By the Skin of His Teeth

by Ann Walsh

  Ma insisted I eat a substantial breakfast, and I did so, though it hurt when I swallowed. She didn't speak much, but kept peering at me anxiously. I had the feeling that after Pa talked to her the previous night there was a great deal she wished to say to me. But it appeared she had decided to keep the words to herself for now.

  "I'm much better, Ma," I reassured her.

  "This morning it isn't how you feel that worries me, Ted. It's how others feel about you."

  I bent my head over my porridge and ate silently. There was nothing I could say.

  "I've ironed your suit. You must look your best at the trial."

  "Thank you, Ma."

  She hugged me. "Eat. Finish your breakfast. You need strength today." She turned away quickly, but not before I saw tears in her eyes. She wouldn't allow me to leave the house until I took more cough syrup.

  "Please, Ma, don't fret about me."

  "It is a mother's job to fret about her children, Ted. I wish you didn't have to go. I wish you—"

  "I feel much better," I told her again, though I knew that wasn't what she had meant.

  The last of the rain clouds had emptied from the sky, and now swarms of insects buzzed happily in the warm air. There were fresh prints across the road near our house—deer and porcupine—and I could see where the animals had stopped to drink the rainwater that had pooled in the wagon ruts. Steam rose gently from puddles, and in the woods birds sang cheerfully.

  I didn't sing, nor was I cheerful. Although I didn't feel as ill as I had the day before, I was glad the trial would be at the courthouse in Richfield. It was a shorter journey from my home to Richfield than it was the other way to Barkerville. But in this direction the road wound uphill and was steep. By the time I reached the courthouse, I was sweating and out of breath. I paused and leaned against a large tree, breathing deeply, trying to stifle a fit of coughing. Pulling a handkerchief from my pocket, I swabbed my face, wishing I hadn't worn my wool suit. The heat had increased, and I wondered if my fever had also returned. My legs felt weak, my throat burned, and my head ached.

  But it didn't matter how I felt. I had to be at this trial.

  There were many people gathered in front of the large white courthouse, determined to be first in line when the doors were opened. I heard voices and laughter. In the gold fields legal proceedings sometimes offered as much entertainment as theatre productions. It had seemed as if the whole town had come to watch Ah Mow's inquest.

  But the inquest had been held at the Theatre Royal, not here. Once I had watched another trial in this courthouse. Then, too, there were many spectators, all anxious to learn the fate of a man accused of murder. When the trial was over, gallows were erected in front of the courthouse and a man had been hanged.

  I pushed away from the tree, no longer grateful for its support. It had been here, sitting behind this very tree, on this exact spot, that I had heard the sounds of that execution. I had been forbidden to watch, but I had disobeyed my parents and gone. I hadn't seen what had happened, only listened. Even so, the sounds I had heard that evening had found their way into my nightmares for many years.

  Suddenly words came from behind me. "Sir...Ted." I jumped. "Peter! I'm glad to see you. Are you going to the trial, too?"

  "No, we must wait out here."

  Although I hadn't noticed them before, a large group of Chinese men were assembled under the shade of a cottonwood tree near the courthouse. "Peter, your head!" He was no longer bleeding, but his forehead was covered by a dark bruise from the centre of which rose a large lump. "Does it hurt?"

  Peter touched the bruise. "No, it does not hurt. But if you had not come to help me..."

  "I' m sorry tor—"

  "Do not be sorry. I learned much on Dominion Day. And I took only small harm for all that learning. You will go inside and listen to what is said in the court?"

  "Yes."

  "Will you tell the judge what you saw?"

  "I haven't been asked to be a witness, Peter. I can't say anything, not unless the judge asks me to."

  He fingered the bruise on his forehead again. "I wish you could speak to the jury, sir...Ted."

  "If I'm asked, I'll speak. I promise. Ah Mow will find justice, Peter. Trust me. The jury will listen to all the evidence. The men who saw the murder will testify, and Henri Tremblay will be punished."

  "I hope so. But it would be good if you could speak in the court for Ah Mow. Speak for all of us Chinese people."

  "Ted, it's time." My father had arrived.

  "Yes, Pa."

