I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel

by William Deverell

  Astonished whispers and murmurs in the gallery. Orr was nonplussed for the moment. “Order,” he called. Court security officers were on the move.

  “It’s one law for the educated so-called Caucasian, another for the rest of us dumb, unsophisticated, thieving Indians.” Gabriel’s voice carried to the far wall, the room going silent for him. “What law punishes the thief who steals our land and language? Where is that law written in your books of justice?”

  As a trio of burly constables dragged him off, he continued to declaim. Ours was a legal system that “thrives on bigotry and is structured to maintain class interests.” This actually encouraged a smattering of applause, a hurrah from someone at the back. The rest went unheard, except dimly from behind the lockup door. Orr was crimson-faced. The only lawyer in the room who hadn’t gone rigid was Smitty, who gave me a pitying smile.

  Orr: “Call the next case.”

  “Hugo Schlott, assault causing bodily harm.”

  As Pappas exchanged places with me, he whispered, “You better get that fucking loudmouth under control, pal.”

  I waited until Schlott got four years, one for each of the teeth he’d knocked out, then headed past his wailing mother on my way up to the cells. Yes, I was less than pleased with my short-fused client, yet struggling against an impermissible pride in him for saying the unsayable truth.

  I met Gabriel in a dark locked room, a guard glaring at us though metal-wire glass. Gabriel looked fiercely at me. “Okay, I lost it.”

  “I hope it’s out of your system, but I bet it felt good.”

  “It felt right.”

  I wasn’t aware I was smiling until I saw him staring oddly at me. “The look on Oscar Orr’s face …” I couldn’t help myself, and let go. Gabriel joined in. It felt good and it felt right to share that moment with him. Laughter is such a catalyst for friendship, and we were easing ourselves in that direction.

  “You letting me off the hook, Arthur? I was sure you were going to fire me as your client.”

  “Just promise it won’t happen at your trial.”

  “It won’t.” He shrugged, put on a serious face. “They found another way to screw me.”

  “Please explain.”

  “They put a rat in my cell.”

  From “Where the Squamish River Flows,” A Thirst for Justice, © W. Chance

  THE REPERCUSSIONS FROM SWIFT’S OUTBURST were unexpected and contentious, for on the following day Attorney General Robert Bonner signed a rare direct indictment, sending the case to jury trial without a preliminary hearing. It was widely known that Smythe-Baldwin had not been consulted and there’d been a flap over that. But the press already had the story; there was no backing down.

  In his column in the Sun, Jack Scott wrote acerbically: “It seems Mr. Bonner jumped to the impetuous conclusion that the defendant planned to use the preliminary as a pulpit for expressing incendiary views that are not in accord with Social Credit philosophy. Apparently the smattering of applause in court spooked the Cabinet into thinking the revolution was at hand.”

  The direct indictment had the effect of accelerating the onset of the trial, which had been expected to take place in late fall. So now the prosecution had to scramble to ensure that defence lawyers had reasonable access to Chief Joseph and his family. Otherwise Beauchamp would have a telling ground for appeal.

  In those days the press was allowed to report on a preliminary, and Beauchamp had hoped to use it not just to prepare his defence but to alert all of Vancouver there was something rotten going on in the Squamish RCMP. The pool of citizens from which a jury would be selected would already have a taste of the defence and come armed with skepticism about police assertions. But Beauchamp was persuaded there were also advantages to foregoing a preliminary …

  THURSDAY, MAY 10, 1962

  Grab it and run with it,” Alex Pappas instructed me, confusingly. “Do not stop at Go. Go directly to trial.” He had called me into his office to give me his counsel about the advantages of bypassing a prelim. “It’s just a free dry run for the Crown, Stretch. Gives them a chance to correct their fuckups, rehearse their witnesses. You ever noticed on a second go-round how witnesses always sound more credible? Especially the cops.”

  That wasn’t quite my experience, but he had more of it. At least Gabriel would be cheered by the prospect of an earlier date.

