“How are you feeling, Miss Martin?”
“Right now? A little hungry. I missed breakfast.”
“Then enjoy your lunch. This afternoon we have work to do.”
She smiles. “I’ll be ready.”
I am impressed as much as troubled by her new-found confidence.
I change from my costume, then brave the day: the clouds are still answering nature’s call, gently voiding rain. The spell is over; I need not worry about returning to a withered garden, though the damp weather augurs poorly for the fair.
I proceed down Pender Street to Chinatown, then to Gastown, the city’s old section, its red-brick bottleneck. Some old instinct leads me into skid row, to a century-old square brick building on Cordova Street, where I observe a moment of silence. This was my storefront office during my drunken two-year hiatus from Tragger, Inglis, Bullingham. Separated then from Annabelle, I slept in the suite upstairs. The lowest point in my life.
How sorry I feel for my former self. How glad I am not he.
While court assembles, I am witness to yet one more unblinking duel between Jonathan in the dock and Kimberley Martin in the witness stand. What messages are being telegraphed here? There is a stubborn set to the accused’s face and Kimberley appears no less determined: haughty and imperious. This seeming struggle for dominance ends as court is called to order. Kimberley turns to gaze upon me, direct, defiant.
I open with a blunt and dangerous question, but I carry insurance on it. “Miss Martin, will you agree you were physically attracted to Professor O’Donnell?”
Obviously she is not expecting such a bold thrust, and she hedges: “When?”
“In the weeks and days prior to the dance.”
“Was I physically attracted to him?”
“Yes, that was my question.”
There occurs one of those empty silences that are often more telling than answers. The witness is in a bind: She knows she lied to the lie detector. She opts — boldly, though too late — to be candid. “Yes, I was.”
“Physically.”
“Yes. That doesn’t mean I wanted to jump in bed with him.”
“But you had reveries about that, didn’t you?”
“What I dream about is personal.” But the brightness that taints her cheeks is mute proof. The jurors and I follow her eyes as she looks for help to Patricia, who knows better than to jump in, to overprotect, to prolong this. But predictably, Kimberley’s self-appointed guardian rides to the rescue from the bench, six-shooters blazing.
“Surely her dreams aren’t relevant here, Mr. Beauchamp.”
I give in to my irritation with this judge, speak with a sharpness that gives Wally fair warning that my fuse is short. “With respect, m’lord, you are in error. Her dreams are at the very crux of this case.”
Wally remains silent for a while, then repents. “Well, I suppose. . . . Okay, let’s hear how this develops.”
“You had daydreams about Professor O’Donnell, did you not?”
“I hardly think I was the only one. Most of the women in the class thought he was interesting. There was lots of talk about him, some, you know, speculation. Single man with a brain, unusual background.”
“Son of a British viscount, Rhodes Scholar, widely published author and critic.”
“Yes, all of that.”
“Were these dreams of yours erotic?”
Again she reddens. “Yes. But I mean …” She sighs. “Yes. “A helpless shrug. “Dreams are dreams; life is different.”
She says that rather sadly. Life is different; life is Remy.
“Yet you were engaged to be married.”
“You make it sound … I was in love, Mr. Beauchamp. I am in love.”
She has lost some poise. She looks down at her hands, at the diamond on her finger, furtively glances at Jonathan, then me. Those shifting eyes speak to me not of love but of some smaller, second-rate passion.
“In the course of the months Professor O’Donnell was teaching you, he made no physical advances?”
“Not really”
“Not really or not at all?”
“I wasn’t aware of any.”
Why do I sense she might have been disappointed by that? “No improper suggestions?”
“No.”
“His conduct was gentlemanly throughout?”
“I don’t deny that. Until the end.”
This prompts a soft snigger from some coarse soul in the gallery.
“I think you once described him as a fantastic teacher.”
“He was very good.”
“And you felt he paid you extra attention, beyond the common lot of students — did you mind that?”
“No.”
“He helped you after classes with your work?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what a fantastic teacher might do.”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Yes. You were not a straight-A student.”
“No, I wasn’t exactly at the top of the class.”
“And the course he taught in property law was especially difficult.”
“I was having trouble with it.”
“So you were grateful for this extra attention.”
“Well, he wasn’t giving it to all the other students.”
“But he did to those who needed it, yes?”
“Maybe. Okay.”
We now have a gentle rhythm working here. No doubt Patricia Blueman — who has taken on a crabbed, anxious look — has instructed her not to joust with me, to be forthright. A chastened Wally is giving me free rein for the time being. The courtroom is as still as a graveyard.
“And, to be fair, you often approached him on your own after class.”
“A couple of times.”
“It worked both ways, yes? A student-tutor friendship developed, is that fair to say?”
“A sort of friendship.”
“It didn’t shock you that he would join you for coffee from time to time.”
“Not really.”
“In fact you were quite encouraging to him.”
“I don’t know if that’s how he read it.”
“But is that how you wrote it?”
