Buddy pops up. “He’s trying to smear a witness we haven’t even heard from.”
“Is this going anywhere, Mr. Beauchamp, or is it merely a titillating digression?”
“The doings of this woman on the night of the murder are of considerable moment, milord. As is her relationship with this witness.” He snaps his suspenders, a habit when he’s about to zero in. He moves closer to Flynn, softens his voice. “Many of the good people of Bamfield believe she has an unofficial licence to carry on her business.”
“I don’t issue such licences, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“They say you’re often seen talking to her.”
“I talk to a lot of people.”
“In fact, you look her up every time you come to Bamfield.”
“We bump into each other.”
“Yes, at her home and on the Holly Golly.”
Flynn may not know Arthur is merely surmising, and he looks at Buddy, finds no help. “Once in a while. Just to talk.”
Arthur pauses, letting the jury play with their speculations. A woman in the back looks offended, either at Flynn for being chummy with this Magdalene or at Arthur for his lewd insinuation.
“I’m in a tough spot here,” says Flynn.
He looks pleadingly at Buddy, who bounces up, too eagerly, to make rescue. “All right, I didn’t want it to come out, but after these snide innuendos, I can’t see any way around it. If this puts Miss Hoover in danger, it’s on Mr. Beauchamp’s head. Sergeant Flynn will have to explain the true nature of the relationship.”
“Holly Hoover is a police informant,” Flynn says.
Arthur has underestimated Buddy’s wile, he ought to have known this was coming. An innocent explanation for their many meetings, for Flynn’s mollycoddling, his house calls.
Buddy presses his advantage. “Sergeant Flynn meets regularly with her in Bamfield, sometimes privately, sometimes in public. It looks like he’s cautioning or hassling her. Not. He’s receiving vital crime-stopping information.”
Instead of objecting, Arthur wades into battle. “Nonsense. This case aside, there’s hardly been a crime worth stopping in Bamfield for the last twenty years. Are we to believe this woman earns the officer’s generous leniency by snitching on hunters who bag deer out of season? Everyone in town knows about the cozy arrangement between him and his so-called informant, and she’s under no threat whatsoever.”
“You are flagrantly out of order,” Kroop says. “Let’s get back on track, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Arthur is chafing at having the rug pulled out from under him. Hoover probably does feed information to Flynn in exchange for his winks and nods, it’s smart police work. The jury may well resent Arthur for portraying this dutiful family man as a lecher on the take. Buddy had prepared Flynn well, advised him to take a few blows, bob and weave, then land a haymaker.
“Officer, how many times have you met with Ms. Hoover since the murder?”
“Two, three times. I took an initial statement from her that day.”
“From which you learned she was the last person to see Dr. Winters alive?”
“Except the killer.” He’s confident now.
Arthur flutters a page of Flynn’s evidence summary. “And this is all she had to say? A bit of inconsequential chat at the bar of a public house.”
“Yes, but she told me only half the story. About a week later she gave me the long version. About how she met Dr. Winters outside the bar, and they went by canoe to West Bamfield.”
Hearsay by the carload. But it’s Arthur’s fault, he has opened it up. He must stay on the attack. “I put it to you, officer, that you sought to dissuade her from admitting to this.”
“I certainly did not.”
“You told her to stick to the short version and not complicate matters.”
“I told her just the opposite. The conversation’s in my notes, and I copied them to Mr. Svabo.”
Arthur struggles not to show his distress, turns to Buddy.
“Don’t look at me,” Buddy says. “I sent a letter of further particulars, let’s see…” He bends, whispering to Ears, who shuffles through a file and hands him a memo. “On April 7, to Mr. Brian Pomeroy, when he was still acting for the accused.”
This cross-examination is turning into a disaster. Pomeroy, the inattentive ex-dissolute, is to blame, too engaged in marital strife to read his mail.
Kroop has enjoyed watching Arthur squirm, but reluctantly orders a break. Arthur needs it, a chance to retool. As the jury is led out, he sees disappointed looks from the counsel who came to watch the storied barrister in action.
