Stung

by William Deverell

  She tends to ramble on, cynical, with a soupçon of self-pity. “The Levitskys have been hippily married for almost forty of their sixty years. Drop out, live sustainably, grow your own pot, is that the answer? I’m forty-five and I’ve struck out three times. Delete that — I walked three times. Backed out. Now I’ve got a reputation as anti-commitment, and only married guys will sleep with me.” She smiles, sensing Arthur’s unease. “Relax, you’re not my type. I go for the weak egos.”

  “Clearly you have left a trail of broken hearts made stuporous by your radiant charm and beauty.”

  She laughs. “You’re still a total fraud. What’s with the uncool red braces?”

  “A fetish. They can also be used as a weapon of distraction. Who will be our judge?”

  “God, ultimately. Not funny, sorry. They’re planning a special bail hearing in the old council chambers, and we’ll be before Chuck Tchobanian. Started off as a streetwise storefront lawyer, then got straight or got religion or some fucking thing, became a Crown, now on his third year on the provincial bench. Unpredictable, cynical, teeming with sellout guilt, no patience with bullshit.”

  “Do we want him doing bail?”

  “If he’s in a good mood. Otherwise he’s a pain. So keep it light.”

  “Crown Counsel?”

  “Magnus Curlbotham, anal, harmless, but he’s instructed to oppose bail all the way down the line.”

  “By whom?”

  “Deputy A.G. Azra Khan. Cunning, combative, conservative. Charming, though. And sexy.”

  “I know him only by reputation. He set some manner of record, did he not?”

  “Thirty-eight straight convictions. Half of them homicides. Ontario record.”

  “Lucky for us he’s now a bureaucrat. When do we get discovery?”

  “I’m trying to nail down Magnus for tomorrow, after we’re done with bail. The two chief investigating officers are available. Did you hear about their presumed blow job?”

  “Indeed.” He’d interviewed Lucy Wales in the women’s remand centre on Sunday. She claimed to have seen Gaylene Roberts’s face buried in Maguire’s crotch, pants open, belt undone. She’d captured him on her iPhone camera through the windshield as she pedalled away.

  Lucy had impressed him as a bawdy but forthright young woman, saying: “Tell the old bull I got nothing against blow jobs. In fact I’m all in favour. He wants to drop his pants and the charges I’ll give him one to remember for life.”

  2

  “T.J. Gully,” says the well-whiskered little man. “I manage Panic Disorder.”

  “And you seem to be managing it very well,” Arthur says. He got corralled by this odd, bushy-bearded fellow outside the old council chambers, while waiting for it to be put in order for the bail hearing.

  He had emerged from a throng of young champions of the accused. Arthur assumes the cotton mills were busy over the weekend churning out slogan-wear for their yellow T-shirts: “To Bee or Not to Bee,” “Bee-Dazzle,” “Chemican Kills,” “Save the Sarnia 7.” Several tops are decorated with black-and-yellow honeybee stripes.

  “Panic Disorder, my good fellow, is a musical ensemble that is standing on the very doorstep of stardom. Your client, Mr. Wozniak, is its resident genius, its heart, mind, and soul. I have just engaged them to open for the Frank Zappa Revival Band.”

  Arthur backs up a step, away from the sour alcohol breath. “We will do our best for Mr. Wozniak.”

  Gully closes the gap. “If they don’t let him back on the street, sir, it’s a disaster of catastrophic dimension. Cancelled dates. No tours, not even bar gigs for his four fellow musical artists, who will be thrown on the mercies of the welfare system. My own career as impresario would be severely damaged, though that is my least concern.”

  He carries on in this vein for some time. Arthur thanks him, tells him to stick around. Despite his florid manner of speech, T.J. Gully might have some use as a character witness.

  * * *

  The former council chambers, reformatted as a grand courtroom, are crowded and busy, almost Hogarthian with bustle: lawyers, clerks, court officers, dozens of reporters. In the public gallery, amid the hoi polloi of Toronto citizenry, sit the costumed young radicals.

