Trial of Passion

by William Deverell

  For some reason, she halts her progress and looks at me with an intensely quizzical expression. I smile. She rears a little, like a startled colt, then quickly follows her fiancé into the building.

  Patricia Blueman shoos away the press so we can talk.

  “And what brings you here, Arthur? I thought you’d retired.”

  “How better than to spend my twilight years sitting around courtrooms, Patricia.”

  “So O’Donnell finally had the good sense to fire that obscenity Cleaver. I have to give him some credit for brains after all.”

  Patricia Blueman is in her late thirties, spare, and spindly-legged. Myopic behind monstrous black-rimmed spectacles, she has a presence that can be best described as bookish — though why that adjective should have a pejorative meaning, I don’t know. I have always found her brittleness and self-consciousness appealing.

  “I have been dragged by wild horses, Patricia, into this opéra bouffe. Kicking and screaming”

  “I am complimented. The defendant must be feeling the heat.”

  “No more than Saint Joan, I suspect. You have her all fired up and ready?”

  “She’s telling the truth, Arthur.”

  “And why are you so sure of that?”

  “For one thing, last week she volunteered for a lie detector test and she passed with flying colours.”

  “Oh, have they figured out how to make those things work?”

  “For another, I believe her. I’ve spent some time … oh, you know all our secrets, don’t you, Arthur? You heard her tapes. Candid, isn’t she? No, I don’t mind at all that I was ordered to copy them for you. That’s Kimberley Martin, unrehearsed and real. Same as you’ll get in court, chum. Ready when you are.”

  She is about to go inside, then pauses. “Oh, do me a favour. When you’re cross-examining Kimberley on her tapes, bring out that business where Judge Pickles is called a sexist pig.”

  She goes inside. I butt my cigarette and follow her.

  The waiting area is thronged with gawkers, mostly older women who have abandoned their morning soaps to take in a live performance. I have been warned that a cadre from the Women’s Movement would be here, Ms. Martin’s support group. I see her standing there, sheltered among them, Venus amidst her mischievous train of Loves and Graces. Clarence de Remy Brown is talking on his cellphone but glowering fiercely at Jon O’Donnell.

  I join Gowan and my client, who are sequestered in a hallway, our students standing a respectful distance away. There is little time to waste on idle chatter — a sheriff’s officer is summoning us into court.

  “Ready, gentlemen?”

  “Showtime,” says Gowan.

  “Barnum and Bailey,” says Jonathan. “Bring on the clowns. I’m the high-wire act.”

  His manner is relaxed, but his demeanour grave. No glazed-over eyes, no essence of intoxicants. He seems in better mental health now that he is purged of his former deceit. I will do what I can for him. I may wear the horns for him, but he is my client, and knows some Latin poetry.

  Jonathan’s attention is suddenly elsewhere, and I turn to see Kimberley Martin, on the arm of her swain, hesitating at the courtroom door. She looks at Jonathan, then at me, then at Jonathan again. Suddenly, with a cocky toss of her head, she smiles, then turns away, and walks in. I cannot read this smile: confident, vain, a mask to hide her fear?

  In the courtroom, William Pickles is at roost upon on his dais, bawling out a sullen young revolutionary who apparently defaced a bank building with a spray-on slogan encouraging the eating of the rich.

  “Thirty days,” says Pickles. This stoop-shouldered, rheumy-eyed gentleman long ago rose to the level of his incompetence — he has been gracing the low-court bench for at least fifteen years, watching younger and brighter men and women pass him by.

  “Regina versus O’Donnell,” calls the clerk.

  I stroll to the counsel table, my client in tow. Pickles looks surprised to see me.

  “Mr. Beauchamp, you’re appearing in this case?”

  “Quite so, your honour. I shall be counsel for the accused today, assisted by Mr. Cleaver.”

  “Fresh blood. That should promise some entertainment. Always delighted to see you. Miss Blueman, are we ready?”

  “Yes, and I call Kimberley Martin to the stand.”

  I sit, and Jonathan joins me to my left, Gowan to my right. Kimberley walks to the witness box with seeming self-assurance, yet something tells me she is not as relaxed within as she appears in exterior.

  She responds to the standard opening questions about age and background with a voice that is measured but musical, reminding me of a precisely tuned cello. Well rehearsed? It is difficult to say. William Pickles, the judge-in-our-pocket, stares sternly at her over spectacles riding low on his nose, then busies himself with pen and bench book.

  A transcript will be available, so I am making only mental notes — it is more important now to observe the language of the body and the eyes.

  “You are about to move into your final year of law?” the prosecutor asks.

  “If I pass two exams next week. I’m being allowed to rewrite them.”

  “Last fall you were taking lectures in property law?”

  “Yes, I was.”

  “And who was your teacher?”

  “Professor O’Donnell.”

  “Do you see him in court?”

  Her eyes slowly turn to my client, and she studies him solemnly.

  “That is him.”

  “Identifying the accused.”

  Curiously, her look does not waver for several seconds. Nor does Jonathan’s in response — and I have a sense of some silent, angry conversation.

