“A jest.”
“What hurts is that I wasn’t going to charge you a dime for this life-saving job on them suicide brakes. No strings attached. Perish the thought I’d petition you to be of similar charitable mind by giving services in kind to the Free Dog Coalition.”
“Well, let’s talk about Dog.”
He sniffs. “What’s to talk about? Arthur Beauchamp don’t handle two-bit cases where a guy who helps old ladies and wouldn’t hurt a mosquito is framed for running an international dope trafficking cartel.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Nelson Forbish. That’s what some bloodthirsty lady prosecutor told the judge.”
“I am one with the Free Dog Coalition, brother,” Brian says. He restrains Stoney from opening a beer, pours him a generous dollop of the Glenlivet.
Stoney salutes the Fargo with his tumbler. “She’s all yours, counsellor. You may want to give her a fill-up on account of I drove all over the island looking for you. If it was someone else than Garibaldi’s most respected and trusted dignitary, I’d say you been giving me and Dog the old runaround.”
Arthur affects nonchalance as he strolls to the Fargo, checks for the key — it’s in the ignition, on a ring with a designer roach clip, its pincers like protruding teeth. He retrieves and pockets it. There are two boxes of “Save Dog” T-shirts in the cab.
“Grab a couple of them for you and Mr. Pomeroy here,” Stoney calls. “Only twenty-five bucks each, I eat the GST. By the way, that’s pure organic manure back there, two yards of it, a little gift the boys chipped in for your gardening pleasure. No obligation.”
Arthur hides his irritation at this high-pressure pitch, remaining silent as Brian sets on the table a pot of garlic butter and a tray with the crabs, then fetches an extra plate for Stoney, who sits.
Arthur sighs as he lowers himself onto the bench beside him. “We can get this solved very quickly.”
“I ain’t dealing with the enemy.”
“Stoney, despite my better instincts, I have long served as your legal adviser. And I have never failed you, have I?”
“No way, Arthur, I ain’t going to help you find his crummy Hummer. Not till Dog is on the street, man. I got to respect the wishes of the Coalition.”
“Pound won’t press charges if Zoller gets it back.”
“Dog’s doing time for doing crap! He didn’t even have no weed to sell, he had to borrow some of mine. Thirty a lid, leftover shake, outer leaves, you could smoke it until it’s blowing out your ass and you couldn’t get high. He was so hammered I bet he don’t even remember being at the quarry. Where’d they find that peckerhead lawyer? Never even seen Dog, ain’t shown up in court once.”
No more trials, Arthur vowed, no courtrooms, nevermore. But his escape routes are closing as fast as his resolve is crumbling.
Brian raises his glass. “To Dog!”
“To Dog!” cries Stoney, raising his.
Arthur, without a glass, raises his hands in surrender. “To Dog!”
THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 27
“Ten years!” thunders the judge, and Arthur rises to protest as Dog is dragged shackled from the court. But though Arthur’s mouth is moving, his larynx straining, his eyeballs bulging, no words flow from his lips. The wild-haired judge breaks the deathly silence. “I can’t hear you,” he yells. “I can’t hear you!”
Arthur almost levitates from bed on being awakened by a deafening clamour from downstairs. Still in the fog of sleep, he tries not to believe that a bomb has gone off in the courtroom of his dream, setting off fire sirens.
He scrambles from the room in his pyjamas, with pillows pressed to his ears, to see, from the stairs, Tildy Sears desperately seeking an off-switch, a wet spill of coffee on her shirt. Shiftless and Underfoot collide in the cat door while trying to escape.
The siren is going through cycles, like a car alarm, with ear-splitting whoops. The Woofers race in just as Tildy finds a solution in her manual, a master code she punches into a small keypad. The silence is spectacular in its suddenness, though broken by clucking and cackling and honking from the fowl outside, and Homer’s frightened barking. Arthur finally dares to descend.
Tildy tries to make a joke of it. “That’ll scare him off, eh?”
She’s been here two days, setting up this supposedly foolproof system. Arthur isn’t sure if he’d rather be murdered in his sleep than hear that din again. “Maybe you can find a way to tone it down, Tildy.”
“No problem.”
Arthur isn’t reassured by a phrase invariably used by Garibaldi tradespersons for head-scratching setbacks.
