“That would depend on an individual’s level of susceptibility, but hallucinatory disorders are common even at lesser degrees of impairment.”
Jurors’ eyeballs swivel toward Rockin’ Ray Wozniak. He looks right back at them, then at the ceiling as if to say, “Man, was I high.” Abbie Lee-Yeung, the U of T student, sends me a secret, sharing smile that gives me hope. I’m awarding Arthur five out of five for this cross-examination.
Judge Donahue is twitching like a bunny with a carrot as she excuses this witness. She makes a frowny face at Khan and asks: “Just how seriously is the Crown taking the count of manslaughter?”
Even this law-and-order judge smells something gamy about it. Khan looks aggrieved. “Does Your Ladyship want this issue debated in front of the jury?”
Arthur sits, he’s going to let them duke it out.
“I can’t see that it matters, Mr. Khan, unless I have somehow fallen asleep and missed evidence that points to Mr. Wozniak being the author of Mr. Gooch’s death. Or is there more to come?”
Khan turns to Inspector Roberts, gets a blank, so he announces he’ll consider the issue and consult with the Attorney General. I assume that’s a formality and he has just folded like a cheap suit. That’s confirmed by the body language of Arthur Beauchamp, calm and cool, like a veteran ace strolling off the mound after striking out the side. (The Jays’ home opener is this weekend. I don’t imagine Howie renewed his season tickets.)
* * *
Clarkson Wakeling is Chemican’s executive vice-president for Canada, though he’s a Yank, an implant from their head office in Kansas City, their former PR director. Big chest, bigger gut, vanity tan, baldish, has an MBA, also several public service awards, as if that somehow makes him a credible witness.
I’m not sure what Wakeling adds to the Crown’s case except to exaggerate his company’s losses. His answers often sound rehearsed, as when he hides behind corporate jargon. Boiled down, his complaint is that we defendants cost Chemican a hundred million dollars. And counting, because the plant still hasn’t reopened.
He actually has kind words for Howie Griffin, a “fine fellow” who’d done “stellar” work for Chemican in Canada and internationally, particularly in Latin America, “handling various intrigues, defending the company’s good name, and soothing commercial relationships.” Yeah, Howie, like buying off a judge in Brazil. “Under the awkward circumstances of this case there was no option but to terminate him.”
Khan asks him to specify those awkward circumstances.
“We were apprised he’d been deceived and victimized by a very clever young woman who stole vital company records.”
From Juror Ten, back row, I get a look of reproach. Mabel Sims, sixty, an auditor for the provincial taxation branch, emits a prim, churchy vibe. She’s on the jury because the defence had to hoard its last challenges. I felt Juror Eleven, Joyce Evans, was also a risky choice, a little too haute bourgeois, but our lawyers seem okay with her, and she’s composed and attentive.
When Khan sits, Nancy pops up, finally taking a central role.
“Mr. Wakeling, the balance sheets of Chemican-International show you are down to just over seven hundred million U.S. dollars net profit from one point three billion three years ago.”
“We regard that as a short-term effect of a period of readjustment related to a shrinkage in specified international markets.”
“Let’s see if I can translate that into common English. International sales of your pesticides are plunging.”
“No, ma’am, not at all. Many of our products continue to enjoy robust sales in all markets, worldwide. We are encountering product-specific softness in the European Union, however. That’s compelled by factors over which we have no control.”
“In other words, after the EU banned neonicotinoids several years ago, that market collapsed for your signature product, Vigor-Gro. You don’t dispute that?”
“I would put it less emphatically, but yes, most European agricultural markets have been closed to Vigor-Gro, along with neonicotinoid-based products from other major suppliers. That restraint is currently being contested in the courts on behalf of vast numbers of growers who are seeing their crops devastated by increasingly harmful insect invasions, but—”
“Let’s see if we can avoid propaganda that isn’t remotely evidence-based—”
“Let him complete his answer, counsel.” Donahue’s tone is sharp, she’s probably looking for a fight with her bête noir.
Wakeling: “I merely wanted to add that we are turning our focus elsewhere.”
Nancy was in a groove and now is riled. “To the third world, right? Africa. Latin America. Where dictators and legislators get fat off corporate bribes.”