Kimberley can still her tongue no longer. “Mr. Beauchamp, I know what’s in your mind, but I definitely wasn’t pursuing him. I clearly let him know I was engaged. I suppose we flirted, it’s something the opposite sexes do, but, you know, there’s a line you agree not to cross, and . . . well, that’s how it was.”
“Fair enough, you flirted with him.”
She sighs. “It wasn’t one-sided. There weren’t, you know, any expectations.”
But were there base motives? The jury may find it unworthy of me to suggest she sought to charm her way to a passing grade. Jurors are neither dull-witted nor forgiving to counsel who belabour the obvious.
“You told us about visiting his office for some career counselling?”
“That’s right.”
“How did that come about?”
“I’d told him I was interested in family law. He asked me to come up and see him. He talked of everything but my career: my general interests outside law; what I did in my spare time.”
“A professional adviser ought to know your interests outside law?”
“I thought he was being a little personal. Questions like was I going to have a family, and was I worried about conflict between marriage and career. As a Catholic, did I believe in birth control, that was another thing he asked.”
I wait until this non-responsive speech peters out. “Miss Martin, do they still teach the rules of cross-examination in law school?”
“Yes.”
“Please remember them. Kindly refrain from answering questions I haven’t asked.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wally leans towards her, smiling. “I’m afraid Mr. Beauchamp’s being a little persnickety about the rules, Ms. Martin. But just do your best. Would you like a break?
“No, I’m fine, thank y
ou.”
This dainty palaver allows me a moment to inspect my jury, and I earn some eye contact, a smile or two. I think the Commander has their respect.
“You told us Professor O’Donnell was on your list to be invited to the dance.”
“Yes. We had tickets to sell.”
“Who prepared that list?”
“The social committee.”
“And who was chairperson of that committee?”
She responds to my slightly mocking tone with a grin; she is recovering. “I was. But I also asked three other professors.”
“And you found a moment to be alone with him?”
“Yes.”
“And you asked him to save a dance for you?”
“There was nothing sinister about that. It was just friendly talk.”
“Did you ask the other three professors to save you a dance?”
“They were all women, Mr. Beauchamp.”
I turn to the jury, chuckling with them, accepting my lumps. Patricia grins broadly, too, but no one is enjoying this more than my former friend, the judge.
“Miss Martin, did you tell my client that you’d be coming to the dance unescorted?”
“I . . . well, not like that. I mentioned Remy was in South America.”
“He wasn’t due back until the night of the dance?”
“That’s right. A late flight.”
“How long had he been gone?”
“A week.”
“So you must have been pining for him.”
She searches my expression for a sardonic tilt of eyebrow, but finds it deadpan.
“Yes, I was missing him. I had lots of things to occupy me, though. The dance. My play.”
“Ah, yes. For several weeks you had been rehearsing for a student production of Saint Joan”
“Since September.”
“And you were immersed in this play, were you not?”
“Totally. I think I bit off too much.”
“You were leading lady.”
“Leading woman,” says Wally.
“Female lead,” says Kimberley.
Wally is noticeably taken aback, the corrector corrected. Kimberley flicks a little smile at me — conspiratorial, as if we are sharing a secret. I am finding her dangerously disarming.
“Did your fiancé ever complain that so little time was reserved for him?”
“Oh, no, he keeps himself very busy, too. I mean, we were engaged, but we had our own lives. We have our own lives. That’s important to us both.”
“And do you intend to continue in that independent spirit after marriage?”
“As far as I’m concerned.”
From this firmly stated response I once more sniff the sweaty scent of premarital discord — this strong-willed female lead has been arguing for her civil rights within marriage. No doubt her illiberal boyfriend has asserted a more doctrinaire philosophy.
Jonathan is looking contemplative, leaning back, his arms folded. He never lets his eyes stray from the witness.
“At times you live with your gentleman friend. At other times you stay in an apartment. Am I right?”
“It’s just . . . convenient.”
I find myself suddenly hard of hearing. “Excuse me — it’s what?”
“Sometimes it’s convenient to have your own place, that’s all.”
The utter vagueness of that word seems telling.
“Convenient in what way?”
“Sometimes . . . I have to be alone.”
I strike a contemplative pose and study my jury. Goodman’s brows are raised, in speculation or distrust. Is he seeking to share with me, man to man, his doubts as to her loyalty to her lover? But I can’t imagine she keeps a trysting place.
I spend several minutes probing her relationship with Remy, mainly to draw a reasonably unromantic sketch of a hard-nosed businessman — but also one who entertains his betrothed on his yacht and flies her first class to a rented villa in the Italian Alps.
Finally, Kimberley remonstrates: “I’m not in love with his money, Mr. Beauchamp. I’m in love with a fine, generous man.”
Would this response pass a polygraph test?
She repeats, emphatically, “I am not marrying him for his money.”
“I am sure you would not consciously do so.”