  Smitty, when he’d called that day, had been as close to apoplectic as was possible for the old smoothie. I gathered he’d almost resigned his retainer. This rancour against the Attorney General seemed a blessing from the Fates, those mischievous sprites, because I suspected – he implied as much – that he was no longer interested in putting that much oomph into the case. “Do not, Sir Arthur, expect any rabid pursuit of your client. Justice is all I aspire to. A fair trial and a friendly glass or two at the end.”

  “Another big advantage,” Pappas continued, “is you’ll get extra leeway because you’ll be constantly on your feet, complaining they robbed you of the right to a prelim and you need absolute full disclosure, extra time with the witnesses. Your judge will have to pamper you, give you free rein. Smitty ain’t gonna be ready – he’ll be too busy plugging all the holes. I don’t even think he’s got a junior yet to do all the dog work.”

  Pappas didn’t know the particulars of the case beyond what was in the papers, but he was a pretty good tactician, and he made sense. But I had to tell him that Smitty had just been assigned an assistant counsel: Leroy Lukey, from the Crown counsel office.

  “That dumb fuck? You’re in even better shape. I think he took too many hits to the head in his football days.”

  Lukey had been a college all-star, even had a couple of tryouts with the Edmonton Eskimos. I’d been lined up against him several times, found him abrasive, lacking a firm handle on ethics. Smitty had charged him with getting us face time with Monique Joseph and her parents, Benjamin and Anna. Ophelia, with her finely tuned social skills, would do the interviews.

  Smitty had dropped a hint he’d like to set the trial for the week already put aside for the prelim. His fall calendar was filled to “catastrophic proportions.” We agreed he’d have to use all his wiles to persuade the Chief Justice to order a special summer assize.

  I thanked Pappas for his insights and wisdom and headed off to Oakie to compare notes with Gabriel about the rat in his cell.

  One could never predict the moods of Gabriel Swift. He seemed uncommonly relaxed as he was ushered into the interview room, and shook my hand with some enthusiasm. I brought him up to speed and asked him how he felt about a July 30 start to his trial.

  “Thanks for asking. I’m okay with whatever you advise.” That was a new and helpful tone.

  “I’ve checked out your cellmate.” A longshoreman, Burt Snyder, who sold an undercover cop an ounce of uncut heroin from a freighter out of Hong Kong. “I can’t find a record, so he’s a first-timer, but he’s still looking at five and up.” I told Gabriel he was right to be suspicious of him; it was a hallowed Crown tactic to offer deals to prospective snitches – a minimum sentence, even probation, witness protection.

  “He’s so obvious it’s pathetic. A union guy, a brother, a fucking comrade. Claims he’s part Native. Give me a break.”

  Gabriel knew to keep his own counsel but I warned him anyway. His vocabulary in that cell should be limited to grunts and grumbles. He assured me he was ignoring Snyder in favour of books, currently working through Frantz Fanon’s The Wretched of the Earth, in French, aided by a dictionnaire Larousse. (During later visits, as I recall, he even conversed with me in that liquid tongue, with growing ease.)

  We spent another hour together and didn’t speak about the case. We argued about Fanon – the anti-colonialist psychiatrist had died only a few months earlier – and his alleged calls to violence. I, who had read the reviews but not the book, got badly mauled. I had to award Gabriel the day; for our next debate, I would pick the topic.

  FRIDAY, MAY 25, 1962

  I arrived
out of breath at the riverbank. Below me a naked corpse floated down the blood-red Lethe, river of forgetfulness and oblivion. I suddenly realized I too was naked, I was next, I felt the pull of the river, I wanted to jump into the river and drown …

  I awoke sluggishly from this dark dream, variations of which had been proliferating. Each time I would be hurrying to the river, I needed to be there. Sometimes Gabriel was there, sometimes Mulligan, sometimes his bloodied body. Soundtrack by Huddie Leadbelly.

  I have always been prone to vivid dreams and, unlike more balanced people, have a hard time shaking them off. A common nightmare involved a trapdoor swinging open, the snap of a neck. Such dreams would often awake me. I was sleeping poorly, and sensed I had gotten too close to my client. Bad practice, not done. One ought to keep a safe and proper distance.

  In the nearly three weeks since his outburst in court, we’d met half a dozen times, debating the books he’d challenged me to read: Fanon’s Black Skin, White Masks, Durkheim, Sartre, all in French, all about collective behaviour, rebellion, revolution. Not Marxist dogma, though – he correctly sensed that would be pushing too hard.

