Trial of Passion

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by William Deverell


  I’d see him on the campus a lot and I had this . . . it was a notion — but it didn’t turn out to be so wrong — that he was stalking me. You know? Not like everywhere I go he’s on my heels, but sort of Hi, there, mind if I bring my coffee over?

  At some point we finally got onto the subject of the diamond ring that I kept waving in front of his face. So I told him about Remy. Told him what a special person he is. Invited him to the wedding — by the way, it’s this fall, Patricia, and you must come, you can do your impersonations. Anyway, he never lost a beat. Kept coming on with those bedroom eyes.

  So, getting to November twenty-seventh, the Law Students’ Association, the LSA— I’m chair of the social committee — planned to have a dance. Okay, strike against me: I did personally ask Jonathan if he’d like to come. But you know, it was a money-raiser; we were asking all the faculty, selling them tickets.

  Remy had gone away for a few days to South America with his father — the family has some investments there — and wasn’t coming back until late that night. So I went alone — I can just see his lawyer making hay with that. O’Donnell’s defence has got to be that I was a willing party, right? Is he going to deny tying me up? The lying bastard, I want you to tear him apart on the stand, Patricia. So I danced a bit — we had a live band — and when Professor O’Donnell came in, he made his usual beeline, and he bought me a drink and I … well, I asked him to dance. It wasn’t like a waltz where he’d be climbing all over me.

  I assume there’s going to be a great hue and cry about what I had to drink that night, so let me get my two bits in right now. I had exactly two rye and 7Ups at the dance. Don’t you love that drink? It’s so common. Now, the one he got me may have been a double, but I did not get loaded. Didn’t touch any of the pot that was going around, either. I don’t do drugs. Marijuana especially, I get too scrambled.

  So, back to the dance. Well, Jonathan and I chatted a little. I was sort of interested in his background, how his father became a knight, or whatever he is. A viscount. Don’t think he cares much for him. As his son, he’s entitled to be called Honourable Jonathan O’Donnell, did you know that? Right. Honourable. I mean, he wasn’t putting on the dog or anything — but it’s sort of impressive, isn’t it? To us commoners.

  Anyway, I was about to leave before the last number and I was on my way to get my coat when he magically materialized right in front of me. So we do the last set of dances, slow rock, uh-oh, I’m thinking, here’s the old high-school rub dance. But, you know, he was okay, kept a gentlemanly distance. He told me that the lecture theatre — these were almost his exact words — seemed to fill with a brilliant light every time I walked into it. That’s what he said. I remember thinking, maybe he’s not such a bad guy. Maybe a little crush on me, that’s all.

  Then he asked me if I was going to the after-party.…

  After a period of rain, a reluctant Apollo has finally spurred his fiery horses beyond the fleeing clouds, and today I have donned my coveralls. Steeling myself for the tasks ahead — a row of beans, a plot of potatoes (the carrots are in, the radishes are up!) — I light a cigarette and lean on my spade and contemplate my coming bounty, picturing it as the sylvan fields Virgil sang of. Fortunatus et ille deos qui novit agrestis. Happy is he who knows the rural gods. But my green reveries are interrupted by the noisy, belated arrival of Stoney and Dog, who show up — one month late — in a grunting rusted flatbed. My visitors look no healthier than their vehicle — both are bleary of eye.

  “Got a timber here to shore her up,” Stoney says. “Couldn’t get nobody to mill it.”

  The timber, roped to the flatbed, is a sticky, freshly skinned trunk of a fir tree, still bleeding its sap.

  “It’ll add a kind of funky look.”

  He is unusually muted, perhaps because I am scowling. He offers no explanation for his long absence, and I refrain from asking if he was serving a jail sentence for house-renovation fraud. But my grumping subsides. The true Garibaldian, I have learned, is not beholden to the cruel dictates of time. After a few courtesies, he and Dog gather their tools and advance with determination upon the veranda.

  But before I can return to my georgic chores, the sound of a small aircraft rents the placid air, and it settles in my little bay and taxis to the dock. I sense immediately that the firm has sent bounty hunters to return me to justice — as it were — and indeed the passenger who alights is Hubbell Meyerson, old friend and senior partner at Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham. (Tragger and Inglis now haunt from their graves, though Bully, over eighty, wanders in occasionally in the flesh. He is the spiritual leader of a firm with 110 lawyers.)

  Hubbell seems ill at ease, but wears a mask of bonhomie as I show him about the grounds. “Fabulous outfit you’re wearing, Arthur. The hick look. Where’s the straw between your teeth? I’m kidding, you have a very nice spread here. The word bucolic springs to mind. Arthur, you got out before they could destroy your soul.”

  “The Lord maketh me to lie down in green pastures. As you see, I can offer something spiritual but, I’m afraid, nothing spirituous.”

  “Good, you’re sticking to it. You’re to be admired, Arthur.”

