Arthur shrugs. Harvey doesn’t matter any more. Angella matters, only Angella.
She appears below, as if conjured, frilly blouse, pleated skirt, looking lost, stopping by a potted ficus in the Great Hall, staring up at the angled roof, the blue-tinted skylight. Her eyes settle for a moment on the hawk-nosed barrister above, then she walks toward the stairs in her little penguin gait, arms held out like vestigial wings.
“She’s a reluctant witness,” Buddy says, “doesn’t want to be dragged through this, you can’t blame her. Jasper’s trying to sell me on letting her go. My useless junior too. They say it’s overkill–so we prove Nick has a habit of attacking women, why gild the lily? Until a few days ago, I was thinking about scrubbing her. But now you’ve got the jury so confused with side issues, I can’t pull my punches.”
Arthur seeks a neutral subject. “What’s holding us up?”
“Problem with Gilbert, he’s balking at returning to court. How many witnesses are you calling, big guy? Put Faloon on the stand, let me at him.” He throws a one-two, perky again, a man who bounces back. “We sum up Thursday, maybe Friday, does that sound fairly ballpark?”
Arthur isn’t ready to make commitments. He is obliged to give notice of Dr. Munni Sidhoo’s evidence–her signed report is on its way by courier–but will wait until Angella is on the stand.
There is a stirring as Gilbert appears, stoop-shouldered and wan. With him is the Chief Registrar, who gives him a pat on the back, sends him into Court 67, and departs.
Kroop sits with his characteristic expression of stifled rage, his face made more fearsome by the mock cherubic smile he aims at his clerk. “Mr. Gilbert, do you have something you want to say to me?”
“Not really, sir.” The tone is sullen, a hint of rebellion.
“I’ve been waiting nineteen minutes, Mr. Gilbert.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“And what do you have to say about it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Kroop looks stumped by the unexpected pluck, asks sardonically, “Was it union business, Mr. Gilbert?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, yes. With respect, I would prefer to discuss it in your chambers, not in public.” A transformation is happening, Gilbert standing taller, speaking firmly, drawing from the deepest wells of fortitude.
“Come, come, let’s hear your grievance.”
“It isn’t written in the rules that the clerk must fetch water for anyone, sir, including the presiding justice.”
During the frozen hush that follows, Gilbert begins to lose what little composure he’d mustered. Most jurors are ill at ease, but Martin Samples seems transfixed as he takes in this sadomasochistic standoff. Five stars.
Kroop’s face convulses, his wattles flapping, as he rises several inches from his seat, as if about to swoop down on his clerk. Gilbert looks wildly about, picks up a stapler, raises it defensively.
“Why, you snivelling, spineless moron–put that down!”
Gilbert stares at his poor weapon, lets it fall, and stumbles from his station, unfurling a handkerchief. Strangers from the audience join him, help him to the door. In his utter misery, in his bleakest moment, he has stirred the hearts of even hardened courtroom habitués.
Kroop roars, “Bring me another clerk!”
After a brief recess, a replacement is conscripted from the registry, an older woman, a veteran. As the room settles again, Arthur finds himself puzzling over why Holly Hoover, with her big hair and bruised eye, is back in the witness stand. He’d forgot about her in the recent excitement. When last seen, Holly was under a barrage, accused of being addled on uppers, arming herself with Rohypnol, marching off to Brady Beach to demand satisfaction for Eve’s rebuff.
“Mr. Beauchamp, we’ve already thrown away half the morning with utter nonsense. Can we not pick up the pace?”
Hoover is looking immeasurably sad. How cruel of Arthur to have bullied this young woman, to have accused her of the worst of crimes.
“I doubt if I shall have more questions, but I’d like her available.”
That causes murmurs and shuffling, disapproving looks from the press. Hoover shrugs, gives Jasper Flynn a cold stare. She tosses her curls and leaves without a look back.
“Good,” Kroop says, “we’re moving right along. Mr. Prosecutor?”
Buddy is confused by Arthur’s sudden lack of interest in a key player. “Excuse me?”
“Next witness, please.”
