by Anne Emery
“Just under two hundred pounds.”
“So you’re a big man, but not quite as tall and heavy as Mr. Delaney. Would you agree with that?”
“Yeah, he’s a big dude, no question.”
“What happened when you jumped Mr. Delaney outside his office?”
“He flipped me off him.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. I just ended up on the ground.”
“Then what?”
“I tried to get up and go at him again. But he held me down by putting his foot on my chest.”
“Did that hurt?”
“It didn’t really hurt; it just kept me from getting up.”
“Then what?”
“He tried to talk me down. Get me to chill out. Said we’d talk about the case when I was straight and sober. Told me he’d get a cab and send me home. Said if I got caught breaching my bail, I’d never get bail again.”
“And then?”
“When he thought I had cooled off, he eased his foot up. Reached down with his hand to help me stand. I got up, and he turned around and walked over to his car. He put the key in the door, and I ran after him and put my arm around his throat and had my fist ready to slam him in the side of the head.”
“What happened at that time?”
“I didn’t do nothin’. I backed off.”
“How come?”
“Because I seen he had his wife in the car. She was waiting for him. Her and a little kid.”
“Witnesses.”
“I didn’t give a fuck about witnesses! It was the man’s wife! And his kid! I wasn’t going to beat a man up in front of his family. What kind of an animal would do that?”
“What did Mr. Delaney do at that point?”
“Beau had it all under control. He said: ‘Wayne, you don’t want to start this. Walk away. We’ll talk when you’re sober. And if I get a sincere apology and if I think you won’t try this again, I’ll stay on as your lawyer. If not, I’m cutting you loose. Now back off, or my wife will go for the police.’ I looked at the wife and kid. They were staring at me like I was something in a horror movie. I felt like a lowlife piece of shit. I let him go, and I took off.”
“Were there any more . . . scuffles . . . between you and Mr. Delaney?”
“No, that was it. I ate crow when I seen him next day, and he stayed on as my lawyer. I swiped a nice bottle of Scotch and gave it to him as a peace offering. He probably still has it. Beau’s not much of a drinker. He got me as good a deal as I was going to get on the murder charge. I never seen him again till now.”
“Thank you, Mr. Theriault. The Crown attorney may have some questions.”
She did indeed. Gail Kirk rose to her feet. “Mr. Theriault, how long have you been in Renous prison?”
“Six years.”
“Have you had any other escorted outings or temporary leaves of absence during your time at Renous?”
“Nope.”
“So this is your first day away from the prison in six years?”
“Yeah.”
“You’d do or say anything to get out of prison for a day, wouldn’t you?”
“Yeah, maybe so.” I winced when I heard that, but it was a chance we had decided to take.
“Like, I coulda come down to Halifax,” Theriault continued, “and told Beau and his lawyer I’d say nice things about Beau, and then I coulda come in here and shit all over Beau’s case just for the hell of it, ’cause I got the day out anyway. But I didn’t. I came in here and told the truth about Beau because he’s a good guy, and a good lawyer, and he gave me a lot of help over the years. And he didn’t beat the piss out of me when I went after him all drugged up and tanked up, and he could have killed me, but he didn’t.”
I could have kissed him, but I didn’t. I assumed Gail Kirk had a lot more questions she wanted to ask, but she decided to cut her losses, and said: “No further questions for this witness, My Lord.”
“Mr. Collins? Anything arising out of that?”
“No, My Lord.”
“Thank you, Mr. Theriault. You may go. With your escort.”
Chapter 12
(Monty)
“Beau wants me to call the kids,” I said to Brennan at our regular Tuesday night sitting at the Midtown.
“You’d think he’d want to protect them from all this,” he said.
“As a father yes, as a defendant maybe, as a showman no. If he had his way, we’d have them all lined up like the Von Trapp family.”
“He’d have them burst into song.”
“Exactly.”
“It’s not as if their evidence would add anything to the record. Leave them out of it,” Brennan urged me.
“Spoken like a true non-lawyer. It’s not about what they say. Of course they’re all going to say wonderful things about their dad. That’s not the point. The point is to have the jury see them. Ten children who have lost their mother to a tragic accident, and who may lose their loving father. A family that will be shattered, the children divided up and dispersed to relatives, foster homes, and government bureaucracy. Ten adorable children who love their father and know he’s innocent; that’s why they’re supporting him. The jury has to see them. To me, that would be sufficient. But he wants them up there, showing no fear, testifying to his good character.”
So that’s the way it went. I had Peggy’s sister Sheila bring all the Delaney kids into the courtroom and seat them before the judge and jury came in. Parading them in after the jury was in place would have been over the top. The kids were scrubbed and dressed in the kind of clothes you’d wear to visit Grandma on a Sunday afternoon. Little Sammy and Kristin, aged five and six, sat on the knees of the two eldest teens, Sarah and Derek. Everyone stood, as protocol demands, when the judge and then the jury entered the room.
“The defence calls Sarah Delaney.”
Tall like her dad and blond like her mum, Sarah walked stiffly towards the stand. She wore a tartan skirt, a white blouse and a heathery blue sweater over it; her bangs were pulled to the side with a barrette. I did not detect any makeup, with the possible exception of some colour on her cheekbones.
