Trial of Passion

by William Deverell

  The witness seems about to take offence at this, but surely he must know his footprints are all over the scene. Patricia is in motion, a swirl of black gown: “Objection!”

  “What’s the basis?” Wally asks.

  “It’s irrelevant, it’s prejudicial, it’s . . . Excuse me.”

  She marches quickly up to me and hotly whispers, “This is out of bounds. You gave an undertaking.”

  “Read the undertaking,” I whisper back. “It says nothing about my not raising this issue.”

  She realizes that is so. “I agreed not to call Dominique Lander as part of my case. You’re taking advantage of that.”

  “Yes, I am.”

  “It’s unfair.”

  “Tell it to the judge.”

  Exasperated, she returns to her table. “This is entirely irrelevant, what the witness did afterwards, whom he hired. Mr. Brown is not on trial.”

  “Perhaps he ought to be,” I say. “Counselling a false report of a crime.”

  Wally is severe. “That’s enough, Mr. Beauchamp, you’re taking too much liberty. I don’t want to be warning you again.”

  “Lapsus linguae, m’lord.” Formerly, I was naughty. Now, I am being warned of possible contempt proceedings. I sense Wally would love to uphold Patricia’s objection, if only out of revenge, to prove he is the boss. But he knows he risks facing the wrath of the much-dreaded Court of Appeal.

  Lamely, he says, “Let’s see where this goes.”

  “Do you remember the question?” I ask the witness.

  Brown has had some time to compose his thoughts, and knows better than to lie. “Did I hire a licensed investigator? Yes, I did. For the very reason I told you. The police weren’t doing much of a job.”

  “And you had him follow my client.”

  “I believe he did so.”

  “Everywhere. Home, office, strolls in the park.”

  “I can’t say where he went. You’ll have to ask the investigator.”

  “And you instructed him to find a witness you could use against the accused.”

  “Whatever he could find.”

  “And he finally came up with somebody called Dominique Lander?”

  The trail I follow is leading me directly across a frozen pond. How thin is the ice? Will I take Jonathan to the bottom with me? But instinct tells me the risk is well taken: There could be treasure on the far shore.

  “That was the name he gave me.”

  “And you instructed him to offer her some money to come here and testify, didn’t you?”

  Brown shifts, frowns, a witness in trouble, unsure whether I know or am guessing. “Just her expenses.”

  “How much?” This is the question the avaricious Dominique Lander refused to answer when asked by Augustina. It is one with which Brown is now grappling. He fears I may have proof.

  “Five thousand dollars.”

  “Plus hotels and meals?”

  A pause. “Yes.”

  “Did you consider that a bargain? Hard to buy a witness for less than that these days, isn’t it?” And I look Hedy Jackson-Blyth hard in the eyes. “I assume that’s more than you’re used to paying your strikebreakers.”

  Patricia is demanding retribution;Wally is warning me one more time. I flee the raging storm and take my chair. “No more questions,” I say.

  “We’ll take the mid-afternoon break,” says Wally grumpily.

  Augustina grins at me like a monkey. “And I was afraid you’d lost it. You are a son of a bitch.”

  “Thank you, my dear.”

  As the jury files out, they observe Brown tramp disgusted from the room.

  “That is a relationship doomed to hell,” says Jonathan. “Poor Kimberley.”

  I find it odd he feels such consideration for his nemesis. “Stay put, out of his sight.”

  As Augustina and I head off to the great outdoors for a smoke, we observe evidence of Jonathan’s dire prediction: Brown is in animated conference with Kimberley — who is beyond incensed, livid, in fact. She storms off.

  “What could that have been about?”

  “God knows,” says Augustina. “It looks like he’s deserting the ship.”

  Attended by an aide, Brown follows us out the courthouse door, shrugging into a coat for this cool and gloomy day. He marches down the steps, busy on his cellphone, marshalling his corporate empire, damage control in Guyana. He pauses at a waiting Cadillac, turns to us, shakes his head with an air of disgust, and departs.

  “Sensitive, understanding guy,” says Augustina. “And generous with the expenses. That’s why Patricia wasn’t too keen on calling Dominique.”