  We take tea on the patio lawn chairs while, presumably, the meter runs in the chartered plane at the dock, its pilot squatting on the port float, staring down at the minnows. There are larger fish than those in that bay. A boat must be purchased somewhere.

  Hubbell stares at my two workers, who are both scratching their heads as they contemplate their task.

  “Seems to me I heard somewhere there’s a lot of inbreeding on these islands.”

  “Nonsense, those are skilled factotums of the many varied country crafts. What brings you here, Hubbell?” I cast a wary eye upon the plump briefcase that sits by his feet. “I fear you. You come not empty-handed, as a friend.”

  He pretends not to have heard me. “Quitting at the peak, it took guts, Arthur. Here’s the best trial lawyer in the country sitting in front of me in goddamn coveralls. All those people who say you had a nervous breakdown, I tell them, hell, you just had a minor stroke, you want to slow down for a while. And in the meantime you’re giving a chance to some of the others. Cleaver, he’ll be doing most of the major trial work.”

  Gowan Cleaver, whose surname suits his art. Why is this name dropped so casually in conversation? From a corner of my eye I can see Stoney working with a pry bar, wrenching out a rotting board. A robin carols from the pear tree. A turkey vulture patrols the sky above the bay. I wait for Hubbell’s second shoe to drop.

  “By the way, I’d like you to glance at something, Arthur.”

  “Wild horses will not drag me, Hubbell.”

  “The preliminary hearing’s complete except for the complainant’s evidence. Kimberley Martin. She had a bad time with her exams, has to rewrite a couple, so the judge adjourned her evidence to this summer so she can get her school year out of the way. Gowan will finish the prelim, then hand it over to you to do the trial. Probably this fall. Three, four days, maximum a week. You whiz over, demolish a couple of witnesses, and you’re quickly back digging your farm-fresh potatoes.”

  A heavy banging. The house shudders a little.

  Hubbell opens his briefcase: accordion files, volumes of transcript.

  “He wants you, Arthur. Honourable Jonathan Shaun O’Donnell, the acting dean of law at UBC. He wrote that savage attack on the Supreme Court — A Law Unto Itself. His father is Lord Caraway, a British viscount. Juicy trial. Big headlines.”

  “I know Jonathan O’Donnell. I have already declined his retainer.”

  “Yeah, but there’s some real money here. The Faculty Association has agreed to pay the whole shot. It’s become a cause to them, out-and-out harassment of a prof by a young lady who, for some unknown reason, cried rape. It’s not a consent defence, Arthur. He didn’t do it. You’ve never had a more innocent client. Just, you know, glance through the file. Christ, what else do you have to do out here in the godforsaken middle of nowhere?”<
br />
  He has raised his voice in frustration, as if my placid countenance has suddenly confirmed for him the utter futility of his task.

  “Hell will freeze over, Hubbell.”

  “Look, I’m going to leave you these transcripts. Police, foren-sics, O’Donnell’s neighbour, they’ve already testified at the prelim. An interesting read. Hey, you’ll get a kick out of some of this stuff.” He brings out a few cassette tapes. “You have a machine to play these? . . . What are those guys doing?”

  Stoney is noisily at work with a chainsaw, Dog with a sledge hammer. “They are repairing the veranda.”

  “Well, they —”

  The remainder of Hubbell’s reflection is drowned in the roar of the veranda roof collapsing and shingles cascading from it. The rest of the house has taken on a slight starboard list.

  As dust swirls and settles, Hubbell cannot restrain an infuriatingly smug smile. “Why do I have this feeling you’ll be back?”

  For a long while after the float plane takes off, Stoney and Dog stand by staring dully at the wreckage.

  Dog kicks at the shingles. Stoney pulls from a pocket what I take to be a marijuana cigarette and lights it.

  “Toke?” he says to me.

  “No, thanks.”

  Wild horses, I repeat to myself.

  DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MS. BLUEMAN

  COURT CLERK:

  State your full name and rank please, for the record.

  WITNESS:

  Constable Fourteen Gavin Oswald Peake, West Vancouver Police.

  Q

  And were you on duty on the early hours of November twenty-eighth last?

  A

  I was.

  Q

  Tell us what you did and observed.

  A

  On that day, as I was working midnight shift, I received a call at oh-five-forty-eight hours to attend at the home of a Mr. Clarence de Remy Brown at 4214 Kildonan Drive in West Vancouver.

  Q

  And what did you do there?

  A

  May I refer to my notes made immediately afterwards?

  MR. CLEAVER:

  No objection, but I’ll want to take a very careful look at them.

  THE COURT:

  No question about it. You’ll have full opportunity later.

  MR. CLEAVER:

  I’d appreciate that, your honour. My learned friend has been keeping her evidence a little too close to her chest.

  THE COURT:

  You are entitled to full disclosure, Mr. Cleaver.

  MR. CLEAVER:

  Of her chest? (Laughter.)

