Trial of Passion

by William Deverell

  “It wouldn’t be going too far to suggest you and she flirted a great deal that night?”

  “No, I wouldn’t say that. She flirted, yes.”

  “You did not seem to be making any strenuous efforts to avoid her that evening.”

  “I am often accused of having an ego. I was probably flattered.”

  There is no point in skating about. I go directly to the nub, to the wobbly part of his story. “At your house, she disappeared for a while, then came downstairs wearing your suit.”

  “That’s right. She’d been in my bedroom closet.”

  “So she apparently undressed in your bedroom. And where did she put her clothes?”

  “I don’t remember seeing them until the next day. They were hanging in the closet.”

  “She had disrobed near your bed; she had hung her dress in your closet. Surely, you took that as a clear invitation?”

  “It’s pretty hard for me to remember what I was thinking.”

  “I’m sure you remember what you were thinking.”

  O’Donnell shrugs, shifts about, crosses his knees.

  “There was, as you put it, an air of sexual electricity.”

  “She was generating it, yes. I wasn’t about to take any chances, Arthur.”

  “You were aroused, Jonathan. Very firmly aroused”

  I say that with an ignoble snideness that is tinged with envy. The

  witness, it is known, has a hard-earned reputation with the ladies.

  But impotent Beauchamp will win the day: The verdict will be in

  his favour; he will not have to don his robes and belt on his gun, and

  ride into town.

  Jonathan is a long time rising to my bait. The only sounds are the irregular grunting of the freezer and the scritching of a mouse somewhere. I fear he will prove a poor witness in a courtroom.

  “I couldn’t have done anything about it anyway, Arthur. I was drunk.”

  “Ah, the defence of drunkenness. I know it well. That night you were reading from a play.”

  “Yes.”

  “No difficulty with that, I take it.”

  “No.”

  “You were animated, expressive.” “I suppose so.”

  “Earlier, you were hectoring Mr. Charles Stubb about his political ambitions.”

  “I was doing a lot of babbling.”

  “I suspect you had your wits very much about you.”

  “What are you leading up to?”

  I sigh. The day is wasting. There are thistles in the carrot patch. “Where is the suit, Jonathan? The brown suit she was wearing?”

  “Back in my closet.”

  “Has it since been dry cleaned?”

  He looks at me sharply. No answer.

  “Jonathan, did you take it out later to be dry cleaned?”

  “Yes.” “When?”

  “That day . . . the day after.”

  “After you found it lying crumpled on your bedroom floor.” “That’s right. She’d badly creased it.” “That’s the reason? There were no seminal stains on it?” “Of course not”

  “Presumably, if the suit were lying by your bed, at some point that night she again disrobed beside it?” A long, painful pause. “I don’t know.”

  “The suit she had worn was on your bedroom floor. Were you not present when she took it off? Did you not say you went to bed after settling Miss Martin on the downstairs couch? Did she sneak upstairs while you slept, then undress and paint herself with lipstick, then leave in sudden hysterics?”

  Jonathan looks at his feet and does not answer. How sorry a spectacle he is. Still, there is something to be said for a man who lies so hopelessly; ironically, there is a certain honesty about him, a lack of facileness.

  “It has been a while since I read Saint Joan,” I say, “but isn’t there a line to the effect that he who tells much truth is sure to be hanged?”

  Jonathan’s head remains bowed.

  “I’m afraid in this case it’s bad counsel.”

  Slowly, he drains his cup of laced tea. “I didn’t rape her, Arthur.”

  “Your version of the events is not to be believed, Jonathan. I repeat, it’s too preposterous.”

  Just then, ghoulish sounds from the kitchen, a mousetrap springing shut, the little rodent’s death throes, a brattle of wood on the floor. The freezer makes a groaning sound, then silence.

  “Oh, shit,” says Jonathan. The phrase is repeated several times, softly, in utter capitulation.

  I turn to the others. “Well, gentlemen, what is your verdict?”

  None but Bully can look at me. “I’m sorry, Arthur, maybe we’ve been wasting your time.”