  On our return to the mezzanine, Patricia parts from a stillsimmering Kimberley Martin and beckons me to join her in a quiet corner.

  “Arthur, I’d like to recess for the rest of the day.”

  “Kimberley’s not ready? Ah, but she had a little spat with her gentleman friend.”

  “The silly, bloated bastard. He hadn’t told her about hiring Frank Sierra.”

  “And she fired him as stage prompter, did she?”

  “She’s furious at the deception.”

  “Are none of your other witnesses available? We have over an hour of this day to while away.” I feel sympathy for Kimberley — she is having a difficult time — but I cannot bear to see precious moments wasted.

  “Okay, I’ve had to excuse Dr. Hawthorne; he’s not well. A touch of flu. He’s on in years, so we’ll make do with his housekeeper. We can read in his evidence from the prelim, if you like.”

  “Please.” He spoke no ill of Jonathan. But I would rather have him here.

  “And Mrs. McIntosh is subpoenaed for tomorrow along with the pathologist, Dr. Sanchez, and Sergeant Chekoff. And we’ll have the serologist, if you need him.”

  As she explains this, Kimberley edges closer. For a moment she stands uncertainly just out of range of our voices, then barges in.

  “Mr. Beauchamp, we haven’t been introduced.” She offers her hand: a tight, tense grip. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you. Mostly from Patricia.”

  “Ah, but you can never trust what Patricia tells you.”

  Kimberley offers a game but strained smile. “Pat, I want to go on. Now. I don’t want to wait. I’m ready. I’m not ready, but I want to get what’s left of my life under way.” She turns to me. “He did it, Mr. Beauchamp. He’s guilty.”

  Patricia tries to warn her. “Kimberley —”

  But Kimberley won’t be hushed. “I’m sorry he did it. I’m almost as sorry as he is. If he could undo the past, I’m sure he would, but we all have to live with what we’ve done and who we are.”

  “Aptly put, Miss Martin. Past life is a script that cannot be altered.”

  From the periphery of my vision I see Jonathan watching us, curious.

  “Now, Pat. I’m okay. I can do it.”

  Is she playing the gallant trouper for my benefit? How difficult it is to read this young woman.

  “I call Kimberley Martin.”

  Kimberley walks gracefully up the aisle, her head high. On the stand she takes a deep breath, her chest filling out. She smiles at Wally — his eyes fixed on those swelling breasts — as she accepts his invitation to sit. Wally smiles back, showing teeth, flirting.

  As she responds to the opening questions, her voice assumes a firmness. She is led through her personal history: where and when born, parents, sibling, schooling, her plans to finish law school, and to wed. Her evidence as to her early dealings with Jonathan varies little from that at the preliminary, but is less emphatic, offers less punch. Often her responses are long and rambling, but just as often curt. Many glances Jonathan’s way: usually hostile, but sometimes curious. Occasionally she fails to follow a question, and it must be repeated for her. For all her determination, she is not the feisty young woman who testified at the preliminary inquiry.

  But this works for the jury; she has already engaged their sympathies. In fact, I suspect they find her far too likeable. Wall
y, of course, interjects often and gallantly, spreading his cloak to help the witness cross the puddles, coquetting boldly with this maiden in distress.

  Yet Kimberley’s evidence is so far none too compelling. Patricia would obviously like to portray Jonathan as a lusting beast circling his prey on campus lawn and in cafeteria, but the picture lacks resolution.

  “How often did you and he, ah, bump into each other?”

  “It seemed like two, three times a week.”

  “Did you feel he was stalking you?”

  I am on my feet. “That is about the most blatant leading question I have ever had the privilege to hear in a court of law.”

  But Wally is solicitous. “Try to put it another way, Ms. Blueman.” Why is he not rapping her knuckles for this? But he is miffed with me, and is taking out his revenge.

  “How would you describe the accused’s relationship with you?”

  “I thought he was giving me a lot of extra attention. In class and out. It didn’t bother me.”

  This line of questioning seems in danger of fizzing out, but Patricia is relentless. “Did you at any time inform Professor O’Donnell that you were engaged to be married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did that seem to discourage him?”

  Again I rise. “I object to this clearly loaded question.”