  THE COURT:

  Oh, dear. I’m sorry, Miss Blueman.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  If Mr. Cleaver wishes to continue making me the butt of his humour —

  MR. CLEAVER:

  Not the butt, Miss Blueman. (Laughter.)

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  I think it hardly appropriate —

  THE COURT:

  Order.

  MR. CLEAVER:

  Oh, I’m sorry, just trying to relieve the tedium.

  THE COURT:

  Order. Let’s carry on with the witness.

  MR. CLEAVER:

  Well, since the subject of disclosure has been raised, I am giving notice I will be seeking production of some tape recordings the complainant apparently dictated to my learned friend, Miss Blueman.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  Long after the fact.

  THE COURT:

  You know the rules of disclosure, madam prosecutor.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  Yes, but —

  THE COURT:

  Let’s have no more buts.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  Your honour, they’re very personal.

  MR. CLEAVER:

  We haven’t a single written account from the complainant.

  THE COURT:

  Do these tapes contain a narrative about the case, Miss Blueman?

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  I’d be prepared to edit them —

  MR. CLEAVER:

  She has to be joking —

  THE COURT:

  Order. Miss Blueman, are you familiar with the Stinch-combe decision? The required rules of disclosure?

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  I —

  THE COURT:

  Everything. You have to give the defence everything.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  I can’t —

  THE COURT:

  You will! That’s an order!

  Q

  My objection is on the record. Constable Peake, you told us you went to Mr. Brown’s house in the early-morning hours.

  A

  Yes, I knocked on the door —

  Q

  Can you describe this house?

  A

  Well, it was pretty big. Three floors, I don’t know how many bedrooms. Posh area, the British Properties. I was met by Mr. Brown at the door and he led me in. I noticed his hands were smudged with what looked like lipstick, and his clothes, too. He was pretty angry. He said his girlfriend —

  THE COURT:

  It’s hearsay, Miss Blueman.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  You can’t tell us what he said.

  A

  Well . . . that was it for a while. We just sat there in his living room and he carried on talking in an angry voice. She was sleeping. His girlfriend. Kimberley Martin.

  Q

  Did you do anything as a result of your conversation with Clarence Brown?

  A

  I phoned headquarters and instructed them to send an officer to

  141

  Palmer Avenue.

  Q

  Did you ultimately interview Ms. Martin?

  A

  I told Mr. Brown we should wake her up, or otherwise I was wasting my time. So he left and eventually he came back, and he led me upstairs to one of the bedrooms. Miss Martin, the complainant, was sitting up in bed in a nightgown with the sheets over her legs.

  Q

  Okay, you can’t tell us what she said to you, but did you make any observations about her person?

  A

  She showed me some bruises on her wrists and ankles — the skin was torn there, on her left ankle. She said she had bruises on her chest —

  MR. CLEAVER:

  Well, here we go.

  THE COURT:

  Miss Blueman, get your witness under control.

  MS. BLUEMAN:

  Just what you saw, officer.

  A

  Sorry. The thing is, normally we would have a female officer, but we’re usually short of officers on the overnight shift. And, well, after some discussion, she showed me her breasts.

  MR. CLEAVER:

  The complainant makes better disclosure than my learned friend. (Laughter.)

  MS. BLUEMAN: THE COURT:

  Mr. Cleaver, really, this is a very serious matter.

  Q

  Order. Excuse me. Order.

  A

  And what did you see?

  Q

  I saw a small area of discolouration on the inner, ah, surface of her left breast. Check that. . . . My notes have it as the right breast.

  A

  Then what did you do?

  Q

  I asked both of them if they would like to accompany me to the North Shore Hospital for a more thorough physical examination and some tests. We then proceeded to that hospital and I left her there while they called in the examining pathologist.

  Q

  And did you have anything further to do with this case?

  A

  No, I turned it over to the detectives.

  Q

  Please answer my learned friend’s questions.

  CROSS-EXAMINATION BY MR. CLEAVER

  Q

  Constable Peake, as you examined Miss Martin, did you observe any of the usual physical indicia of rape — scratches, cuts, that sort of thing?

  A

  No, I did not.

  Q

  An
y signs of what might have been lipstick on her lower body?

  A

  No.

  Q

  While Miss Martin was displaying herself to you, did you get close enough to smell her breath?

  A

  She smelled mostly of fresh soap. But I also detected a faint odour of alcohol from her breath.

  Q

  Soap. I don’t understand.

  A

  It appeared to me that she had bathed recently.

  Q

  Bathed?

  A

  Her hair was wet. There were damp towels in an ensuite bathroom.

  Q

  Constable, did you not find that unusual?

  A

  I didn’t find anything usual about this case.

  Q

  Did you seize the towels?

  A

  No. I took a tie. Also a gold necklace.

  Q

  Pretty odd that a supposed rape victim would crawl into bed after her ordeal and have a nice nap.

  A

  I thought so.

  Q

  Did you believe a word she said?

 

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