Trial of Passion
Page 8
Is this that infamous tank, George Rimbold? Not the image I expected. There is an air of theatre about him, his free arm dramatically gesturing as he speaks. He has a sonorous voice accented with an Irish lilt, and possesses the confidence of a man used to an audience.
“As many of you have heard, I suffered a bit of an accident driving home from the Rosekeeper tea party. But don’t believe the rumours. I was completely sober.”
Hoots of disbelief.
“Suddenly a deer ran in front of me, but I had the presence of mind to swerve.” He acts it out, turning an imaginary steering wheel, braking.
“Tell it to the cops,” someone says.
“To be sure, and I did that very thing. The next morning.”
He sees that I am chuckling. “Are you the gentleman who bought my boat?” “I am that person.”
“I must drop by and show you the holes where the ling cod lie in wait.”
“Then we’ll be in the same boat. But we already are, aren’t we?”
This merry dialogue breaks the ice. I introduce myself. (My name is Arthur. I am an alcoholic.) Hands are extended. I am accepted.
“I fall off my boat — or wagon — too easily,” Rimbold says. “And you, Arthur?”
“Haven’t had a drink for nine years.”
“Good grief,” he says. There is applause.
I am, of course, called upon to make confession and do so with high energy, raucous tales of my Baudelairian performances in that infamous parlour of debauchery, the El Beau Room on Hornby Street, a coin’s toss from the Vancouver courts and the haunt of many of my fellow litigators. The time I stood on a table and recited from Juvenal’s Satires. The time I dumped a pitcher of Guinness upon the head of a prosecutor who’d had the audacity to call me a poor loser. The time, in court, when I’d attempted to make a citizen’s arrest of the judge.
I have done a bit of amateur performing in my time (I really must join the local theatre group), and I release the inner actor, playing a merry, fustian Falstaff, punching the air with my fist, slurring and titubating in sardonic imitation of my former self.
Well, I am a fine orator when I let loose, though I will never know where the skill comes from. (My father was chief university librarian and went about his days in whispers and silence. Books we had, however, hundreds of system discards, bruised, rancid with age.) The audience is an eager jury, anxious to acquit me. Though we come from differing backgrounds, we are all peers in the great democratic addiction to alcohol. As Homer wrote, “There is a strength in the union even of very sorry men.”
By the end of the meeting I am enveloped in the warmth of comradeship, and George Rimbold and I stroll out together, lighting cigarettes.
“What brings you to our little haven?” he asks.
“I came searching.”
“For what?”
“Peace. Health. For the remnants of my tattered soul. And you?”
“I came to escape the trade in souls. The Reverend George Rimbold, that was my title. I am a fallen priest, sir, and shall rot in hell.” He shrugs. “But in the meantime there is the delightful purgatory of Garibaldi Island.”
“Ah. And how long have you been here, George?”
“To tell the truth, I’m not sure.” He pulls at his beard. “In fact, I can’t even remember how I got here.”
On driving home that night I observe that one of my headlights has died. No matter: Garibaldi is a lawless state, the policeman comes but once a month. But impaired with the euphoria of new friendship, I am a distracted driver. As I take a turn past Mrs. Blake’s house, a plump white shape moseys into the unlit foreground of my Rolls. Unable to brake in time, I feel a sickening bump.
When I exit the car, my heart racing in panic, I observe that a small pig lies in smiling, lifeless peace at the side of the road.
Oh woe, this promises another great collision, that with the fearsome Margaret Blake. Behind the gap-toothed fence of her yard, the house sits in utter blackness, with not even a porch light glowing. Her truck is in the yard, so she is doubtless abed, dreaming her Fabian dreams of the future perfect state.
In fear of her, for a moment I contemplate fleeing the scene of the accident, but I still my terrors and advance on the silent, ghostly house. After I rap several times on the door, Slappy barks, a light comes on, and Mrs. Blake greets me on her front deck with a heavy-lidded look of suspicion.
“I hope it isn’t something that was bound to happen, Mrs. Blake, but I struck and killed one of your pigs.”
Wordlessly, she marches in slippered feet to the road, followed by her spaniel, who sniffs at the dead animal, then looks up at me reproachfully.
“It’s Betsy.”
“Yes, I’m afraid neither Betsy nor I saw the pig-crossing sign.” I attempt to say this in jest, but my smile dies, impaled by her fierce look. Lamely, I add, “She wandered into my path.”
“Well, Betsy just cost you a hundred dollars, Mr. Beauchamp.”