  These hypothetical disrupters of order are being watched by flinty-eyed court officers, stationed at doors and about the room. The Crown Attorney, Magnus Curlbotham — middle-aged, thin, slicked hair — seems nervous, maybe because of all the bee venom being directed his way.

  Arthur turns to see Inspector Jake Maguire and Sergeant Gaylene Roberts take seats behind him. She waves, but he acknowledges Arthur with only a nod. Arthur returns a wink intended as a message: I know about you two. Proof of fellatio is only on Lucy’s say-so but upsetting enough that Jake may have been prompted to wipe the photo from her phone. Tampering with evidence has been known to cause mistrials. Arthur will bank that one, hoping to earn interest.

  The Sarnia Seven aren’t heavily guarded when fetched to court — a sign that security doesn’t see them posing much risk. As they assemble in the prisoners’ dock, they are greeted with claps and cheers. Arthur is piqued to see Rivie Levitsky waving back and Rockin’ Ray bowing theatrically to his fans. The clerk seems unsettled by such untoward behaviour, and her calls for order issue from a dry throat.

  Judge Tchobanian, however, shows unexpected patience, and waits for the noise to peter out before warning that courts are solemn institutions, not to be treated as cheap carnivals. Then he adds, “Anyone who acts up again will be booted out of here.” He’s enjoying himself, playing to the media.

  Arthur goes on record for his five clients and Nancy for her two. The judge gives Rivie Levitsky an especially long look — she’s attractive, an alleged seductress, already a counter-culture star. “Okay, looks like we have seven candidates for interim release. Mr. Curlbotham, I’d like an overview of the Crown’s case.”

  The Crown Attorney weeds through his notes. “Overview, yes, give me a moment, please, Your Honour.” Finally, he beckons Maguire, who leans over the barristers’ rail and hands him a summary. Curlbotham has not done his homework. Arthur dislikes lazy prosecutors; they make one dull, overconfident.

  The gist of the script is this: Chemican’s Security Chief was “compromised” by the accused Levitsky, who obtained access to its Sarnia plant’s security codes through false pretences, enabling her confederates to make secret entry and steal important documents and digitized information and cause the company multiple millions in losses. Their illegal acts led to a security guard’s near demise and he remains in a coma. The police caught three of them “red-handed with the fruits of their crime,” three others at their homes, and one while attempting to flee the country with a forged passport. Fingerprints, DNA matching, boot imprints, seized documents, and hard drives are all to be introduced as proof, along with “matters still being investigated.”

  He sits. Arthur rises. “My overview will be succinct, Your Honour. Whatever the Crown proves or fails to prove, we are not dealing with hardened criminals driven by avarice or any other wrong-headed motive.” He moves closer to the dock, where the prisoners are still on their feet. “These men and women with whom I stand are idealists who are guilty only of seeking to alert humankind to an environmental threat of global concern. But none are guilty of a criminal conspiracy, and I want to announce that loudly, clearly, and confidently.”

  Proclaimed with a snap of his suspenders. A morsel of bravado for the press, who serve the eyes and ears of the Toronto public, from whom a twelve-person jury may be chosen some months from now. Arthur’s little speech prompts muffled concurrence from the gallery, and one “Whoop.” But security officers can’t pick out the whooper from the sympathizers’ ranks, and Tchobanian seems willing to let this one go.

  “Ms. Faulk?” he says.

  Nancy doesn’t bother to rise. “I’ll be even more succinct. There is no evide
nce that either of my clients did anything wrong.”

  “Okay, let’s arraign them one by one. Mr. Curlbotham, who do you want to call first?”

  “Helmut Knutsen.”

  The judge invites the other six to sit, and they do. The clerk recites the charges against Knutsen without faltering: counts of conspiracy, breaking and entering, theft, and possession of stolen property. This will be a template for all accused, with minor variations.

  “My client will reserve his election and his not-guilty plea,” Arthur says with a nod to the press table. He’s undecided whether to elect a trial by jury or judge alone. A judge like Tchobanian, for instance, who seems quick and smart and doesn’t truckle to the Crown.