  In a subdued, unfaltering voice, the complainant relates, with little embroidery, her early dealings with O’Donnell, in the classroom, on the campus, in his office — sketching a series of scenes of avid though not discourteous male pursuit.

  I catch Jonathan at one point shaking his head. “But she brought her coffee to my table,” he whispers.

  I softly admonish him not to show reaction.

  As to the events of November twenty-seventh, her version varies little from that of her tapes, though she is more forthright about the amount of alcohol she consumed — doubtless Patricia Blueman has cautioned her to avoid straining her credibility on that issue. Clearly, Kimberley is a witness prepared to amend her lines. But most witnesses, even the fundamentally truthful, tend to repair and varnish their stories. One waits and watches for the big lies.

  “Did you at any point that evening consider that his intentions might be dishonourable?”

  Kimberley responds oddly, with a flicker of a smile, as if finding the question rather florid and Victorian.

  “Well, I had the sense he was coming on a bit strong, if that’s what you mean.”

  “But you were not in fear for your safety?”

  Gowan snorts and stirs, and whispers, “Bloody well leading, don’t you think?”

  “Very much so,” I respond. But I am comfortable in my chair; an effort to rise would be unduly taxing.

  “I wasn’t afraid of him. I trusted him”

  “And is that why you agreed to go along with the others to his house?”

  Gowan moans, “Arthur, are you going to allow this to continue?”

  “No harm is done.”

  “I felt perfectly secure. And he asked me to come, and one doesn’t say no … Um, what I mean is, he was my professor, the acting dean, actually, and I thought it would be polite….” For the first time, she is flustered, but she quickly recovers. “And I was cur
ious.” A smile, a shrug.

  “Left herself wide open,” says Gowan. “You don’t say no when the prof asks you to come.”

  I wish he would refrain from the running commentary while I try to concentrate. Jonathan, to his credit, remains still, though his limbs are stiff, and he stares at her over his glasses like an owl, wide-eyed and sombre.

  Patricia leads her witness into the taxi, into O’Donnell’s house, into his library. Cognac is poured. (“I had … I guess it was an ounce — with a little shot of Benedictine.”) Jolly political conversation takes place. (“Professor O’Donnell was being very … you know, crusty and curmudgeony.”) The zombie Chornicky wanders about. (“He pretty well had his fill.”) Kimberley browses through the library. (“I thought we could have a little fun with a Shaw play I was involved in.”)

  There follows a minor production of the last of G. B. S.’s great plays, with all but Chornicky taking roles.

  “Okay, and at some point during all of this you left the room”

  “Yes, well . . . actually, I went upstairs to the bathroom. Then — I don’t know what was in my mind, maybe I felt this ought to be a dress rehearsal — so I, well, I went into Professor O’Donnell’s closet and I put on one of his suits. It sounds silly now.”

  William Pickles’s eyes darken with confusion — and possibly with the distrust I suspect he feels for this woman.

  Kimberley attempts to help him out with a nervous eruditio about Shaw’s image of Saint Joan as a mannish dresser. She concludes, “Joan has this thing about male armour — and a suit . . . well, it’s sort of male armour, isn’t it?”

  I note the men in the room take this too seriously, but I smile, and Kimberley sends a quick and almost appreciative look my way.

  “What did you do with your dress?” Patricia asks.

  “I put it on the hanger where the suit had been. I mean, I had my bra on and underpants. But I found a white shirt of his, and — I guess I have to say I poked around — I found this absurd tie in a drawer.” She glances at the ceiling, as if seeking help from above, then makes a rueful face.

  Pickles is looking hard at me, perhaps wondering what I make of this. If I were to respond, I would say I’m not sure.

  “And I came down, and — I don’t think the others knew exactly what kind of statement I was making, and maybe I wasn’t sure myself — but Professor O’Donnell said something like, ‘Ah, the maid of Orleans in her male livery,’ and I knew he understood. He obviously knew the play. And I did a kind of funny, I hope, imitation of him giving one of his lectures, and we went back to the play — Professor O’Donnell was the inquisitor — and we were getting very dramatic. . . . I’m sorry, I’m just rambling here. Somebody help me out.”

  I am having difficulty not liking her. It will be painful when her words turn false. And I must assume they will, or I am in serious doubt about my role in this courtroom.

  “Okay,” says Patricia, “after you carried on in this manner for some time, what happened?”

  “Well, I don’t know. The drinks, the lateness of the hour, whatever, I just kind of went to sleep.”

  “Where?”

  “On a big easy chair. I remember I was making a speech from the play . . . and then, pow, I was gone. Just like that. It was really strange. I remember hearing voices, and . . . that was it.”

  “Had you felt dizzy?”

  “Not really”

  “Did you sense there might have been something put in your

  drink?”

  Gowan slaps his hand on the table in remonstrance, and looks pleadingly at me. “Are you going to let this go on?” he says.

  “You are fussing like a child, Gowan,” I whisper, quite sharply. “Stop it.”