I have been planning to make good, but her gruffness not only gets my back up but stiffens my spine.
“I would suggest we each take our responsibility. Fifty-fifty.”
“Why? We weren’t sharing the steering wheel fifty-fifty.”
Her dressing gown is loose around her chest and she tightens it, then steps towards me and lifts herself up on her tiptoes, hiking her face close to mine. For a flutter of a moment I think she is going to bite me, but realize she is only taking a sample of my breath.
“Madam, I have just returned from an AA meeting.”
“Stale smoke. Okay, you have until tomorrow to pay me.”
“Or what?”
“Or I take you to court. I’m not accepting half. I put a lot of work into that animal.”
She drags the beast by its hind legs across the road into the yard. “Good night, Mr. Beauchamp.” Slappy casts me a sad sideways look, lifts a leg, and pisses on my left front tire.
DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MS. BLUEMAN
Q
Your full name?
A
Egan Matthew Chornicky.
Q
And you are in first-year law at the University of British Columbia?
A
Just barely.
THE COURT:
Mr. Chornicky, what do you have in your mouth?
WITNESS:
Juicy Fruit gum.
THE COURT:
Well, take it out. (Witness removes gum.)
Q
I want you to recall November twenty-seventh last. You attended a student dance that evening?
A
Mm-hmm, I did.
Q
And did you see the complainant, Ms. Martin, and the accused, Mr. O’Donnell, at this dance?
A
I think I saw them. I was working the bar.
Q
Okay, well, after the dance, did you go somewhere with them?
A
I remember we piled into a bunch of cars, I can’t remember who I went with.
THE COURT:
Mr. Chornicky, do you have a handkerchief?
A
No, why?
A
You are playing with that gum. (Witness drops gum in glass of water.)
THE COURT:
Thank you.
Q
Where did you go?
A
I don’t know, actually. Some house these guys were renting. Seemed like it was in the East End.
Q
And what happened there?
A
Basically not much . . . Well, the one thing I remember is Kimberley showed up dressed like a man.
Q
She showed up . . . What?
A
I remember her giving a speech from a play, Hamlet or one of those. To be or not to be.
Q
And Professor O’Donnell was there?
A
No . . . Yeah, he must’ve been, ‘cause we dropped him off at his house in a taxi.
Q
Did you go into his house?
THE COURT:
Witness, are you having some problem?
A
I’m trying to recollect how we ended up there — I guess he invited us in for a drink.
Q
Who was with you?
A
Charles Stubb, I remember. A couple of girls. Maybe someone else.
Q
And did you see Kimberley Martin there?
A
Uh-huh.
THE COURT:
Uh-huh doesn’t register, Mr. Chornicky.
A
Say what?
THE COURT:
Say yes or no. For what it’s worth, this all has to be transcribed.
Q
Do I take it correctly that you had something to drink that night?
A
You take it correctly.
Q
Do you remember anything that happened in his house?
A
I remember he gave us fifty dollars to get rid of us.
Q
Fifty dollars to get rid of you . . . and you were going to leave Ms. Martin behind?
A
No, I don’t think that was the deal. Didn’t she come with us? I think we sort of had to carry her out. . . . Or maybe that was somebody else.
Q
Maybe it was you, Mr. Chornicky.
A
Maybe.
MS. BLUEMAN:
No further questions.
THE COURT:
Mr. Cleaver?
MR. CLEAVER:
I don’t dare.
THE COURT:
Witness, you may be excused. (Witness leaves.)
MS. BLUEMAN:
I call Mr. Charles Stubb. (Witness is duly sworn.)
DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MS. BLUEMAN
Q
Mr. Stubb, you are a second-year law student at UBC?
A
Yes, I am. I’m also vice-president of the student council there.
Q
Okay, will you turn your mind to November twenty-seventh last year, and did you attend a dance that night?
A
Yes, sponsored by the Law Students’ Association, of which I am the treasurer. I went with Ms. Paula Yi, another student, though not studying for our chosen profession —
Q
Thank you. And did you see any of your professors at this dance?
A
Oh, several — we asked the whole faculty.
Q
Professor Jonathan O’Donnell in particular.
A
He was there. He was — well, he still is — acting dean.
Q
All right, did you observe him that evening in the presence of Kimberley Martin?
A
I saw them talking and laughing together.
Q
Did they dance?
A
They did. I didn’t see anything unusual about it. She danced with a couple of the other lecturers, too.
Q
Okay, after the dance you went somewhere. Tell us about that.