  "I will wait here," Peter said. "I hope it will not be a long trial."

  "Me, too," I said. My throat was so sore I could barely speak. I wished I had a drink of water to soothe it.

  "We'll tell you everything that happens, Peter," my father promised. "But now we have to go if we're to find a seat."

  "Don't worry, Peter," I said. "Everything will be all right."

  My father and I joined the queue in front of the courthouse. The doors swung open. "Court will begin in ten minutes," Chief Constable Lindsay announced from the front steps. "Please enter, but remember to conduct yourselves with respect." The crowd surged forward, eager for the best seats. Pa and I followed.

  "Welcome, gentlemen," the chief constable said. "I've saved you two excellent seats. The jury, all fine men of the gold fields, has been selected, and the judge is well fed and eager to begin. I'm sure this proceeding won't take long. Come in, come in."

  I had my mouth open to thank him when two men behind us pushed forward. Chief Constable Lindsay greeted them warmly and ushered them to seats near the front. I felt myself turning red as I realized he hadn't been speaking to Pa and me, that he had deliberately ignored us.

  "Pa-"

  "Let it be, son. Pay the constable and his rudeness no mind."

  I was upset, though I tried to hide it. The chief constable had always been friendly toward me...until now.

  Pa and I found seats near the back, the second to last row. Already the courthouse was nearly full, though I could hear other would-be spectators arriving outside. Sing Kee sat in the front row. I knew he would be the translator for some of the witnesses. In the prisoner's box, seated on a small bench behind wooden railings, was Henri Tremblay.

  Once again I would be present at a man's trial. Once again I would listen as witnesses testified, lawyers argued, and the jury delivered a verdict. Would I also once again see a judge place a black cloth over his head and sentence a man to death?

  Would there be another hanging in the gold fields?

  Fifteen

  The door leading to the judge's chambers opened, and Judge Crease entered the courtroom. He strode to the bench without looking around him, his head high, steps firm.

  "All rise," the court clerk called.

  The judge took his place, and once we were all seated again, nodded at us and began his opening remarks. "This court is now convened. I remind you that I am the Queen's representative, and any disrespect shown to me, or my position, is disrespect shown to Her Majesty, Queen Victoria. There have been occasions during other court sessions in the gold fields where the spectators have shown no respect for the solemnity of the proceedings. There has even been shouting and unruly laughter in this courthouse. These disgraceful exhibitions of disrespect will not be tolerated. Only those citizens summoned as witnesses, the foreman of the jury, or the learned counsel presenting the case may speak here. And I remind them all to address me as My Lord. I will tolerate no inappropriate or disrespectful behaviour in my courtroom. Is that perfectly clear to everyone?"

  There was complete silence. The judge scowled, then leaned back in his seat, satisfied he had been understood. "Very well. Then let us proceed with as much haste as possible. There is a full, unusually heavy calendar for these Assizes. One indictment for the most serious offence in the eyes of God or man—murder. Three for stabbing, and one for breaking into a house with intent to steal."

  The robbery and minor stabbings were of lit
tle interest to the audience, but all eyes turned to Henri Tremblay, the man accused of "the most serious offence in the eyes of God or man." He stared straight ahead, as if he hadn't heard the judge.

  Judge Crease continued. "In spite of the fact that there are several cases to be dealt with, there is honour and some satisfaction that the parties accused in every case but one are Chinese, a race that has not yet apparently acquired a proper respect for our laws. These cases will be tried later. As for the present case, Mr. Walkem, I understand you will be representing the interests of the accused, Mr. Henri Tremblay?"

  Mr. Walkem rose and bowed. "Yes, My Lord, I appear for the defence."

  "Very good. And Mr. Robertson, you'll present the Crown's case against the accused?"

  A short blond man stood. He was very young, and his robes were too long. They hung to the floor and covered his boots. "Yes, My Lord."

  "Very well. Mr. Robertson, please call your first witness."

  "My Lord, there has been an unfortunate development. Two of the witnesses the Crown had hoped to call to testify are unavailable."

  "Unavailable to appear before the Supreme Court? That is not acceptable, Mr. Robertson. Please explain yourself."