Khan is up. “The Crown strongly objects.”
Nancy pretends to ignore him. “Just last year, in Brazil, you guys paid off three congressmen and a judge—”
Khan is calling her shameful, Donahue is talking over him about how Nancy is out of order, and Nancy is interjecting that Wakeling shouldn’t be coddled. It’s great theatre, Nancy nailing this fucker, letting loose after being such a back seat to Arthur for the whole week. Four and a half points out of five.
Things finally settle down after a lecture from the bench and an ill-intended apology from Nancy, who calmly digs out a document. “Mr. Wakeling, according to your auditors, your Canadian division is projected to go into the red in the current year.”
“That should surprise no one, ma’am, given that our major asset, the plant in Sarnia, is still in shutdown six months after its pillaging last September.”
Judge Donahue reacts with a little grin, an unspoken touché. Point for the witness.
Nancy hands the witness a copy of the auditors’ report. “Look at the signature page, please. What’s the date on it?”
Brow furrowed, he examines it. “Yes, it appears the report came out on June twenty-six. Sorry, yes, I erred.”
“Six weeks before September eleven. Maybe the auditors made their gloomy projection after being tipped off the plant was a target, do you think that’s possible?” Nancy is off the scoreboard, six out of five.
“Don’t answer that question,” Donahue says, surly.
Nancy has a certified copy marked as an exhibit, then leafs through it. “What you call a major asset, the Sarnia processing factory and lab, barely turned a profit the last two years and was predicted to lose money this year and for years to come.”
“The plant is, let us say, somewhat antiquated, and we had plans for some major upgrading and remodelling.”
“Mr. Wakeling, can you point to a single document that confirms those plans were adopted?”
“I’m sure there are records of discussions about the matter.”
“As in this confidential email to you from last July.” A copy to Wakeling, another to the student, who huddles with her boss over it, Nancy talking all the while: “Third paragraph, first line. ‘We’d be better off if it burned down. Big insurance payout.’”
A torrent of prosecutorial complaint. Expressions like “booby-trapped” and “outrageously blatant hearsay.” The jury gets the heave-ho and there’s this truly complex debate about (a) is the email admissible given it was stolen from Chemican’s computers, (b) is it hearsay from the company’s CEO, or (c) did Wakeling, in forwarding it to other company officers, including Howell J. Griffin, render it not subject to the rule against hearsay.
In the end, Judge Donahue rules that Nancy is entitled to the time-honoured tools of cross-examination. Suddenly Her Ladyship is being more balanced, probably a reaction to intimations in the press that she has been sucking on the Crown’s cock (I paraphrase). The jury troops back in.
Predictably, Wakeling characterizes the CEO’s comment about insurance as a joke but Nancy is ready for that with, “It may be the kind of joke that puts ideas in people’s heads.” I’m into thi
s, I can hardly feel my sore butt.
Nancy gets Wakeling to admit the email was sent only nine days after the auditors’ pessimistic report. Then she gets him to read aloud one of the outlined options: mothballing the plant and transferring the laboratory functions to Chemican’s new testing centre in Hyderabad.
“Was that also a joke, Mr. Wakeling?”
“Of course not.” Wakeling glances at the wall clock, urging it toward lunch break. “It was one of many untested ideas thrown out. I personally urged the case for modernizing the plant. No resolution to the issue was reached before the September tenth vandalizing.”
“Vandalizing. You don’t care to call it a terrorist act?”
“We are not comfortable with that characterization.”
“But your insurers are. They’re resisting your claim for a hundred million dollars because acts of terrorism void the policy.”
“I leave those matters to our legal people. Their advice is subject to attorney-client privilege.”
“Mr. Wakeling, I hope I’m not the only person in this room who hears that as grossly evasive. Come on. Great West Assurance has denied your claim. Google it, you’ll find it.”
“Again, I cannot comment on sensitive negotiations involving counsel.”
“Nor should you have to,” says the judge, sharply.
Nancy gives her a look of mock repentance: “I bow to Your Ladyship’s expertise in the field of insurance law.” Back to Wakeling: “If Great West is relying on that terrorism loophole, it seems to me you’d want these accused acquitted.”