“Sorry, milord, I have to see who’s ready.” Buddy prods Ears to his feet, out to the witness room. Flynn follows.
“In my day, when I served Her Majesty in these courts, I had my witnesses primed and waiting. I don’t see Mr. Beauchamp being unready.”
This isn’t a good development, this clubby affection for Arthur–it’s liable to turn the jury against him. Few, except Samples, give any sign of liking the miserable fellow.
Ears brings in a young woman from the Ident Section who hand-delivered the semen swab to forensics, then to Dr. Sidhoo. No stranger had opportunity to contaminate it, that is the thrust of her testimony.
The final police witness, who dusted the fingerprints in Cotters’ Cottage, is laboriously taken through photographs showing their locations. Known Individual EW, lower right bathroom sink. Known Individual JF, upper refrigerator door. Arthur is restless, it’s not of interest, and his thoughts fly to Bungle Bay. There she is, in the laundry room. She’s found the discoloured tablecloth, a yellow stain he couldn’t get out. She’s fed the lemon pie to the goats without tasting it.
He refocuses as Adeline Angella is ushered in by Flynn. As she takes the oath, she looks defiantly at Faloon, then Arthur. She is stiff at first, shoulders back, breasts taut against the fabric of her frou-frou blouse. But she soon achieves a rapport with Buddy, becomes less wooden, more confident, garnishing her answers with the weary smile of one doing a distasteful but necessary duty.
Her testimony is almost an echo from ten years ago: different venue, different jury, same script. “I was researching an article about the fascinating world of the jewel thief.” “I realize now I was naïve, but I invited him up so we could continue our conversation.”
Fearful of being crossed up by Arthur, this reluctant witness has laboured over the transcripts of ten years ago, when she stood up to him, brave and unbowed, winning the jury. Today, a little passion has been lost, as happens when a performer has lived with her lines too long. The jury seem confused about why they’re hearing about these old events.
As her tale reaches its climax (“Suddenly there was a knife to my throat”), a student-at-law from Tragger Inglis approaches Arthur tentatively, as if he’ll bite. He accepts her envelope: two copies of Munni Sidhoo’s validated analysis.
When Buddy runs out of questions, Kroop asks, “Would you like to start now or this afternoon, Mr. Beauchamp?” A few days ago, before Kroop deserted the prosecution, he would have ordered him not to waste minutes of precious time.
“A few initial questions, milord.” He will banish Angella to that state of judicial limbo known as being under cross-examination. “I understand, Ms. Angella, that you appear here reluctantly.”
“I would have preferred not to do this again.”
Arthur nods. “This is difficult for you?”
“Very. It means one more time reliving my…my experience…” The sentence dies, incomplete, as she watches Arthur leaf through a glossy magazine.
“Let us rewind the clock. Ten years ago, the version you just gave was accepted by a jury.”
“Yes, I told the truth.”
“It led to my client’s conviction and a ten-year prison sentence.”
“Yes, it did.”
“Six months after he was convicted, Real Women published your explicit account of the events you’ve described.” He holds up the magazine. “Your experience, as you put it.”
“Yes. Well, I’m a writer.”
Arthur asks about the cross-country lecture tours mentioned in her
Web site, the many times she relived her experience before breakfast clubs, service clubs, women’s groups.
“I want women to understand the trauma, what a victim has to go through, being bullied by lawyers.”
Kroop interrupts. “Bullied, madam?” Presumably he finds the proposition ludicrous. “We will adjourn to two o’clock. Witness, you may not discuss your evidence with anyone while you are under cross-examination.”
As court adjourns, Arthur passes to his client a few bound transcripts, the testimony from last week. “Some light reading for you, Nick.”
“I will be glued to the pages. Also, I want to say I admire the way you got the judge in your pocket.”
Arthur isn’t quite as dazzled by that accomplishment. He must find a way to turn Kroop against him. He joins glum Buddy and his sanctimonious helpmates, who advised against calling similar-fact evidence from Angella. He lays Munni Sidhoo’s report before them.
“What’s this?” Buddy flips through the pages, the charts, the DNA ladders.