  “I apologize if I have ruined everyone’s day. By way of benefit, you have learned your client is a poor witness and a worse liar.” But I am feeling pity for the forlorn fellow sitting in my favourite chair. I soften my voice.

  “I assume, Jonathan, that the reason no evidence of semen stains exists is that you burned the used sheets in your fireplace and replaced them with clean ones.”

  “Actually, I used a safe.” The voice is hollow, distant. “But, yes, I did burn them. Just in case.”

  “A safe” says Hubbell. “You used a condom in the course of this . . . this . . .” He cannot find the words to express his revulsion.

  “And I suppose that item, the used condom, isn’t to be found anywhere among your personal memorabilia?”

  “Burned it.”

  “Along with your bridges. You might as well have thrown yourself into the fire, too, Jonathan. You have done the work of the prosecution. You have almost convicted yourself. What a pity.”

  Gowan extends an arm like a traffic officer. “Okay, whoa, everybody, let’s stop and reconnoitre. Almost, that’s the word. Almost convicted. Nothing’s been proved, and we’re not in a court of law. The defence still holds, we can salvage it, it’s still his word against hers, and for the record we didn’t hear what the brilliant Professor O’Donnell just admitted to. I didn’t hear it. Did anyone hear it? The presence of the suit in the bedroom can be explained —”

  “Shut up, Gowan,” Jonathan says.

  “Shut up? You shut up. You’ve already said too much. Telling bald-faced lies, screwing around with the evidence — you don’t deserve a defence —”

  Jonathan begins to rise. “When’s the next ferry back?” I restrain him with a hand to his shoulder. “Gentlemen, please —” “I got it,” Gowan says. “He had to tie her up so she wouldn’t run off while he was putting a rubber on. He’s a gentleman, didn’t want to knock her up —”

  “Gowan,” says Jonathan, “I’m about two seconds from stuffing your teeth down your throat.”

  “That’s enough!” My bull roar subdues this contumacious group. “This is quite unseemly.” “Sorry,” says Jonathan.

  “All right then, let us be fair to Jonathan. After all, he has been proven guilty only of the capital sin of lying to his lawyer. If all were hanged who had done that we couldn’t find graves enough. But guilty of rape? I think not.”

  I bend towards Jonathan, and he cannot escape my eyes. “She hadn’t really passed out, had she? She was waiting for the others to leave. The two of you then moved on to the final, unscripted act of your play.” He nods.

  “She consented,” I say. “More than that.”

  “Then why the hell did you cover up?” says Hubbell. “I think he expressed his overriding concern,” I say. “To admit he bedded one of his students ends his career no more finally than if he’d actually assaulted her.”

  “That’s the current diktat from the harassment committee.” Gowan comes out of a sulk. “Well, that’s a damn lot better than ten years in the joint. Okay, we’re doing better — so what the hell happened?”

  Jonathan purses his lips, examines his hands. They are shaking a little. He responds in a slow, monotonic voice. “When I brought the sheet, she was still asleep on the chair — and I draped it over her. As I bent over her, she . . . well, she awoke. And we
kissed. She became animated. I couldn’t stop her. I couldn’t stop myself. I couldn’t stop it.”

  Jonathan slowly rises from the chair and begins to pace, not looking at any of us.

  “We found ourselves on the living-room couch. Didn’t talk, just, well, we necked. Then I led her upstairs, and I got the condom. We undressed, and . . . I’ll spare you the vivid details. . . . She seemed starved for it. She had an orgasm and it kind of startled her. And then we, um, we continued at it. Had another bottle of wine.”

  “She shared in this?” I ask.

  “Yes. Later, I got rid of the empty, washed the glasses. Anyway, at some point I went to the bathroom, drew a tub. I was there for a few minutes, and when I came out she was gone. I assumed she was just prowling around the house, and I flopped on the bed, waited for her . . . and fell asleep. Or passed out. And the next morning when I awoke — she wasn’t there. That’s it.”

  “And the lipstick on her lower regions and on her breasts? Her curious behaviour upon leaving your house?”