Niko and Yoki wander about, examining the system, shaking their heads, and exchanging telling glances. They’ll soon be returning to their electronics college in Japan. The keypad and monitor may seem archaic to them. Everybody seems to be into computer electronics except Arthur, who almost proudly admits he hasn’t graduated into the twenty-first century. “Try twentieth,” Margaret said.
Tildy screws up her face at the manual. “I don’t think this was translated real good from its original Japanese or whatever. Okay, siren can be set for a maximum six K radius hearing distance. Guess the last user must’ve done that. Whatever.”
She answers her cell, then announces that the Free Dog Coalition is planning a rally. She hurries off to her Jeep.
After Niko and Yoki head out to calm the livestock, Arthur sits down to his morning oatmeal. It is nine o’clock. Garibaldi Provincial Court won’t get going until the inter-island ferry pulls in around mid-morning. Arthur is thankful he’s facing only a bail hearing and an adjournment — he hasn’t slept much or well.
His rude awakening has aggravated the tension he’s under — he’s more unsettled than at any time in the last, worry-rich several days. Did Skyler show up for work yesterday or not? Why hasn’t Brian answered his calls? Nary a whisper from him since he left two days ago.
Meanwhile, Arthur must re-earn the respect of his fellow islanders by freeing Dog from the clink.
He is nursing his wounds after a bad start yesterday with the prosecutor, Ms. Renee Vickers. Before calling her, he nosed around for a dossier on her. The consensus: she’s young, bright, and tricky. One source, who lost a spousal assault to Vickers, claimed she has a feminist chip on her shoulder. A second informant, who lost a hit-and-run to her, called her a scalp collector, warning Arthur she’ll be out to hang his on a long pole.
The Attorney-General recently seconded Vickers to serve with Judge Hayward’s travelling circus on the Gulf Islands. Arthur was not able to reach her until yesterday, on her cell, and she was short with him, claiming she was burdened, between trials, and unwilling to confer while B.J. Bingham was on the record.
Arthur persisted, stung by her brisk tone, with a complaint about her preposterous theory that his client was involved in a major trafficking ring.
“For your information, Mr. Beauchamp, and I have very good information, an annual event occurs on your island called a Potlatch, at which mainland exporters make bulk buys of prime bud. As such, it is alleged that Mr. Dogmar Zbrink … How do you say that?”
“We just call him Dog.”
“Well, Mr. Dog was aiding a consortium of high-end drug dealers by luring authorities away from the real Potlatch. Some of these dealers have major international connections. I take this case very seriously.”
“Who gave you your very good information?”
“You know very well I can’t divulge that.”
“As a friendly gesture, Ms. Vickers, let me warn you that Kurt Zoller has a tendency to blow things massively out of proportion. I shall see you tomorrow morning. Thank you for taking my call.”
The snip. Did she have no idea whom she was talking to? This was supposed to be a simple case. That officious young know-it-all clearly won’t be open to dropping charges; the trial will be a contest
for his scalp.
§
After dressing in clothes retrieved from a mothball-reeking wardrobe — black suit, white shirt, blue tie — Arthur heads for his Fargo and finds Yoki sitting on a hay bale in the back — the manure was shovelled out yesterday. Niko climbs in beside him, wearing a Free Dog T-shirt. She is excited about seeing a Canadian court in action.
“Jury will say not guilty,” she confidently predicts.
“I’m afraid we won’t have a jury for this piddling case.” In lowly Provincial Court. He’s back where he started fifty years ago, defending junkies, drunks, and hookers. Now, in 2012, it’s a beer-swilling pothead.
“What is piddling? Like making pee?”
“Like making pee.”
“Twinkle, Twinkle,” goes his cell as he takes the turn up Breadloaf Hill, and he stops on the narrow shoulder. It’s Pomeroy, finally. “Can’t talk long, I’m on the highway to Skidegate, trying to pass a logging truck. Thought you might be worried, so here’s a heads-up. Our barely competent parole guy finally connected with someone from that godforsaken tract of park reserve where Skyler’s supposed to start working.”
“And?”
“Just a sec while I take that sucker.” A sound of accelerating engine as he launches into song: “Mine eyes have seen the glory of the coming of the Lord.”