“Profile Three is Adeline Angella. Enjoy your lunch, gentlemen.”
On his way to the El Beau Room he again fiddles with his phone, almost loses courage but dials Blunder Bay. No answer. Margaret is likely at Gwendolyn Beach, preparing for another celebration. The papers are done, the financing in place, and Selwyn Loo is to meet Todd Clearihue on site to sign the deal. This will be Selwyn’s first trip to Stump-Town-on-the-Beach–he’s been too depressed to go near it. There are to be champagne and handshakes at this media event, and Kurt Zoller will be rendering some popular ditties on the accordion.
He connects with Lotis, on location at the Wanderlust. “The lunch crowd doesn’t know Adeline, so I’ll hang here a while. Manager showed me a past events calendar, an amateur barbershop quartet was gigging here March 31, regulars, they may know her. What’s the score in 67?”
“It has the makings of a rout.” But why does he hear the whispering hobgoblins of pessimism?
Someone at Gwendolyn Beach will have a cellphone. He dials Selwyn, who has been boated there. “Garlic’s threatening to reneg, Arthur. That Tucson cowboy just offered them a huge whack of dough.” A morose, end-of-the-earth tone.
Arthur tells him to relax. It’s merely a ruse to sweeten the pot. Don’t offer a cent more. Arthur shook hands with Clearihue, a deal is a deal.
The blind crepehanger is far less sanguine. “I have intimations of disaster.” Have the gods endowed him, like Cassandra, another depressive, with the cruel gift of prophecy?
Selwyn is standing on a high bank overlooking the twenty-acre clear-cut. “I can smell it,” he says. The smell of death and rot. It doesn’t seem the right time to ask if Margaret is within hailing distance.
Brian meets him at the El Beau Room. Cranky, raw eyes, uneven shave. “Caroline has twice had affairs. Twice in the last five years! She shared this in front of ten strangers, eleven if you count the guru. She could have shared privately.” A groan. “How I’ve come to despise that word.”
“And how many such instances did you divulge during this ugly truth-telling?” Arthur has always assumed secrecy is part of the definition of an affair. Confessed openly, it loses its romantic lustre, it’s merely adultery.
“I stopped at seven. The guru was goading Caroline with subversive shit like: ‘Share with us your thoughts about Brian right now.’ ‘What do you want to say to him?’ She started screaming at me. ‘You’re a self-centred asshole!’ I told her I’m prepared to deal with that. She got more profane, mistaking my sincerity for sarcasm. She became lyrical. I was a sick, suppurating, secretary-humping whore. Everyone else looked relieved–their own fucked-up relationships paled in comparison. I’m seeing Lila this afternoon, I’m going to tie into her. Sending us off to do heavy encounter, it’s like she wants the marriage to fail.”
Arthur has little patience left for Brian’s self-inflicted marital wounds. He has his own marriage to worry about. He has Gwendolyn to worry about. Would Clearihue dare to reneg?
Sandwiches arrive. Brian takes a deep breath. “Where’s your spooky junior?”
“At the Wanderlust. The Whalley Wanderers are entertaining there tonight.”
“Entertaining? I caught their act, bald heads, pot bellies, white shirts, and bow ties. The tenor has a squeak in the high range. So Angella’s back in the running?”
“She leaped to the front.” Arthur brings him up to date.
“Who came up with the brilliant idea to do this second analysis?”
“The spooky junior.”
Brian shivers. “Omnipotent people freak me out.”
“She’s a nymph, a dryad. She was sent by Zeus to avenge Doctor Eve’s death. Since nymphs are famous for their jests, I may end up being the April Fool.”
The Fourth Brandenburg. “Hey, Frank, como esta?…No, Mommy and I had another little spat, that’s all. No way, pal, we’re defi-notly getting divorced.”
This maudlin scene concludes with Brian wiping an eye. “Isn’t that a great word? Little Frank discovered it. I asked him once, ‘Who made that mess?’ ‘Definotly me.’ I’ll definotly be in court to watch your grudge match, I’m seeing Ms. Chow-Martin. Ask Adeline if she’s got another contract with Real Women. Do you think it’s possible, maestro, that she engineered this whole thing–murder, suspicion, accusation, confrontation–so she’d have something to write about?”