  But getting the accused out on bail is a vital first step. It makes everything safer and easier — conversations are strained in the barren interview rooms of prisons. When a client is remanded in custody there’s often too much rush to get the trial on.

  Curlbotham finds the police notes about Knutsen. They’re subtly designed to portray him as a kind of chronic obsessive, an academic renegade with a chip on his shoulder, citing his many “inflammatory” writings on neonics and other pesticides and his dismissal by UC San Diego. Since then, he “appears to have been hiding out.”

  “What’s that mean?” Tchobanian asks.

  Curlbotham glances again at his sheet. “No listed phone number or mailing address, just a box number. The Crown believes he is the inspirational leader for this attack on private property and that he also engineered Ms. Levitsky’s attempt to flee the jurisdiction with a false passport. So he too could be a flight risk.” He stops reading, takes flight on his own: “These are serious crimes involving vast financial and property damage. The Crown has met its onus. Bail should be denied.”

  Knutsen continues to present as calm, dignified, pleasant, interested, and he has managed to fight off his tendency toward a sardonic tilt of eyebrow. A well-spoken and engaging fellow, he had listened carefully to Arthur’s advice on the proprieties of the courtroom. Obviously brilliant as a scientist but maybe Curlbotham’s allusion to an obsessive tendency was not off the mark.

  Arthur rises. “My friend seems to feel that living a quiet, private, contemplative life is somehow suspicious, if not altogether sinful. Dr. Knutsen rents a studio room. He is working on a book to be published next year. Please give these to His Honour.” He passes a folder to the clerk. “There are more on their way but this is a selection of letters commenting on his character and repute, mostly from academics but also one from a United Church minister and another from his publisher.”

  Arthur’s manner is businesslike, get-it-done. This judge had seemed impatient with clever words and displeased when Arthur played to the media. “The Crown can offer no proof Dr. Knutsen was among the group that entered the Sarnia plant on the night of September eleven. Yes, he was present when allegedly stolen documents were being posted online, but who’s to say he wasn’t merely invited to witness that?”

  Curlbotham rises in an effort to respond, but Tchobanian waves him down. He has merely glanced at the letters. “Dr. Knutsen will be released on ten thousand dollars, one surety.”

  Arthur is deadpan but delighted: a token form of bail, requiring only a friend’s signature.

  Curlbotham seems to shrug it off. He can at least tell the Deputy A.G. he tried. “I call Joe Meekes.”

  Oklahoma Joe, as his mates know him, takes his turn standing while the several counts are recited. Arthur had not found him easy to talk to: shy, taciturn, a loner, a Bernie Sanders socialist, and the ultimate cyber wonk.

  Curlbotham turns to another page of his police notes: “Mr. Meekes is an American citizen who came to Canada some fourteen months ago under the new North American Refugee Act, and has not found gainful employment. We believe he has a degree in computer technology and specializes in breaking security codes. The Crown will be alleging he hacked and disarmed Chemican’s locks and alarm systems. He was caught in the act of uploading documents stolen from them and had to be physically restrained. There is no reason to believe he will remain in Canada for his trial. Crown strongly opposes bail.”

  Tchobanian nods approvingly — in this contest of brevity, Curlbotham is threatening to out-duel his opponent.

  Arthur replies: “Yes, Mr. Meekes is an expert in hacking, and in fact worked for the Google Corporation in Mountain View, California, for three years developing code that would detect and block criminal hacking activity. He makes a living as an international computer consultant, working online from his Toronto apartment. He has no criminal record. He pays his taxes, and supports his widowed mother in Tulsa, though he is committed to Canada. He loves this, his new, welcoming home.”

  Curlbotham sags a little. He makes no effort to reply. The judge lets Oklahoma Joe out on a ten-thousand surety but he must render up his passport and remain within the Greater Toronto Area.

  “Ivor Trebiloff and Amy Snider, I’m calling them together.” Curlbotham knows the gods do not favour him today, but he has his instructions and he plows on, describing this married couple as running an antique business as a cover for nefarious activities. Each has histories of radical protest and criminal records for contempt of court, trespassing, causing a disturbance, and resisting arrest.