She was sworn in, and I asked her to give her name.
“Sarah Margaret Delaney.”
“How old are you, Sarah?”
“Seventeen.”
I smiled at her. “Please tell the court how you are related to Mr. Delaney.”
“He’s my dad.”
“And tell us where you come in the family.”
“I’m the oldest of the ten of us.”
“What’s it like having nine younger sisters and brothers?”
“Sometimes it’s fun and sometimes it’s frustrating!” The jurors laughed. With her, not at her. “I wouldn’t change it, though. There’s none of them I’d want to lose!”
“What kind of a dad is Mr. Delaney?”
“He’s great! He spends all kinds of time with us, and takes us places, and helps us with our homework and other things. He’s sweet, and sometimes he’s really funny! Not so much now . . .”
“Once in a while, kids need some direction. Or correction, I might say. Discipline. How does your dad handle that?”
“He tells us to smarten up, or we’ll be grounded. And he means it.”
“Have you ever been grounded?”
“Well, not me, but . . . the boys. You know.”
Everyone laughed again, and I said: “I know! Now I realize children aren’t with their parents every minute of the parents’ lives, but from what you saw of your parents, did they seem to get along well or not?”
“They were really happy together. He was very, very sad when Mum died. And he still is. He really loved her.”
“From what you could see growing up, was there any violence between them?”
“Never! T
hey never hit each other, or, you know, threw things the way you hear of other people doing. He wouldn’t have hurt Mum at all, let alone . . .” Sarah looked as if she was going to burst into tears. I wasn’t going to promote that.
“I have nothing else to ask you, Sarah. Ms. Kirk may have some questions.”
“No questions, My Lord.”
Justice Palmer said: “You may step down, Sarah.”
Next I called Derek, who was fifteen, tall and thin with short brown hair. He gave pretty well the same evidence. Then it was Connor’s turn. He was thirteen and a half. He had dark blond hair, and was considerably shorter than his sister Sarah.
I started off the same way, and then got to the question of whether things ever got physical between Beau and Peggy during an argument.
“No, never! Not even when they got into fights about Corbett!”
I had no idea who Corbett was, and this was not the time to ask questions and get answers I was not prepared for. Instead, I zeroed in on the word “fights.”
“Now, Connor, when you say ‘fights,’ what do you mean?”
“I don’t mean hitting people! I just mean when you say something and the other person says something back, and like that.”
“Words going back and forth, people arguing? Disagreeing?”
“Yes, arguing! That’s what I mean, not fighting. Dad never hit Mum. And Mum sure never hit Dad!”
The jurors laughed a bit at that. I had to decide whether to leave well enough alone, or quash any suspicion that there was a lot of arguing in the Delaney household.
“So arguing happened once in a while in your family?”
“Oh, yeah. Sometimes. It still does!” Laughs again. “But usually, it’s us kids arguing with each other. Dad stops it.”
I didn’t want to leave that dangling, so I took another chance.
“What does your dad do to stop you guys from arguing?”
“He says: ‘Stop arguing!’”
Once more, the jurors enjoyed the young kid’s testimony.
Encouraged, Connor went on: “He just says to stop yammering or he’ll have to bring back the strap.” Oh God, no. I could already see the appellant’s factum for Beau’s appeal. Incompetent counsel — me — would be the first ground of appeal. But Connor hadn’t finished. “They used to have a strap that they hit kids with. Not in our house, but in the schools Mum and Dad went to. Dad had a teacher and she was a sister named Little Hitler and she used to hit him and the other students with her strap when they were bad. Dad says that’s wrong, and kids should never be strapped or spanked. So that never happened in our house.”
Thank you, Sister Little Hitler, wherever you are now, for turning Beau Delaney against corporal punishment. It was time to bring the curtain down.
“Those are all my questions for Connor, My Lord. Connor, you may step down. Unless the Crown lawyer has anything to ask you.” And of course, we hope against hope that she hasn’t.
But my backside hadn’t hit the seat when Gail Kirk was on her feet. “Connor, you said your parents used to argue about Corbett. Could you tell us who Corbett is?”
I could see Delaney tense up beside me. He had been scribbling notes across the page in his large scrawling handwriting. He didn’t even leave the margins free; the writing went from edge to edge of the page. But his hand ceased its motion. I hoped nobody else noticed.
“He’s our brother,” Connor said.
“Oh? So there are eleven children in your family, not ten?”
“No, there’s only ten now ’cause Corbett’s gone.”
“Where has he gone?”
“Nobody knows! One night he just up and disappeared!”
What in the name of God was this? It took every bit of willpower to stop myself from firing that question at my client. I attempted to look as if nothing was wrong. I directed a mild, just-looking-around glance at the jury. They were riveted to the child on the stand.
Gail Kirk asked for more. “And you haven’t heard from him?”
I wanted to object that these questions were irrelevant, but I didn’t want to draw any more attention to this subject, and I didn’t want to show that we were rattled. So I stayed in my seat.
“No. We wanted to look for him, but Dad said we wouldn’t be able to find him, so there was no point in trying.”