“She just walked in.” Standing at the door, staring in. She followed them, Arthur assumes.
“Too late to get under the table?”
“Yes.”
Brian turns, waves at her, smiles his ravaged, helpless smile. She looks coldly at her betrayer and his handler, returns outside.
In court, Buddy is in intense dialogue with his DNA expert, who’s frowning over Sidhoo’s report. Ears stands by with his trademark ill-suited smile. Flynn is grim, muscles bunched in tension as he finger-combs his noble moustache. Faloon is sitting in the dock reading transcripts.
Arthur is no sooner seated than Buddy is upon him. “I don’t get it. Goddamnit, what’s the point?” He raises his voice. “What are you trying to prove?”
“That you’ve been barking up the wrong tree.”
Buddy blows. “Okay, Artie, no more mister nice guy! I’m going to have my guys review Dr. Sidhoo’s results, and I want her on the stand, and she better freaking be able to back this up!”
Not only does the entire gallery hear this, but the jury too–they are taking their seats. Buddy shuts up when he sees them, scurries to his seat as Kroop shuffles in. Angella mounts the stand, head high, chest out, like a robin about to serenade the spring. “May I say something?” she asks the judge.
“Madam, this is a solemn inquiry with ancient and respected rules. One of which forbids witnesses from making speeches. Otherwise trials might extend into the gloom of eternity. Please just answer counsel’s questions.”
Arthur doesn’t want it thought he’s afraid of what she’ll say. “Ms. Angella, tell us what’s on your mind.”
“I want to correct any insinuation that I profited from my misfortune by writing articles and making speeches. The fact is, for the last ten years I’ve barely made enough to pay the rent. I am in debt. I am clinging to the poverty line.”
Arthur nods. “Not much money in the writing game, I suppose.”
“The magazine market is very tight.”
“Maybe you’ll profit better from your fiction.” From his briefcase, he pulls out yet another magazine. “Tales of Passion, April edition. Your first published story?”
“Yes, as I told your colleague, Mr. Pomeroy, when he came sneaking around for information.”
“This is the plot, as I apprehend it: Harry has locked himself out of his townhouse. He has to break in through a back window. In error, he enters a lookalike unit, and comes upon Tracy, a rookie policewoman, who is undressing for bed. Do I summarize fairly?”
“Thank you for reading it.” Her tone distrustful.
“What interested me, as an amate
ur critic of the genre, was the pervading subtext of rape.”
“I don’t know what you saw in it, but most of my friends found it very comical and romantic.”
Arthur opens the magazine to her story. “‘Tracy felt her breath come quickly as he moved toward her, his shirt undone, revealing rippling muscles.’ One would expect this cop to be running for her gun, not standing there panting in her undies.”
“Well, he was also getting undressed, he thought he was in his own place.”
An unresponsive answer, but Arthur merely says, “Let us see what the jury makes of it,” and files the magazine as an exhibit. “Where did you get the catchy title from? ‘You’re Not Supposed to Ask.’”
“It came to me.”
“It came to you because you spoke those words ten years ago when Nick Faloon asked permission to kiss you.”
“That’s not so.”
“He wasn’t supposed to ask. He was supposed to perform. A parlour game was enacted that night–you the playful maiden, he the pretend intruder. Ultimately you took him to your bed…”
“I object,” Buddy says wearily.
“I uphold. This is not the time for windy speeches, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Arthur strolls to the witness stand, close enough that she is forced to look straight at him. “Let me put to you, briefly and bluntly, a fair and reasonable version of what happened.”
He does so in short sentences. She tried to wheedle the Kashmir Sapphire story from Faloon. Seduction was her final tactic. The condom failed its task. A fear of pregnancy, an unravelling, a call to 911. In panic she hid the condom where no one would think to look. It remained untouched, unseen, like a vice hiding in Pandora’s box.
“That is absurd. That is so pathetic.” This is the voice of ten years ago, more confident. “There was no condom.”
“Yet you claim you begged him to use one.”
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