  “Sleepwalking, nightmares, maybe Egan Chornicky dropped a tab of acid in her B and B. Maybe she was having a divine experience. À la Jeanne d’Arc. Maybe she forgot to take her Prozac. Who knows?”

  “I like it,” Gowan says. “It works.”

  Jonathan gapes at him. “You like it?” He erupts, a burst of unleashed pique. “What do you mean, it works? Blow it out your tailpipe, you smarmy bastard!”

  “Easy, pal,” says Gowan, and he looks to me for support.

  Jonathan puffs his cheeks and slowly releases air. “Sorry. Get it together, O’Donnell. Get it together.” He pours himself another large scotch, sips it, winces.

  A strained silence follows, broken only by Bully clearing his throat a few times.

  Jonathan has now taken a book from one of the shelves and is leafing through it.

  “There’s a line in here somewhere…. Here: ‘Quisque suos pati-mar Manes.’”

  The Aeneid. He reads the ancient verse well.

  Jonathan replaces the book. “‘Each of us bears his own hell.’”

  I ask, “Where did you study Latin?”

  “Oxford. And earlier. Six years of it.”

  I return to my vigil at the window, look out upon my humble garden, my orchard thick with small green bulbs of apples, my pond where a wren trills sweetly on a reed.

  Jonathan’s hands are trembling. I sigh again and pick up his bottle, and shake it. Just about empty.

  “Welcome to the fold. You are an alcoholic, Jonathan.”

  He doesn’t respond.

  “Can you abstain?”

  “Why?”

  “Because otherwise I will not act for you.” Jonathan raises his glass, but doesn’t drink. He scrutinizes the remaining liquid in it, then stands and pours it out the window.

  “Deal.”

  “Ah, yes. Well, gentlemen, the case is more difficult and complex than first we supposed. There is a question now whether we dare put Jonathan on the stand. The preliminary hearing recommences . . . a week Tuesday?”

  “Yes, July seventh,” says Gowan.

  I retrieve Jonathan’s written statement. “Perhaps we should destroy this. And begin with a tabula rasa”

  I realize I have not been a good host. “Cookies, anyone? I’ll be in utter despair if you don’t try them — I baked them myself.”

  Each in turn takes a peanut butter cookie.

  PART TWO

  A man should be upright, not be kept upright.

  MARCUS AURELIUS

  Thoughts of returning to the city — even for a short while — cause me a discomfort in my lower recesses, and for several days after General Bullingham’s forces storm and capture me, I remain in a dour funk. After three months on tranquil Garibaldi the hurly-burly of city and courtroom seems as distant as the moon. My melancholy stems from my weak resolve — I allowed them to break my will.

  But impelled by an alcoholic’s code of duty to his brother — and perhaps by some misplaced sense of solidarity with a fellow Latin scholar — I could find no escape. Perhaps I see Jonathan as an ally in weakness. I so admire the self-destructive. At all events I suspect he is innocent, and despite his sins deserves public proof of that.

  Sadly, the weather refuses to cooperate in my determination to be gloom-ridden. The month of July enters hot, lazy, dreamy, and altogether unnecessarily pleasant. I spend these halcyon days sitting on the back stoop while a fan of water plays over my garden, and I reread the transcripts, and listen again to the spunky, chirruping voice of Kimberley Martin. And I wish again and again I had never agreed to do this. The case reeks of disaster, of damaged lives.

  But my decision has brought great comfort to Annabelle, who has returned from Seattle. She telephones to say I am doing the right thing for “poor Jonathan.” Though she will be delighted to have me back in the house for a few days during the preliminary, she does not propose a more extended stay. In three months she has visited but once, and she has not again mentioned joining me for that promised few weeks this summer.

  Ah, well, we are enjoying this time apart together. Perhaps she is loosening the bonds. Possibly in giving me what she calls my “space,” she is also tendering freedom. Or is Deborah right? Will her mother continue to reel in the puppet strings every time I try to dance off the stage? Am I tied to her in some unhealthy — dare I say — masochistic way? In bondage for my sins of weakness. Ah, yes, the ties that bind.