Patricia breaks her long silence. “This has nothing to do with anything.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, you’re wandering far afield,” Wally says. “We are interested in West Vancouver, not villas in Lake Como.”
“I am merely bringing out the many reasons she isn’t bored to tears by Mr. Brown.”
Patricia complains again, “That’s a very unfair and totally nasty innuendo, m’lord.”
“Mr. Beauchamp, you’re going over the line. I don’t want to have to warn you again. We’ll take our break now. Ms. Martin, I’m afraid that while you are under cross-examination, however long it lasts, you must not speak to anyone about this case. Anyone. That includes the prosecutors.”
“I understand that.”
“I’m sure you do. Ten minutes.”
“You’re on the right track, Arthur,” Augustina says. “She had the hots for him; Remy is a moneyed bore.”
“The point has been made?”
“Yeah, I’ve been watching the jury.”
“But the jury likes her?”
“They like her, Arthur, but they don’t buy her.”
Kimberley is across the courtroom, sipping water, watching us. She looks far too relaxed. Has Remy’s absence lessened the pressure on her? Are they enjoying a little time apart together? I catch her eye and she smiles. Despite all my nagging at her, I think she likes me. It is rather unsettling.
Then she looks at Jonathan, and the smile clicks off.
When court resumes, Kimberley seems a little more guarded, though still composed and alert. I snap my suspenders, take a sip of water, and wait for the room to become silent.
“Let us return to the dance, Miss Martin.”
“Sure.”
“In the days of my youth, it was common for a young lady to reserve the last dance for someone upon whom she might have set her heart.”
She laughs, and I have to smile.
“That did sound over-embroidered, but you have my point? Or have times changed?”
“Times have changed, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Ah, well, I’m a child of an earlier era. But tell me, did no one else ask to have that last dance with you?”
“Set of dances. They don’t have just a last dance any more, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“I amend the question — what is the answer?”
She hesitates. “Yes, I . . . Yes.”
“But you turned these suitors down.”
“Well, I didn’t want to dance any more. . . .” But that line of response does not quite work for her. She shrugs.
“You were waiting for Professor O’Donnell to ask you, weren’t you?”
“Not exactly.”
“Come, Miss Martin.”
“Well . . . okay. I wasn’t going to turn him away if he asked, let’s say that.”
“And as the two of you were dancing you mentioned there was a party afterwards, and you invited him to it. Am I correct?”
“I think I only inquired if he was going.”
“The chairperson of the social committee didn’t stay to help clean the tables after the dance?”
“I thought I’d come back the next morning.”
“Yes. You were enjoying yourself immensely.”
“I was having a good time.”
“And wanted it to continue.”
“I guess I did.”
“Remy would have to wait.”
“Well, Mr. Beauchamp, I guess Remy and I are just not old-fashioned enough for you. Relationships are different today. He’s a very modern person; we’re a modern couple, and I knew he’d understand. And I’d been working non-stop: classes, rehearsals, organizing this dance, and I just wanted to . . . let my hai
r down.”
“And you’d had a few drinks by now.”
“A few.”
“And a few more at this house in the West End.”
“A couple.”
“As Mr. Chornicky might phrase it, you were pretty zoned.”
“I think I was holding it.”
“And your flirting with Professor O’Donnell — did it continue at this party?”
“You make it sound . . . No, we both circulated.”
“But you got back in his car with him.”
“I was heading up to West Vancouver, too. I thought of continuing on in the taxi, but I decided, okay, I’d like to see his house, and . . .” Again, she shrugs.
“And Cinderella didn’t want the ball to end.”
“However you want to put it.”
“Thoroughly modern Remy would understand.”
“I believed he would.”
“Did you try to phone him?”
“Well, at the house party there was a line-up for the telephone.”
“No line-up for Professor O’Donnell’s phone, however.”
“By that time — it’s the small hours now Remy can’t sleep on airplanes, so I assumed he’d turned in.”
“As the hours passed, you suffered no niggling worries that your fiancé might be concerned about you?”
A long silence. “A little, maybe.”
I return her silence. She cannot hold my gaze, and bites her lip and looks up high at the ceiling. Wally is giving me more breathing room now; I feel I am getting along quite nicely. A quick perusal of the jurors; Augustina is right: they like the way she offers her wares, but they aren’t ready to buy. Even Miss Jackson-Blyth is looking uncomfortable. Goodman, the investment broker, has the set expression of one who knows the games such wily women play.
“At Professor O’Donnell’s house, you enjoyed a heaping glass of cognac and Benedictine.”
“I don’t think I ever finished it.”
“Followed by some of Mr. Chornicky’s excellent cocaine. You tooted … Is that the right word, ‘toot’?”
“I suppose so,” she says wearily. “Two lines of it, according to Miss Yi.”
“I thought it was one.”
“It helped you let more hair down?”
“A little more energy, that’s all I noticed.”
“You didn’t mention this cocaine in any of your early interviews?”
Trial of Passion Page 32