“Have the police been involved?”
I had to object to that. “My Lord, I have been sitting here and not objecting” — I hoped to give the impression that I had not bothered to object till now because the topic was so unimportant — “to all this irrelevant testimony, but now we are going too far astray. None of this is relevant, and we cannot expect young Connor to know what the police may or may not be doing with respect to missing persons.” I was flying blind, until I felt a nudge against my leg. I looked down and saw that Delaney had written on his page: “Foster child, didn’t work out.”
I got my second wind, and improvised. “Mr. and Mrs. Delaney had been foster parents for many years. Sometimes placements work out wonderfully; sometimes they do not, which is very unfortunate, and other arrangements have to be made.”
“My Lord!” Kirk exclaimed. “My learned friend is giving evidence. He has not been qualified as an expert in social work. Nor is it time for him to give his summation. I —”
“Thank you, Ms. Kirk,” Justice Palmer interjected. “Mr. Collins?”
“My Lord, I just think we are getting way off topic here, and my friend is questioning a child witness about matters that are outside the witness’s competence.”
“Objection sustained. Move on, Ms. Kirk.”
“No other questions for this witness, My Lord.”
The judge spoke gently to Delaney’s son. “You may step down now, Connor.”
“The defence calls Ruth . . .”
I could see Gail Kirk practically squirming with impatience; she would not, however, have wanted to alienate the jury by objecting to the redundancy of the evidence of Delaney’s children. But her concentration never flagged. During other trials with Gail, when there were tedious legal motions being argued, I had often noticed her drawing little pictures of leaves and flowers along the edges of her notepad. Not now; she wasn’t missing a word of the testimony. In fact, I did not plan to call all ten of the kids. Beau and I had agreed on two girls and two boys. One more to go.
When it came to Ruth, I could see that the young girl was trembling with nerves. She looked miserable with her dark curly hair pulled back from her broad face, and a skirt and sweater that were too small for her heavy build. She did not want to perform in public. So I should have stopped there. But, before I could announce that we would call no more evidence that day, little Jenny was up on her feet and on her way to the stand.
“I’ll do it, Ruthie,” she said to her older sister. “I know you’re feeling sick today.”
So Jenny was sworn in, sat in the witness chair, smoothed her flowery skirt, and smiled at me.
“Hello, Jenny.”
“Hi, Mr. Collins.”
“Thank you for stepping into the breach today.”
“You’re welcome.”
I took her through the same series of questions, and received the same endorsement of Beau Delaney as a wonderful man and loving father.
When I thought she was finished, I thanked her again, and she took the opportunity to express her gratitude to me.
“Thank you too, Mr. Collins, for helping Daddy. He didn’t kill Mummy. The Hells Angels didn’t come in that night and do it either, so we’ll never know what that was about. Nobody killed her.” She turned to face the jurors, a few of whom appeared to be amused by the biker reference, but quickly masked their reaction, and smiled at the young witness. “Nobody would have,” Jenny said, “because everybody loved her. It was an accident.”
If I thought the Hells Angels refere
nce would be dismissed at the Crown’s table as a child’s idea of how somebody might be killed, I was wrong. Gail Kirk got to her feet and addressed the witness.
“Hello, Jenny. Could you tell us what you meant just now when you referred to the Hells Angels?”
Before I could even get to my feet, I felt the pressure of my client’s leg against mine. He scribbled on his notepad: “NO!”
“Objection, My Lord,” I said dutifully.
“Grounds, Mr. Collins?”
“Relevance, My Lord. Neither the Crown nor the defence has led any evidence or made any reference to a motorcycle club. The question here is whether Mr. Delaney was involved in his wife’s death, or whether it was an accident. We obviously say her death was accidental. We have not raised the spectre of a third party in this.”
“My Lord,” Gail Kirk argued, “this matter came up on direct. We are entitled to cross-examine the witness on it.”
“I’ll allow it. Go ahead, Ms. Kirk.”
Delaney was deathly still as the prosecutor asked his daughter once more why she mentioned the Hells Angels, and Jenny obliged her with an answer.
“It wasn’t anything. They didn’t do it. It’s just that Mum yelled out ‘Hells Angels’ the night she died. I heard her, and she sounded upset, and I meant to get up and ask her if she was okay, but I was so tired I fell asleep again! I could have helped her! I might have saved her from falling down the stairs! But I fell asleep, and she died!” The little girl began sobbing uncontrollably.
I was struck dumb at the defence table. Peggy had shouted out the words “Hells Angels” not some time or one night, but the night she died. I found it hard to believe, and so would the Crown, that she was talking to herself. It sounded to me as if she had been making an accusation, or reacting to a statement; either way, she was not alone when she uttered the exclamation. Not alone, perhaps, at the moment of her death.
Gail Kirk wanted desperately, I knew, to press Jenny about that night, but the child was so distraught that she had to offer a respite first.
“Would you like to take a break, Jenny? Here, please take a tissue.”
Jenny wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She took a few minutes to compose herself. I could well imagine the willpower Beau had to summon to keep himself from rushing to the stand to comfort his child. Whatever else was going on in his mind was something I would have to deal with at another time.