Buddy hands Arthur a photocopy of Flynn’s handwritten notes. “I thought you had all this stuff.”
The notes back up the witness’s account: “Hoover attended Alberni h.q. 14:15 hours to see undersigned having ‘remembered’ she took deceased by canoe across inlet around 22:00 on prior 31 March. Because of rain, ‘we didn’t dawdle’ and not much conversation except deceased couldn’t wait to get out of wet clothes. Undersigned warned Hoover re withholding material evidence. She refused to sign statement until talked to lawyer.”
A version sketchier than the one she confided on that stormy night the lights went out at Brady Beach. No mention of Winters’s invitation to extend the evening over a glass of wine.
Again he reminds himself that this will matter little in the end. He’s merely spreading manure across the field, an odour for Buddy and Ears to sniff at, to distract them from Adeline Angella’s pungent Fantaisie.
Bolstered by that thought, he sticks it out, hoping to pick up the pieces of his cross-examination. When Flynn resumes the stand, he prods him about his threat to charge Hoover with obstructing justice.
“Why did you stay your hand?”
“I guess I figured no harm was done. Anyway, she had a right to see a lawyer and get advice on her situation, and I assume she did that.”
“She talked to a lawyer?”
“On Saturday, April 15, I saw her leaving the licensed premises with a six-pack of cider. I asked her where she was going. She said she was on her way to talk to you, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Her tongue in his ear, her hand between his legs, the clams roiling in his gut. Flustered, he can only ask, “Did you have any other dealings with her?”
“Just to serve a subpoena on her.”
Arthur shuffles through notes, unsure where to pick up. “Ms. Hoover claimed to remember paddling across the inlet with Dr. Winters?”
“Remember was the word she used.”
“And didn’t she also remember Dr. Winters invited her to join her at the cottage for some wine?”
The question causes a stir among the press and brings Buddy bouncing on his toes. “Mr. Beauchamp’s trying to sneak in a wild theory by the back door. It’s all hearsay.”
“It’s hearsay, Mr. Svabo, but we should give Mr. Beauchamp leeway, don’t you think, given the obstacles he’s encountering?” A patronizing knife. “What’s the answer, officer?”
“She didn’t say anything like that. But she tends to remember things when she wants to.”
This is going nowhere. Arthur must find a less-travelled road, where the potholes aren’t as treacherous. “Whatever she might have said, someone was being entertained in Dr. Winters’s cabin that night. The bottle of Chablis and the glasses in the sink might suggest she had a guest, do you agree?”
“It’s possible.”
“Hardly likely that she would be sharing wine with an intruder.”
“I couldn’t say, sir.”
“Who might very easily have slipped a few tablets of Rohypnol into her wine.”
“Yes, but someone could also have sneaked in and done that.”
“A garment stuffed down the victim’s throat–an odd means of suffocating someone, do you agree?”
“I guess so.” Flynn twiddles that moustache.
“Ever heard of anything similar in a murder investigation?”
A shrug. “I can’t bring anything t
o mind.”
“You’ve told us you found no fingerprints of interest. None of the accused.”
“That’s right, but the glasses had been washed, and the bottle wiped, it looked like.”
“You have a knack for answering questions I haven’t asked.”
“Oh, come now, Mr. Beauchamp,” Kroop says, “he’s doing his best.”
“Then he doesn’t need any help from the court.”
“This court does not take sides.”
Arthur wants to have it out with him, make the jury aware that behind a facade of fairness lurks a partisan for the prosecution, with a bias showing like poorly tucked-in underwear. But he must not let his temper get the best of him, for now he’ll take his licks.
“All but two prints came from known individuals, as you put it. From whom, precisely?”
“The deceased, of course. There were quite a few of hers. Inez Cotter, the owner of the cottage. And two of the women who had been hiking the trail with Dr. Winters.”
“And who else?”
“Well, Constable Beasely and I were the first into the cottage–that’s after we looked through the window–and we rushed straight to the bedroom, and I guess we didn’t put gloves on right away. So there’s a few of mine, and a couple of Beasely’s.”