  “I think you’re being far too fussy, Mr. Beauchamp,” Wally says. “The witness may answer.”

  Kimberley is emboldened. “He kept coming on.”

  “You were chair of the social committee that organized the dance?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And did you invite any of the faculty?”

  “Yes. I personally sold Professor O’Donnell a ticket.”

  “Why?”

  “He was on my list.”

  “And his response?”

  “He said he’d be delighted.”

  “Around this time what were your feelings about him?”

  The witness takes some time answering. She bites her lip.

  “I liked him. He was a very good teacher, and that’s how I thought of him. Mostly”

  While that odd little adverb “mostly” hangs in the air, she locks eyes again with Jonathan: briefly, intensely. Patricia studies the wall clock.

  “Good time to break, Ms. Blueman?” Wally asks. “Almost four-thirty.”

  “M’lord,” I say, “can we not carry on until five? I’m sure Miss Martin would like to get a full day in.”

  “Are you comfortable with that, Ms. Martin?” purrs solicitous Wally. “Do you think you can cope? It’s up to you.”

  “Yes,” says Kimberley, “I’d like to get this . . . ordeal over with.”

  “I quite understand,” says Wally.

  Augustina leans to me. “I think I’m going to ralph up.”

  Patricia takes the witness to the Odd Fellows Hall in the Fairview area — Kimberley arrived early to help set up for the dance. She had “a beer or two” with her helpmates and, later when the affair got under way, a rye and 7Up.

  “And did the accused show up at this dance?”

  “Yes, I would say about nine-thirty. And he came over to where I was, and I asked him if he’d like to dance, and we did that.”

  This is a more muted version from that on her tapes, in which she said Jonathan made a beeline for her.

  “And then he bought me a drink. It seemed a little more powerful than the one I’d had before. It may have been a double. We talked for a while. He asked where Remy was. And I remember we talked about his background, about the British aristocracy — his father’s a nobleman of some kind, a viscount, I think. But he came to Canada when he was nine, educated mostly here, except for Oxford . . . well, anyway, that’s what we talked about.”

  She staggers to a halt. I suspect she has been coached not to run on like this, to keep her answers short and pertinent. A hint of a sardonic smile plays on the lips of forewoman Jackson-Blyth, who keeps staring at Jonathan — does she see him as some inflated right-wing aristocrat, boasting of his heritage in an effort to corrupt this trusting student?

  Kimberley restarts her engine. “I saw him make several visits to the bar, and then he came up to me and asked if he could have the last dance. I could see he was a little impaired. He took a misstep or two — but even in that condition he’s a pretty good dancer, and I told him that, and he said the same to me. He became very complimentary; he liked my dress, said I have taste, said I have a great sense of humour — he went on like that. And then he told me that the lecture theatre filled with a beautiful light every time I walked into it.” She reflects. “A brilliant light.”

  “This is as you were dancing?”

  “That’s right.”

  “What did you feel about all these compliments?”

  “Well, I was . . . complimented.”

  Unaccountably she denies Patricia the answer obviously sought: that Jonathan was coming on like a train without brakes.

  And with that, the clock strikes five, and Kimberley descends somewhat gracelessly from the witness box, nearly missing a step, her attention focused on Jonathan. She has glanced at him often, perhaps seeking applause from this theatre-goer for her latest sterling performance.

  During my cross-examination, will Wally continue to swaddle her in protective blankets? I fear if he does I may have no recourse but to engage in a little S and M and smartly spank this unctuous judge’s bottom.

  Jonathan approaches me, complaining, “Christ, the judge is crawling all over Kimberley.”

  “Wally has fallen hopelessly in lust. And the object of his attentions seems not to be herself.”

  “Whoever that is. Arthur, I’m inviting you and Augustina for dinner at the scene of the crime.”

  “A pleasure, but I may be poor company.” I will be restless — my addiction is starting to gnaw again. I desperately need a fix of Margaret Blake.

  At the bank of elevators I engage two of the jurors. “Ah, yes, just another average day in life’s weary round, Mrs. Nevers.”

  “I wouldn’t know about that. “The music ofJamaica in her voice. She is shy but smiling, this dimpled secretary.