A
Well, everyone had been invited to a house party on Broughton Street in the West End. Professor O’Donnell thought he might have had a few too many drinks and asked me to drive his car.
Q
What was his condition?
A
He was wise not to drive.
Q
How much had you drunk yourself that night, Mr. Stubb?
A
I was sticking pretty much to soda water.
Q
And what about Ms. Martin?
A
She’d had quite a few.
Q
Carry on.
A
We went to this party — it was about one o’clock in the morning, and I think we stayed for almost an hour, and then it was arranged that we would take Professor O’Donnell home and he would pay for our taxis.
Q
Yes.
A
And then he invited us in — Paula, myself, Egan Chornicky, and Kimberley — for a last drink. And everything was . . . normal, comfortable, the professor and I were engaged in quite an interesting political debate. And then Kimberley gave us all parts to recite from Saint Joan. I thought it was quite enjoyable. Then she did something I thought was a little odd at the time. She disappeared and came back in the room wearing what looked like one of Professor O’Donnell’s suits. I have since realized upon reading the play —
Q
And then what happened?
A
And, ah, she was being very theatrical — she’d found this terrible tie and was having fun with Professor O’Donnell over it — and we carried on with the play some more, and she suddenly just fell asleep.
Q
Kimberley Martin.
A
Yes, on a big chair by the fire. And we called a taxi, and it came in a few minutes and that was about it.
Q
What time was that?
A
About three-thirty in the morning.
Q
And what about Ms. Martin?
A
We left her behind.
Q
Why?
A
Well … no one wanted to wake her up. I think Professor O’Donnell was getting a blanket for her when the taxi came. I wasn’t afraid for her, if that’s what you’re hinting. Professor O’Donnell isn’t someone I would dream of acting in any improper way.
Q
That’s all.
CROSS-EXAMINATION BY MR. CLEAVER
Q
You can’t conceive of him doing this.
A
Not really.
Q
Did you ever see him, at any time that night, act towards Miss Martin other than as a complete gentleman?
A
No, sir.
Q
He did not seem to be pursuing her in any way?
A
If anything, the reverse.
Q
No leering, pawing, suggestive words.
A
Nothing like that.
Q
By the end of the night, you would have to say Kimberley Martin was heavily intoxicated?
A
Yes, I think she’d had too much.
Q
And people in that condition have a habit of imagining things that never happened, don’t they? Ms.
BLUEMAN:
Oh, good God.
MR. CLEAVER:
You’ll need His help. Nothing further.
RE-EXAMINATION BY MS. BLUEMAN
Q
Mr. Stubb, are you by any chance related to Professor O’Donnell?
A
No, why?
Q
Just curious. Tell me, please, were you ever interviewed by my learned friend, Mr. Cleaver?
A
Yes.
Q
When and where?
A
A few days ago in his office.
Q
So he asked you up to his office to have a little chat about how your evidence might shape out.
MR. CLEAVER:
Your honour, I’m aghast, she can’t —
MS. BLUEMAN:
No further questions.
Discovering that Betsy wreaked substantial vengeance upon me for her death — a large bruise on the right front fender of the Phantom V, a pig-shaped indentation of metal that presses against the tire — I seek consultation with Stoney and Dog as they apply stain to my new veranda.
“I can straighten that fender, eh?” Stoney says. “Just enough so you can take it into a garage in town. But, what the hey, let me bang it back in shape. Save you a ton of money. It’s my number-one specialty. Bodywork.”
I remember the last time minor repairs had to be done to my Rolls. The bill from that pertinent Cockney thief came perilously close to five figures. But I have lost some naïvet
é and no longer live under the fanciful apprehension that Stoney is the artisan-of-all-trades that he claims to be.
“Ah, yes, straighten the fender a little, Stoney. Don’t do anything else. I shall get an estimate before I decide.” And perhaps countersue Mrs. Blake for the damages. Though I admit to a grudging respect for that woman — does she think she can take on Arthur Beauchamp in his own arena?
Stoney uses a pry bar to bend the fender away from the tire and we motor off to his shop. I give him permission to drive, but sit beside him like a stern chaperone. I have a great attachment to this vehicle.
As we arrive at his charnel house of dead cars, he gestures with pride at the various rusting hulks. “Look at all these beauties. Yeah, I’m thinking of installing a big outdoors screen and speakers in all the cars, eh, a kind of used-car drive-in theatre.”
I observe he does have a shop, however greasy and unkempt. Welding equipment, an engine up on pulleys.
“We’ll just move her inside here after I make some space. This is yours to use for the time being, eh?”