“And?”
“You don’t want to hear this, Arthur.”
“Actually, I do.”
“Oh, all right — here’s the startling twist — he showed up! On time. Wednesday morning. For a two-week training course in their office. Glory, glory, hallelujah! Over and out.”
For a moment, Arthur is irked by Brian’s typically flip manner of squeezing out every molecule of suspense, even with good news. But now his relief is palpable. He can focus on taking on, to quote Stoney, “the hulking monsters of the state.” In particular, the bloodthirsty Ms. Renee Vickers.
While parked, the Fargo has been overtaken by several battered island vehicles and a big convertible filled with Easy Pieces, including star chucker Tildy Sears. Arthur can’t pull back into the traffic until Stoney races by in his flatbed, several protestors in the back. The Free Dog Coalition, most of them habitués of the Brig pub.
Atop the hill is the Community Hall, a once-a-month makeshift courthouse. The washroom is currently out of commission, and there’s already a lineup at a portable toilet set up, too prominently — as if for the view — on the ridge overlooking Evergreen Estates and the far fields and forests.
Arthur and his entourage join about sixty Garibaldians milling around the grassy mesa, waiting for the circuit court staff to show up. Stoney is already in action, leafleting and hawking T-shirts, getting resistance. He’s dropped the price to twenty.
Nelson Forbish waddles about with a bag of chips and his camera, which he aims at Arthur. “Look confident, please.” Picture taken, he discloses he’s switching his allegiance from Tildy Sears. The Bleat is about to endorse Dog’s pro bono counsel for Garibaldian of the Year, a tribute Arthur recoils from — it means being invited to all sorts of community events; he came to Garibaldi seeking peace.
Kurt Zoller is standing by his borrowed Cadillac with a small knot of supporters: a couple of his accordion students, a few members of causes he spearheads, the Crime-Stoppers Club, and Bust the Island Trust.
Though Zoller is only a volunteer in the RCMP auxiliary, he is fully though baggily uniformed for this momentous occasion. He looks up from a much-thumbed statute book, sees Arthur smiling at him, and nods appreciatively, observing that he too is wearing his best. He abandons his support group to shake his hand.
“Before we get going on this trial, Arthur, let’s agree it’s nothing personal, even though we’re on opposite sides.”
“You, of course, are on the side of law and order and decency.”
“Exactly right.”
“Then I must be on the side of crime, chaos, and corruption.”
“I wouldn’t go that far.” He reflects. “Maybe a little bit. Anyway, I been boning up here on the Narcotic Control Act.” He opens the book to a marker: “Now as I read this here, anyone convicted of trafficking in marijuana is liable to imprisonment for life.”
Arthur won’t distress him by explaining he’s relying on a statute long repealed in favour of less draconian measures.
Zoller lowers his voice: “Life imprisonment seems a little harsh, so I’m thinking maybe we can nip this in the butt with a plea bargain, and get him out sooner. One condition, of course: I get my Hummer back.”
“That’s very kind of you, Kurt. I take it you’re prepared for trial nonetheless.”
“Well, me and the prosecutor lady already had a real good sit-down over this, so she’s aware of some explosive international ramifications which maybe you ain’t.” He squares his shoulders. “I got this case down cold. You don’t want to deal, fine. Kurt Zoller is ready when called.”
Their attention is diverted to a caravan ascending Breadloaf Hill: an SUV with the judge and court staff; a red compact driven by a young red-headed woman of slight build — presumably Renee Vickers; a police cruiser bearing two officers; and Ernst Pound in his RCMP van with Dog in the back, both looking woeful.
A cheer startles Dog as he’s escorted to the hall. He looks about, manages a helpless smile for Nelson Forbish’s camera.
A final vehicle sweeps up the hill, a Porsche convertible with Ballentine J. Bingham, Esquire, at the wheel, counsel of record for the accused. Yesterday, Arthur left word with Bingham’s secretary that her boss needn’t bother appearing — but maybe he is showing up merely to collect his legal aid per diem.
Bingham emerges from his car sporting a cowboy belt and boots, a ponytail, and a whisk broom of a moustache. He greets Arthur by twisting his extended hand into one of those raised, supposedly hip grips that Arthur detests.