  George Rimbold drags me off fishing one morning, and I find myself talking to him about my marriage, giving solemn confession. He listens Buddha-like, stoned on his marijuana, then tells me my impotence is a blessing from the God he refuses to acknowledge. “Oh, to be freed from the chains of lust. Look how it has brought me down. I envy you.” What luckless event caused his downfall? Coveting his neighbour’s ass, he’d said.

  On a miserably bright and cheerful Saturday, as I am entering the fifth straight day of my malaise — the preliminary hearing looms but a few days away — George again interrupts my busy schedule, this time to fetch me to a public meeting at the community hall, the hearing into Evergreen Estates’ plans to expand its subdivision.

  “Drama, intrigue, high emotion, unbridled anger. You don’t want to miss it, Arthur, these meetings are the island’s only form of live theatre. Could see Zoller get punched out.”

  Kurt Zoller, our paranoiac trustee, has been urging me to attend and offer my voice to the Cause of Progress: Mr. Bo-champs, we can’t stand still. But I have decided I am one with the eco-freaks. I will take a stand. Margaret Blake will realize I am not a lost cause after all, and will extend her hand in contrite apology for her many rudenesses.

  And I will offer to settle — let’s say sixty-forty in her favour on the pig. A moral victory for her.

  Because George and I tarry too long over tea and talk, the meeting is well under way when we arrive. The community hall, a barnlike edifice built with donations of local money and labour, is high on an arid ridge called Breadloaf Hill. A notice on the front door advises: “Please use the facilities outside, as the toilets don’t flush as there is no water.”

  At least half of the adult population of Garibaldi is in attendance, most of them looking rather surly as the developer, a sleek Cassius with a manufactured smile, tries to pitch his goods. Mrs. Blake is at the back, listening intently, coiled as if about to spring into action.

  Several empty chairs are at the front, and, as we sit, Chairman Zoller nods and smiles, and winks at me. Mrs. Blake, thinking I am allied with him, is no doubt looking knives in my direction.

  But I am suddenly elsewhere, in a court of law, facing young Kimberley Martin. Listening to her tapes I felt like an aural Peeping Tom, an invader of private space. Ah, yes, how shrewd of Gowan to have forced their production; how noble it made me feel to listen to her incautious ramblings. As my little sister says, gag me with a spoon.<
br />
  The provincial judge presiding over this preliminary is one William Pickles, a charm-free preening martinet. Gowan proclaims he is in our pocket, but I am not sure that matters. A judge’s role at preliminary is a limited one: he may commit the accused to trial by higher court or — rarely, when the prosecution falls short of a prima facie case — may discharge him.

  But unless the complainant recants, that will not happen next week.

  The bar manager, Emily Lemay, speaks in support of the rezon-ing — “I need the business,” she says frankly. But she is booed. Other members of this cranky audience rise in opposition: several stands of fir and arbutus must go if the subdivision passes. Septic seepage will foul adjoining farms. A rare flower, the chocolate lily, is endangered.

  Kurt Zoller moves from his table and plumps down into an empty chair beside me.

  “The natives are restless,” he says. “Now’s a good time for you to speak.”

  “The majority seems in opposition,” I say.

  “Yeah, but I make the decision. Got to listen to them, that’s my democratic duty. But I was elected to make the hard choices.”

  He seems unusually edgy. Perhaps that is because he is without a life jacket today. Rising, he pats me on the shoulder, a public gesture of the camaraderie he believes we share. I have obviously been too subtle in my dealings with him.

  But again I am in my courtroom. Patricia Blueman is at the other counsel table. A tense, striving woman whom I had always considered quite humourless. I am rather pleasantly shocked to know she has a repertoire of judicial impersonations. She’s adroit enough. She certainly bested Cleaver at the preliminary, though that vulgar pouf would never dare admit it.

  She must be handled with some delicacy, and more dignity than Gowan displayed.

  Margaret Blake is on her feet now. “Kurt Zoller, do you deny you have an interest in this development?”

  “You’re out of order!”

  “You’re in bed with them, aren’t you, Kurt? You have a house up there in the Estates. If you can call that ugly trailer . . . I just bet they paid you off.”