  I listened to the eight a.m. news as I dressed and coffeed up. Scott Carpenter had just orbited Earth three times, a feat that made me dizzy. It was confirmed that Arthur Ellis, Canada’s pseudonymous hangman, was under contract for two executions scheduled for December. In local news, the Gabriel Swift murder trial had been set for one week beginning Monday, July 30, at the Vancouver courthouse.

  As I stepped from the cage at the unlucky missing thirteenth floor, Pappas was behind the desk of the receptionist, looking at her appointment book while also looking down her dress. Mister Hands caught sight of me, stubbed out a cigarette, and led me to a private corner.

  “I don’t know what you been up to, cowboy, but the fat man is in an uproar.” Senior partner Tom Inglis. “He sent me to fetch you, so you better come clean with me – we only got a minute.”

  I released my elbow from his grip. “I have no idea what you’re talking about, Alex.”

  “Well, I don’t neither, but I guess we’re going to find out.”

  He escorted me like an arrested felon into Inglis’s roomy, gloomy office. Bullingham was there too. Neither rose. Pappas stood nervously by the door, ready to bolt, fearful of Inglis’s temper.

  “How’s the Swift case shaping up?” This, from Inglis, was less a question than a bark. He was slouched behind his desk, hands clasped over the farthest reaches of his abdomen. Important political connections, a Diefenbaker crony and bagman.

  “I think I’m on top of it.”

  Inglis scowled. “Nasty little outburst in court a few weeks ago. Unscripted, we assume.”

  “I am not in the habit of encouraging clients to denounce the legal system.”

  “Bit of a Bolshevik, is he, this Swift?”

  “He holds some strong views.”

  “I suppose the two of you, ah, engage in political conversations?”

  “What’s this about, sir?”

  “Let’s say we’re concerned about whether you two share beliefs that might not only compromise your defence but cause embarrassment to this office.”

  “I don’t know whether to find that insulting, Mr. Inglis, or merely confusing.”

  A flush rose from neck to jowls and he seemed about to erupt. Bully intervened. “I’m sure that wasn’t meant as an accusation, Arthur. We have some concerns, that’s all.”

  Inglis struggled to rein himself in, adjusted his bifocals, peered at some records on his desk. “You hold a PC membership. Friends tell me you followed John into the party in 1958. Good, if that be true. But sometimes people slip through and play the double agent. One has to be careful. These are dangerous times.”

  Pappas was seated by this time, trying to make himself small. He’d recommended me as Gabriel’s defender – he too might be seen as a tool of the Kremlin.

  “You may relax, Mr. Inglis. I have not infiltrated the firm, nor do I seek to overthrow it.”

  Bully seemed to be stifling a smile; I sensed he admired me for showing spine. Inglis fingered his watch chain, trying to look affronted but, I suspected, sensing the imbecility of his mission. “Let us get to the point. You know a Mr. Jim Brady?”

  “I was in the campaign office of the Communist Party several weeks ago. I spent an interesting hour with Mr. Brady, after which I was followed by an underskilled undercover officer. Who then reported to his seniors, who obviously have confided in you. Notes of my session with Brady have been transcribed in triplicate in the Gabriel Swift file, should you care to see them.”

  Inglis harrumphed, looked for support from Bully, then Pappas. “One should be careful whom one meets. You were observed packing Chinese food in there to feed their campaign workers. Something was overheard about your running in Vancouver Centre.”

  “That was said in jest, for God’s sake,” I erupted. “This is absurd. Mr. Brady is a central figure in this case who can be of help to a man facing the death penalty. I am bound by ethics to represent Gabriel Swift to the best of my ability and without fear of being red-smeared by the senior members of this firm.”

  Inglis looked pretty red himself by then. “I detect impertinence, Mr. Beauchamp.” He again looked about for help, didn’t get any. Another harrumph. “I want that file put on my desk s.a.p.” He slowly heaved himself up to show us out. At the door he said, “Young man, I fully expect to see you at our reception for the Prime Minister next week.”