“Arthur B., QC, long time. Heard you’d retired to some island paradise, wasn’t sure where. Somebody gave me a copy of your bio, maybe I should’ve got around to reading it.” He frowns as he gazes at the milling throng. “Is some kind of happening happening here?”
“The masses are in revolt.”
He perks up. “You got some press covering this horseshit case?” He looks to his left, sees Forbish taking a shot of him, returns a broad smile.
“Free Dog T-shirts!” Stoney calls, holding one aloft. “Fifteen loons, get ’em while they last!”
Bingham retrieves his file from the car. “Who’s Dog?”
“Your former client.”
He peeks in his file. “Dogmar Zed … Hey, wait a minute, former? I got no notice. I put time into this case, bro. You can’t just muscle —”
Ignoring his protests, Arthur leads him around the back, to the annex by the tool shed. Ernst Pound is muttering to himself, careworn, distracted, as he lets them in.
Dog rises wide-eyed from a chair, a hint of hope in his anxious smile. “Praise Jesus,” he says, a soft command that startles Arthur — Dog isn’t known to be either religious or ironic. He pats him on the shoulder. “Mrs. Gillicuddy wants you to finish splitting her winter wood today.”
“Okay, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“But we have to clear up a few technicalities first. Mr. Bingham here is on record as your counsel.”
“Hey, buddy, sorry I was a little late getting to you. I do an exclusive practice in weed, brother, unlike Mr. Beauchamp here, and I figure we can make this a test case for freedom to smoke, man. Strike a blow for the right to blow one, hey? What do you say?”
“You’re fired,” Dog says.
§
By the time Arthur makes it into the hall, it’s packed except for a seat reserved for the defence counsel: a rustic wooden chair with a wobbly leg that has him tilting to starboard. It feels ignominious to end his legal career in the lowest of the low courts, waiting in discomfort while a pros
ecutor young enough to be his granddaughter finishes a trivial trial — a continuation from last year, a hard-partying weekender who drove his car into the Hamiltons’ roadside pumpkin stand. He suspects Renee Vickers called this case first as a way of making him cool his heels. A petite, pug-nosed freckle-face, she works quickly, methodically, confidently.
One can never tell what Eddie Hayward is thinking, but he likely mistrusts the defendant’s claim that he burped while blowing into the breathalyzer, thus causing the reading of point one five. The judge is known as Haywire partly because he’s wont to render decisions that don’t make sense and partly because of his appearance: thick hair that repels comb or brush, wraparound glasses framing eyes that constantly dart, as if he were on alert for conspiracies.
He is backed up by his regular sheriff, clerk, and court reporter, all grinning as Vickers recalls the breath test operator to deny he ever saw, heard, or smelled a burp. Expert witness Charlie Jillings then opines that a burp wouldn’t alter the result anyway. Arthur knows Corporal Jillings well, a blood-alcohol expert with a degree in pharmacology.
Arthur reviews the Crown particulars that Ballentine J. Bingham grumpily handed over before peeling back down Breadloaf Hill. Scribbled at the bottom of the third page is the figure “.23.” Arthur finds himself gearing up, moving into courtroom mode, suppressing the concerns of the past few days.
After the pumpkin-stand terminator has been fined and banned from driving for a year, there’s a break in the action. Arthur draws Charlie Jillings aside and asks him to stick around. He’s not going anywhere anyway — the next ferry doesn’t leave till four p.m.
Vickers, acting as if she has just now become aware of Arthur’s presence, introduces herself. “How did you get rid of Bingham?” she asks brightly.
“I let him know that if he were to botch Dog’s defence, the locals would hang him from the nearest maple tree. Our townsfolk are in high dudgeon, as you may have observed.” There’s no place to meet quietly in this busy building, so Arthur says, “Let’s go for a stroll.”
Outside the hall, they are watched intently by the two dozen Dog lovers who have followed them out, and by those in line at the portable outhouse. He steers her past it, up a hill, a five-minute stroll to a sturdy wooden bench carved with two decades of initials and hearts, and with a barrier-free view of the Salish Sea and beyond to the Olympic Mountains. The cliff face drops a hundred metres to a cluster of jagged rocks.
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