Arthur can’t make headway even on this trifling irrelevancy. An accusation of careless police work would be seen as a cheap shot from an exasperated lawyer–the sergeant is human, he’d just seen a shocking sight.
“No prints from Holly Hoover?”
“I’m afraid not, sir.” The condescending smile grates.
“What about the third woman hiker?”
Flynn consults his notes. “That would be Ruth Delvechio. No prints from her.”
Finally, a point for the defence. The embittered Ruth Delvechio, graduate student, tossed away like a worn toy by the imperious Doctor Eve. It’s over, Ruth. Ef you, your effing highness. A last sharing of wine. Afterwards, the glasses washed, her prints wiped. A plausible script?
“Officer, I understand Ruth Delvechio was in a relationship with Dr. Winters.” The deceased’s homosexuality has been well reported by now. She hadn’t hid it, hadn’t advertised it.
“Yes, from what I’ve learned.”
“In your report you refer to the other two women as, quote, admitted lesbians.” Buddy winces, and Ears’s smile sits marooned on his face.
“That was a tasteless choice of words, Mr. Beauchamp. I guess what I meant to say is they were open about it.”
“They’ve lived together for several years, correct? Dr. Glynis Bloom and Wilma Quong.”
“They said that.”
“And Dr. Winters and Ruth Delvechio made up another pairing.”
“I guess so.”
“And you received a report that those two had a brouhaha in the cottage.”
“I heard something from Mrs. Cotter about a quarrel. I didn’t think it unusual. Lots of people fight. Friends and couples fight.”
“Though both the victim and accused dined at the Breakers Inn, you went first to Cotters’ Cottage.”
“Yes, I found out where Dr. Winters was staying, and myself and two members went there on foot.”
“Much closer, though, was the small lodge where the accused lived, the Nitinat.”
“That’s true.”
“And it’s fair to say that Mr. Faloon was high on your list of suspects?” Arthur may as well put Faloon’s past on the table. Vir prudens non contra ventum mingit. A wise man does not piss against the wind.
“He was the number-one suspect, yes.”
“So why didn’t you dispatch either of your officers to the Nitinat?”
“There was a thief in town. We didn’t know if he was dangerous. Our first concern was Dr. Winters.”
An unresponsive answer, but a good one. Arthur has rarely encountered such a well-prepared witness. A dumb cop, said Buddy. Not.
“You couldn’t send one of the constables there?”
“That would go against procedure. He wouldn’t have backup.”
“An officer needs backup for puny Nicholas Faloon? He can’t weigh more than–what do you have him at, about a hundred and thirty pounds?”
“About that. A little over fifty-eight kilograms.”
“Five and a half feet in height?”
“Yes.”
“And Dr. Winters was at least four inches taller?”
“She was about five-ten, yes.”
“And extremely fit? An athletic woman?”
“I wouldn’t argue.”
“There were no signs that the victim suffered any debilitating blows to the head or body? Nothing to render her helpless or unconscious?”
Kroop interjects. “Mr. Beauchamp, you’re forgetting about the date-rape drug. What’s the name…Rohypnol.”
“Thank you, milord, for your invaluable assistance.” Arthur’s icy stare is returned in kind.
Arthur is tempted to needle Flynn about his negligence in skipping past Angella’s name in Winters’s records. But the urge comes from a childish wish to pay him back, and he quickly suppresses it. “No more questions.”
“We’ll break for lunch,” Kroop says.
Arthur takes a long walk up Burrard Street to the art deco bridge that straddles False Creek. He’s not hungry, and he wants to avoid pitying eyes in the El Beau Room–all will have heard about the debacle in Court 67. He should consult Brian Pomeroy, but doesn’t want to deal with his blunt wit. Nor can he bring himself to call Lotis.
He can’t remember when a cross-examination so backfired. His earlier doubts are verified, his courtroom skills have rusted up and seized, his one great talent has gone stale, frittered away on songbirds and roadside poppies and daily hikes to the General Store.