  The lawyer seemed ill at ease. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other. "My Lord, three Chinese men were summoned as witnesses. One can't be found and another is ill, or claims to be. In truth, when I saw him he bore signs of having been in a most grievous fight. His mouth is badly bruised, and he appears to be missing some teeth. In all honesty I don't believe he could speak clearly enough so that this court could understand his words."

  "Very well. He is excused. But the other witness? What do you mean he can't be found?"

  "Chief Constable Lindsay has searched for him, My Lord. He...uh...he appears to have left Barkerville, and no one knows where he's gone."

  The judge frowned. "As I said in my opening remarks, these Chinese have no respect for our laws. I am not pleased, Mr. Robertson, but in the interests of expediency, I suggest we proceed. Call your remaining witness."

  "The witness Ah Ohn is present, My Lord," Mr. Robertson said. "I call Mr. Ohn."

  Chief Constable Lindsay disappeared into a door at the back of the courtroom and returned with a tall Chinese man. The court clerk offered Ah Ohn a small piece of paper covered with Chinese writing. The witness struck a match to the corner of it and bowed his head while it burned. He dropped the last piece to the floor, where the clerk hastily stamped on it, making sure the flames were out.

  "My Lord, the witness has been sworn according to his beliefs," Mr. Robertson said.

  "Very good. Proceed," the judge said absently. His attention was on the black scorch mark on the floor of the courthouse. He didn't look pleased.

  "Mr. Ohn, do you require the services of a translator?" Mr. Robertson asked.

  "No. I speak English."

  "Very good. Then will you tell this court what you saw the morning of November 3 in the year of Our Lord 1870?"

  "I saw Ah Mow."

  "Yes?"

  "He dead."

  "Who else did you see?"

  "I see white man."

  "Could you please tell the court everything you saw, Mr. Ohn? Just as you told the coroner at the inquest?"

  "I see Ah Mow dead."

  "At the inquest you testified that a white man was kneeling beside the body of the deceased. Would you please repeat that statement."

  The witness was silent for a moment. Finally he spoke. "Not kneel. No."

  "But, Mr. Ohn, you told me that—" Mr. Robertson almost squealed.

  He was interrupted by the witness. "I hear Ah Mow shout, ‘Murder.' I see Ah Mow dead. I go fetch constable."

  The young lawyer was moving his weight from one foot to the other and back. The motion made his robes flap around his boots, sweep across the floor, and stir up small puffs of dust. He coughed, and his voice was lower when he said, "Now, Mr. Ohn, I'll show you a drawing of Barkerville's main street. Uh, does the court clerk have that map?" Mr. Robertson glanced anxiously at the clerk, who rummaged around on his desk for a few seconds before he found a large piece of paper. He handed it to the lawyer and even from the back of the courthouse I could hear Mr. Robertson's sigh of relief. "Thank you. Now, Mr. Ohn, please look at this drawing. It shows Barkerville's main street. Right here is Ah Mow's restaurant." He pointed, and the Chinese man nodded. "And here, where this X is, that's where the deceased was lying. Do you understand?" Again Ah Ohn nodded, and once more the lawyer sighed with relief. "Good. Now will you show me exactly where you were standing?"

  The witness studied the map, then reached out a hand and pointed. "Here."

  "There? Are you sure?"

  "Yes. I am in alley."

  "In the alley? What alley?"

  Again the witness pointed at the map.

  Mr. Robertson's mouth fell open. He snatched the map out of Ah Ohn's hands and stared at it. "Do you mean this small passageway between two buildings across the street from where the deceased was lying?"

  "Yes."

  "But at the inquest you testified you were in the street only nine or ten feet from Mr. Mow. This alley is much farther away, perhaps thirty feet."

  The witness said nothing. Judge Crease leaned across the bench, craning his neck to see the map, but Mr. Robertson didn't notice.

  "You were in the alley?" The lawyer's voice had been climbing higher with each question; now it was a high-pitched squeal again. "In the alley? You weren't on the street?"

  Mr. Robertson was almost bouncing as he shuffled his weight from one foot to the other. I hoped he wouldn't trip over his own robes, but if he didn't stay still, it seemed likely he would end up sprawled on the wooden floor amid the dust he was raising.