  “How’s the season been, Mr. Lang? Bleak, I hear.” He is listed as a fisherman.

  “Yeah, it’s been bad. They only gave us two days on the sockeye.”

  I ponder telling him of my own skill with line and lure, but think the better of it: Fishing persons — fishers? — are not always fond of amateur depleters of resources.

  Back in my room, I call Margaret’s number. No answer. No messages from her on the hotel voice mail. She is clearly not prostrate with grief at my absence. A black thought: Is there someone else?

  I gaze out into the gloom of downtown Vancouver. Rain pelts my gargoyles. How fare the evil spirits that beset George Rimbold? He answers after a few rings, his voice unnaturally strained — this worries me.

  I tell him that my trial is whizzing along and I expect to see him on the weekend.

  “I don’t think I’ll make it to the fair.”

  “Nonsense.”

  “Too much merriment going on. It will only depress me. I just bought some real estate, Arthur. First piece of land I’ve ever owned.”

  “But that’s excellent. Where is it?”

  “Plot in the cemetery.”

  “I hope, George, this is your macabre sense of humour at work.”

  “Don’t worry, Arthur, it’s a long-term investment.”

  To cheer him up, I entertain with a few nuggets from the trial — with some success, I think, because he becomes more spirited in conversation. Finally I ask if he has recently chanced upon Margaret. He has not, but he asks how my weekend evening went with her.

  “I offered my heart. It wasn’t summarily rejected, but is being held for inspection.”

  “Sure and she will never return it. She shares your feelings, Arthur, but a lady doesn’t blurt them out. She demands to be wooed and pursued.”

  That, in turn, pumps up
my own spirits.

  My taxi takes me over Lions Gate and passes by a welter of malls and shops before finding the sanctuary ofJonathan’s quiet street, a comfortable neighbourhood of sturdy frame houses buried in the urban rain forest. I alight at 141 Palmer: neo-cubist architecture, three split-levels cascading down a gentle decline that ends at a small gully — dry now in September, though a running brook when Annabelle and I were Jonathan’s dinner guests a few winters ago.

  I proceed up a stone walkway to the door from which naked, painted Kimberley Martin fled on a cold November night last year. He’s going to kill me. A nasty dramatic touch or a hasty improvisation? It seems too bizarre that Jonathan would have uttered a death threat, yet unlikely she would make that claim unless her mind had gone careening out of balance.

  Augustina’s sporty Porsche is in the driveway behind Jonathan’s sedan, and it is she who greets me at the door, a glass of wine in one hand, a cigarette in the other, a smoky kiss plump on my lips. I have grown increasingly fond of this excellent person, but I fear for her foolish heart — I have noted it seems to flutter when Jonathan is near.

  In the kitchen, bending to a built-in oven, is the accused in an embroidered blue apron. How domestic he appears. Steaks sizzle on a Jenn-Air grill; vegetables are steaming in a colander. Jonathan has arrayed various herbs and seasonings on his workspace — like many bachelors, he seems an accomplished chef.

  “What a sordid scene of wanton lust this afternoon, Arthur,” he says. He mimics Wally: “‘Poor thing, do you think you can cope?’ I’ve met him at a couple of bar functions — he has a repertoire of bedroom jokes. Beneath the shiny new PC paint job lurks the same old lecher.”

  Despite the strain Jonathan must feel, he manages to maintain his cynical sense of humour. I have a sense he has recently resolved some kind of inner struggle, though I also pick up a worrying tone of defeatism. Can it be that he has lost hope, found the peace of surrender? I pray not. It is a contagion I dare not allow to infect my unsatisfied need to believe in his innocence.

  He pours me a Perrier and ushers us to his study. “Don’t offer to help. I’ll call you when it’s ready. I’ve already shown Augustina about; she can be your guide.”

  His library evidences a catholic taste in literature, along with much history and philosophy and, of course, law. A poetry corner: the complete works of Ovid and Virgil in the ancient language. A three-volume set of Shaw’s collected plays, plus a single edition of Saint Joan, a thin paperback, looking rumpled and misused, some pages bent. As I riffle through it, a large red smudge catches my eye: Scene Nine.