  Ivor and Amy stand tall during this, holding hands: in their sixties, veteran lefties doubtless with prized collections of peace buttons. Those four convictions are dwarfed by the scores of times they’d gotten arrested but not charged at a myriad other protests, which they attend as some do whist nights or flower shows, almost compulsively.

  Nancy Faulk takes a turn. Her clients were solid senior citizens who’d owned their Toronto home for thirty years and their business for twenty. The resisting arrest charge occurred forty years ago in Biloxi, Mississippi, outside the church of a racist preacher who was inciting lynch mobs. That’s where Amy and Ivor met and fell in love. The other arrests occurred at a protest on behalf of the Sioux Nation of North Dakota, a Detroit rally against the invasion of Iraq, and an event outside the Turkish embassy in Ottawa. There was no evidence they entered into a conspiracy or did anything wrong in relation to Chemican-International.

  Arthur is proud of Nancy. The Turkish Embassy event was an artful touch, Tchobanian’s roots being Armenian.

  “They’ll be released on their personal bond,” the judge says. “Who’s next?”

  “Call Lucy Wales.”

  She looks slightly amused as the charges are read, maybe because she finally noticed the couple sitting nearby: Sergeant Roberts, reputed penilinguist, and her reputed felatee. Curlbotham makes a point of how this twenty-two-year-old student just got fired as a part-time pharmacy employee. As he carries on about how her apartment was festooned with anarchist posters and leaflets, Jake Maguire motions him to pause.

  They huddle for a second, then Curlbotham announces: “The Crown does not oppose the accused’s release on her own undertaking.”

  The gung-ho Deputy Attorney General will wonder what caused this cowardly surrender. Maguire’s motive doesn’t escape Arthur, though. Or Nancy, whom he catches grinning.

  Tchobanian simply shrugs. “I expect you’re fine with that, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “My learned friend has a kind heart. I trust he will be similarly generous to my remaining clients.” Rockin’ Ray and Rivie.

  But Curlbotham proclaims, “Those two cases cry out for pre-trial incarceration.” He has decided to put some effort into this. “The evidence against them is exceptionally strong. Both are flight risks. I call the case of Raymond Wozniak.”

  The lanky young musician stands wearily, scratches his stubble, tosses back his long blond tresses, takes a look back at his adoring fans, then smiles patronizingly down at Curlbotham, as if challenging him to do his worst.

  The case against Wozniak is in fact blacker than Arthur had hoped. Helmet, goggles, ear protectors, and the red
plastic gloves he’d abandoned in the bush near the plant all bore his DNA. Curlbotham is able to trumpet the unassailable proof that Ray was the wild-haired ghoul who smashed open the Vigor-Gro tanks with a crowbar, then pursued two guards in turn, screaming, “You are the archfiend, I am the avenger!” causing one of the guards to collapse and be put on life support.

  Judge Tchobanian has obviously followed media reports of the incident and of Archie Gooch’s plight. “This accused never touched him, though, right? You haven’t charged him with any kind of assault, so why is this relevant?”

  Curlbotham falls back on the potpourri of six drug charges Ray faces: various quantities of hash oil, opium, cocaine, LSD, and mescaline, not to mention “an unlawfully excessive amount of marijuana,” were found in his illegal flat. That alone, he says, should keep him sequestered. As well, he still faces an assault indictment in California and is now charged with assaulting a Canadian peace officer. This relates to an allegation that he urinated on a constable from the upstairs window of his squat while other officers were bursting into his room.

  His Honour appears to be struggling to suppress mirth. “He seems a menace to society, Mr. Beauchamp — are you sure you want him out?”

  Arthur maintains a straight face. As to the assault PC, he says Wozniak had no idea the officer was standing beneath a vision-obscuring maple tree. He is wanted in the U.S. for scuffling with a pro-Trump demonstrator, so he’s hardly likely to make a run for the border. He plays lead guitar in a popular local rock band, whose four other members will be forced onto the dole if he’s not freed. The band is committed to a coming event to raise funds for cerebral palsy. Their manager, Mr. Gully, is here and can attest to that.