a backlash against criminal offenders.” In the revolution of rising expectations, crime victims will next be clamouring for participation in plea bargaining. What a disaster that would be! A more hopeful direction for victims’ rights, Graham concluded, is taking them out of the criminal trial process and creating programs to promote victim-offender reconciliation.