  "My Lord," Mr. Robertson said to the judge, "I don't understand. This witness has—"

  "Just a moment, Mr. Robertson," Judge Crease said. "Mr. Ohn, you do understand you are under oath? You realize there are severe penalties for lying to the Supreme Court?"

  "I tell truth," Ah Ohn said.

  "But, My Lord, this isn't what he said—"

  "It hard to see good in alley," Ah Ohn broke in. "I saw nothing."

  Those words! That was exactly what Henri Tremblay had said to me when we met on the Richfield road. Remember, you saw nothing.

  Last November at the inquest Ah Ohn had sworn he had been only ten feet from the murdered man. He had said he had seen Henri Tremblay kneeling by the body, seen a knife in his hand.

  What had happened? Why had Ah Ohn changed his story?

  Mr. Robertson had stopped bouncing, and the dust around his feet had settled. He moved to stand directly in front of the witness and tried to lower his voice as he spoke. "Very well then. For now we'll leave the question of exactly where you were standing. Was the white man you saw holding a knife?"

  "No knife."

  "What? I mean, would you repeat that answer."

  "I see no knife."

  "But at the inquest you said..." Mr. Robertson started bouncing again. "You even identified the type of knife you saw."

  "I tell you, no knife. I go now?" Ah Ohn stood, eager to leave.

  "Sit down!" Mr. Robertson shouted. "Stay there." Then he turned to the judge. "My Lord?"

  "If you're asking me what to do, Mr. Robertson, you're the Crown counsel and I don't consider it part of my duties to conduct this case for you, however young and inexperienced you may be. Perhaps a translator would help, though. Maybe this man's command of English isn't as great as he believes it is and he doesn't understand the questions."

  "But he understood perfectly when I interviewed him yesterday, My Lord."

  Judge Crease released a deep, impatient sigh. "Do as you wish, Mr. Robertson, but move on. As I said at the beginning, the court has a full schedule and we mustn't delay proceedings simply because you have a reluctant witness."

  Mr. Robertson turned to Sing Kee. "Mr. Kee, if you would be so good as to help the court, it would be appreciated."r />
  "I will translate," Sing Kee said, moving to stand beside Ah Ohn's chair. "But there is no need. He understands."

  Mr. Robertson cleared his throat, shuffled, and asked, "Did you see a white man with a knife in his hand kneeling beside Ah Mow's body?"

  Sing Kee spoke rapidly in Cantonese, and Ah Ohn answered in the same language. The herbalist moved closer to the witness and spoke to him again, this time in a lower voice.

  Ah Ohn replied, but he wouldn't look at Sing Kee as he spoke. His voice was loud, and he used his hands to emphasize whatever he was saying, waving them around and finally thumping a fist on the arm of his chair.

  Again Sing Kee spoke. Although he seemed calm, I thought he was becoming angry. His voice was harsh and he bent forward to peer into the witnesses's face as he spoke to him. This time Ah Ohn didn't answer. Instead he shook his head.

  "What did the witness say?" Judge Crease demanded. "We don't have all day to listen to this gibberish."

  Sing Kee answered the judge in English. "This man says he saw no knife. He says he was in the alley, far away, not close to Ah Mow. He says the white man was standing, not kneeling. I do not believe he tells the truth, but that is what he says."

  "Is true," Ah Ohn said. "No knife. No kneel."

  In the prisoner's box Henri Tremblay grinned. I don't think anyone but me saw it. He caught me staring at him, and his smirk grew broader.

  "Is this the truth?" the judge asked Ah Ohn.

  The witness nodded. "Yes. The truth."

  "The truth? You do not tell the truth," Sing Kee said. Then he switched to rapid Cantonese and shouted a great deal more.

  As Ah Ohn listened, his face darkened. He sprang up, knocking his chair over as he pushed it back. Then he took a step toward Sing Kee and began yelling at the herbalist.

  Judge Crease got to his feet. He leaned over his bench, banged his gavel, and cried, "Order, order!"

  The clerk, too, jumped up and nervously edged away from his desk, moving a safe distance from the two angry men. Several spectators also rose, anxious for a better view.