Only the prospect of returning, even in shame, to his island retirement stays him from total wretchedness. It’s not that Flynn blunted the secret weapon, Angella, but that Arthur’s pride has been bruised–he was outduelled in the arena where once he was king. He ought not to have taken on Flynn at such length, should have shied away from the profitless wrangle about Hoover.
He looks down at the tide-bloated inlet. “Shit!” This brings a flurry of pigeons flapping from under the bridge.
Before court resumes, Buddy sidles up to Arthur again. “Change of plan. I’m going to do some forensics this afternoon.”
“What about the Topekans and their huge bills at the Hyatt?”
“A few administrative problems have cropped up.” That is so vague as to be meaningless, but Buddy doesn’t clarify and Arthur doesn’t ask.
The day is taken up by experts in DNA, serum, and blood analysis, who seem unready, resentful at having been moved up the list. The jury labours hard, trying to follow the biochemical jargon, the mixing solutions and reactive agents, extraction and precipitation, swabs and smears and stains, the chain of custody from crime scene to lab. Ears, assigned the task of leading these witnesses, is having trouble coping with the complexities of DNA.
Arthur has declined to make things simple by admitting any of these facts–he’s stalling for time in the fast-fading hope that Nick Faloon will burst on the scene in all his owlish glory.
For some reason–his loneliness, his dull, dispirited performance–Arthur feels his alcoholism acting up as he waits for an elevator at Tragger Inglis Bullingham. He has been avoiding his old office, hiding from Bully and his crusade to drag the deserter back to the front lines. He must also avoid the partners’lounge, where Messrs. Schenley, Seagram, and Walker wait in ambush behind the bar.
He sneaks into the library, where wizened Ed Riley is burrowed into a hill of case law. “Something on continuity of forensic exhibits, please, Riley.” The analysts had problems identifying a few of the zippered plastic exhibit bags. The jury might be persuaded some were mixed up, a desperation defence.
His old office is used by visiting rainmakers, lawyers, business leaders, but otherwise the firm has kept it empty, like a mausoleum. Wh
ich, as Bullingham frequently reminds him, is yearning for his presence. Doris Isbister maintains it as is, the Lismer on the wall, the Etruscan prints, degrees academic and honorary, the cabinet with his clippings, the immaculate desk with legal pad, ready jar of pens and pencils…and now a computer.
They tried to set him up with one years ago, but after several trials he demanded they remove the ugly mechanism–a TV with keyboard. The complexities seemed designed in hell. Keats didn’t need a computer. Nor did Beethoven. Nor, for that, did Clarence Darrow.
He calls Doris in, a mistake has been made. She gives him a peck on the cheek and tells him he’s being silly, everyone works with a computer today. Documents are transferred this way. Firms and friends e-mail each other. He is no longer simple Arthur Beauchamp, he is Beauchamp at TraggerInglis dot com.
She passes him a book, The Idiot’s Guide to Computing. “This is a mouse. Click it here and see what happens.”
The screen goes white. A list of messages appears on it. Doris shows him how to open the first one, from the computer company congratulating him on his purchase. She lets him open another–it’s from the entire staff of Tragger Inglis, welcoming him back. Suspicion fastens on Bullingham.
“I’ll leave you to it, dear.” Forcing him to swim on his own. She pauses at the door, speaks meaningless garble. “Dual 64 G5, two point five gigs.”
Arthur moves the mouse, and arcane symbols appear at the bottom of the screen. He has heard of computers hanging up at the mere touch of a key, viruses, massive erasure of files, he must be careful. The next message is from Pomeroy and Company. “I am sick at heart, maestro, I just found this hiding in the bowels of my computer.” A copy of Sergeant Flynn’s missing addendum about Holly Hoover ferrying Winters across the inlet.
Lotis too has learned he’s computerized. “I’ve been Googling DNA. The science is advancing exponentially, all they need is a flake of dandruff, a bead of sweat, a partial fingerprint.” There follows a line lifted from a forensics text: Vaginal swabs or stain from post-coital drainage will typically contain sperm cells mixed with vaginal cells.
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