  The firm had booked the Hotel Vancouver penthouse, with appetizers and a free bar for a selected list of the wealthy and worthy, to kick off a rally that night at the Forum. “I intend to be there and to wish Mr. Diefenbaker well,” I said. I had campaigned for the Chief in 1958, and I still admired him despite his reliance on friends like Inglis.

  Pappas hustled me out, down to my office, shutting the door. “Let’s see that file.”

  “On my desk.”

  He began shuffling through it, talking the while. “You just blew any chance you had of rising in this firm, pal. I was grooming you for associate, but lipping off to the fat man that way, you screwed yourself in the ass.”

  I tried to imagine the contortions required by such an act. “You can kowtow to the bosses all you want, Alex, but I’ve had it with being treated like a schoolboy around here.” Where was this newfound spunk coming from? Gabriel. Jim Brady. Fear of consequences merely perpetuates the system.

  Pappas ignored that; he was groaning over the police reports. “Jesus H. Christ. Matching cartridges. This sucks.”

  I shuffled through several new files, referrals from satisfied clients. The world hadn’t stopped because I was defending a capital murder. I was juggling half a dozen new clients, paying ones, including that day’s trial – an eighteen-year-old jewel thief, Nick Faloon – another up-and-comer. I didn’t need Tragger, Inglis; I could do quite well on my own.

  “For crying out loud, your guy is spotted on the way to the kill? And then a false alibi?” He lit a cigarette, took a deep drag. “Okay, what we obviously got here is a couple of closet fags who spent their idle hours shagging each other in the woods. Maybe Swift got tired of being on the bottom, or being the professor’s plaything. There was a confrontation and Gabriel whacked him. Maybe you better start thinking of cutting a deal.”

  “There’s not a Crown witness who isn’t a liar. No one’s fished out a body. They can’t discount suicide. I can beat it.”

  “You want to get back on the good side of the fat man, maybe you don’t want to beat it. Cop a plea to non-capital – a lovers’ quarrel, an impetuous act, not planned. Put a little effort into Smitty, he’ll go with that. I’ll talk to him if you like; I got his respect. Count it a victory – life behind bars, maybe even parole after a few decades. But if he wants to martyr himself, fuck him, no one’s going to remember a lippy redskin buck who got his neck stretched at the New West pen.”

  “I’ll handle it my way.”

  With an exasp
erated grunt, Pappas picked up the file and headed back to Inglis’s office.

  I bought a bottle of tequila on the way home, looking forward to celebrating something, even if it was just the day’s easy win. No one actually saw young Faloon snaffle the diamond ring from the jewellery store counter, so I never had to put the skinny booster on the stand. The arresting officer took it in stride, shook Faloon’s hand. “Catch you later, Nick.”

  As I pulled into my backyard parking spot, Ira was sitting on the outer staircase looking weary, trying to relight the butt of a cigarette while being harassed by Craznik.

  “For last time, pay rent owing or I take execution.”

  Ira yawned. “So shoot me.”

  “What do you owe?” I asked, joining them. “Maybe we can busk for it.”

  Craznik scowled at me. “Seventy bucks including late penalty. Canadian dollars. Not Russian rubles.”

  “Russian what?”

  “Hah. Why do police ask am I harbouring communists? You a communist? In my country we shoot communists. No communists here, no Indians, no deadbeats who don’t pay rent.” He stomped off.

  “I’m out of this stalag,” Ira said, groaning. “I’ve got a cot at the Beanery … shit” – remembering the Beanery was going broke, its lease up in five days – “I’ll stay at the Nowhere Hotel if I have to. The YMHA. The Sally Ann. Shit.”

  I washed out a couple of cups with the garden hose and poured from the Don Julio Reserva. “To your health.”

  Ira knocked his back, poured another. “There’s no future in coffee bars.” A sigh. “I’m an impresario. I got no other talents.”

  I could hear the phone ringing in my room. “Finish your drink,” I said, “then I’ll drive you to work.”

  Despite a presentiment that my mother was calling, I failed to take evasive action. It might have been Ophelia, eager for amends. Or a reporter with news that Dermot Mulligan had been pulled over at the Blaine border crossing, in a car with Rita Schumacher.