  “No, I can’t say if I did. If he . . . well, never mind.”

  “And what’s the next thing you remember?”

  Kimberley Martin bites her lip. She closes her eyes as if to shut out memory, then reopens them and, after an intake of breath, says, “I was being physically attacked.”

  She is playing to an utterly silent house.

  “I know it may be hard,” says Patricia, but her question ends with that preface as the dam bursts for Kimberley Martin, and words start flowing, then rushing.

  “He was on top of me, and I was lying on my stomach, I was naked, completely naked on a bed, and my hands were tied together, and my ankles were tied to some brass bedposts, sort of spread-eagled

  . . . oh, God, am I going to get through this? And he —”

  “Just a minute —”

  “And he kind of raised my bottom up and I felt him inside —”

  “Inside what?”

  “Inside … this is awful, I feel like I’m on exhibition here, it feels absolutely obscene to be standing in front of everybody talking so stupidly about . . . about the mechanics of getting raped, it —”

  “Miss Martin,” Pickles admonishes, “just answer the questions”

  “I’m sorry, it just feels wrong. I’ve been over this and over this, and I know I’m supposed to say he put his penis in my vagina, and make it sound all dry and clinical, like something out of a high-school sex manual, but I was screaming, and no one could hear me. I was helpless. Have you any idea of the feeling? It was utterly degrading, and you don’t know and you’ll never know because you weren’t there”

  “She’s losing it,” Gowan whispers.

  “Absolutely not,” I respond. But I cannot decide whether these emotions are genuine or if this is a skilled performance of the illegitimate theatre.

  Pickles’s voice softens. “This is very stressful, I’m sure, Miss Martin, but it has to be done.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, I’m very tense.”

  “Okay, let’s calm down and regroup a little here,” says Patricia. “Now let us get this clear. When you awoke you were on a bed?”

  “Yes.”

  “In a bedroom.”

  “You know, I didn’t even notice what kind of room at first. It was dark, there was just some kind of night light on, or maybe from another room. But obviously it was a bedroom.”

  “And you were not on your back but in a prone position.”

  “Yes.”

  “Were your hands tied to any object?”

  “No, just my feet. My hands were tied together.”

  “With what?”

  “I believe it was a bathrobe cord. It was knotted around my wrists.”

  “And the bindings on your feet?”

  “I . . . I honestly can’t remember. I was in a frenzy. Some kind of cord or . . . actually, it felt silky.” “And what was happening?”

  “I felt him behind me, lifting me up by the hips with both hands. And I felt his penis enter my vagina, and he began thrusting. This is so absolutely . . . I’ll continue. As I said, I was screaming, and I was telling him to stop, and he wouldn’t stop, and then I felt him trying to penetrate my, um, my anus —”

  A gasp from somewhere in the gallery, the rustling of shifting bottoms.

  “And I screamed louder, and he didn’t say anything, just kept pushing at me, pushing and pushing, and I began twisting this way and that, he was hurting me, and . . . and he said something, I can’t remember, and suddenly he was gone, and I was frantic, and, I don’t know, I managed to free my hands, and then twisted around to release my ankles —”

  “Ms. Martin,” says Patricia. “Please. Slow down.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Are you all right? Would you like some water?”

  “Please.”

  As the water is fetched, I see that Jonathan has his eyes tightly closed. The expression on
the face ofJudge Pickles, as he regards the witness, has undergone a metamorphosis, a sagging, a softening. I have a sense he is no longer our steadfast ally.

  “Would you like a break, Miss Martin?” he asks, his tone solicitous.

  “I’d like to get this over and done, your honour.” Patricia Blueman shows a wetness of eye. Emotions here are riding uncomfortably high.

  “Now exactly who was it who was on top of you?”

  “Who? . . . Professor Jonathan O’Donnell.”

  “You saw him.”

  “I think so.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I guess when I twisted around, I . . . well, I wasn’t actually memorizing details for court or anything. It was him.” “

  The accused.”

  “Well, it wasn’t the Queen of Sheba.”

  The remark is too flip, and Judge Pickles stiffens.

  But Kimberley recovers from this faux pas, and says, “I’m sorry, that’s a terrible way to put it. I shouldn’t try to be funny. I’m just . . . very nervous.”

  “Was he wearing any clothes?”

  “Not that I could see. I mean, I was in . . . an hysterical state. I didn’t know what was happening at first, I didn’t even know where I was, or where I’d been, who I’d been with, I hardly even remembered my name. I was just being . . . well, I was being raped.”

  “Okay. Did he ejaculate?”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea. You’ll have to ask him.”

  “Well, Ms. Martin —”

  “I wasn’t . . . this is so awful. I wasn’t wet. Okay? But I felt, what? . . . Greasy. It was the lipstick all over me, I guess, I don’t know why he did that. I thought it was blood at first; I was terrified, I thought he’d . . . he . . . well, never mind.”

  “All right, did you consent in any way to the sex or to being tied

  up?”

  “Are you being serious?”

  “I’m asking you if you consented.”

  “Of course not.”