Khan rises, but Donahue waves him down. “That doesn’t merit a response, Mr. Wakeling.”
Nancy plows doggedly ahead: “The insurance adjusters are probably wondering where this hundred-million-dollar number came from. Or why you haven’t reopened the plant. Why is that?”
“That would be better asked of our engineers.”
“But I’m asking you, their boss. Why can’t you get the Sarnia plant running? Isn’t it just a matter of mopping up, doing some welding, and mixing up another big batch of Vigor-Gro?”
“I’m afraid it’s not so simple, ma’am. Our engineers are currently working with our production and finance teams on a cost-benefit analysis to assess the plant’s long-term profitability expectations.”
“Mr. Wakeling, if the Sarnia plant is such a money-loser aren’t you better off leaving it shuttered?”
He hesitates. “That’s a consideration that depends on the sustainability of our markets.”
“Yeah, and frankly, you’re losing those markets because people around the world are waking up to Vigor-Gro’s carnage of bee populations.”
“Ma’am, I suggest a far more significant factor is the worldwide campaign by organized factions, well represented in this courtroom, to defame our company and its products.”
“Your company defames itself, Mr. Wakeling.” Four points.
“It’s twelve thirty,” says the judge. “Mr. Wakeling, because you are under cross-examination you may not discuss this case with anyone during the break.”
3
My comrades and I enjoy a mild euphoria as we line up for the exit. May 17 has been a good day, or half a day, and especially good for Rockin’ Ray. Nancy Faulk, who plays the bad cop to Arthur’s good cop, has boosted our hopes with her evisceration of a corporate toady.
Lucy and I are finally escorted out by a mob of Bee-lievers, which is what we’ve begun to call our regulars. Ray, who is dawdling behind, would prefer to celebrate with us rather than deal with possessive Sooky-Sue — and there she is, shooting the breeze with Richard the Second. She abruptly sends him off with a flutter of fingers and waits for Ray.
I tell Lucy to hang tight, and I get right in Sooky’s face, which stays serene and lovely even close up. She doesn’t step back, doesn’t blink, just gives me her cool guru eyes.
“I’m Rivie, we haven’t met.”
“Lucy’s friend. It is my pleasure.” So formal. The Korean princess.
“That guy you were talking to — do you know who he is?”
“Lucy’s other friend. A seller of mutual funds. He tried to interest me in a Registered Retirement Savings Account. I gave him my card and told him he needed therapy. He’s not comfortable in himself.”
“He’s shy. He’s also a bachelor and he’s very, very rich. Richard Dewilliger-James the Second. His father handles eighty-three billion dollars’ worth of investments. You should get to know him better. Just think, if it works out you could stop hustling for alms at your little sham church.”
“Fuck you.”
I part from her, join Lucy, and we get in line for the escalator. Rockin’ Ray has got himself surrounded by a posse of hot wannabe groupies and is signing autographs. Sooky-Sue looks at Richard, standing forlornly by himself, then at Ray, then back at Richard, and we lose our view as the escalator carries us down.
* * *
Lucy and I escape out the revolving back door into the busy plaza that curls around City Hall, our plan being to go for a quick health hike, then cancel its benefits by grabbing something grilled in grease by one of the street vendors.
But there’s Azra Khan, making his way south across the square, unaccompanied, in a seeming hurry, like he’s got big plans, and so naturally, because we are compulsive snoops, we follow him, at a safe distance.
Lucy says, “Maybe we can track him to his secret love nest and you can score some carnal kompromat off him — he’s been eye-fucking you all week.”
“Juror Twelve gets more looks than me.” Abbie Lee-Yeung, our nineteen-year-old best hope on the jury. I like the way she continues to slip me little smiles.
Lucy goes, “Isn’t he married or something? He seems awfully needy, genitally speaking.”
“I feel his pain.”
“Okay, he’s crossing Queen, and . . . he’s going into the Sheraton Centre.” Big convention hotel. We hurry so as not to lose him in there.
The hotel is full of people with plastic name tags and perma-smiles and booths displaying the latest in home design concepts. We catch sight of Khan as he pauses to watch a humanoid robot serve crackers and cheese bites. He hurries on, through the lobby, en route, we suspect, to join an important friend for lunch.
An assignation? No, he wouldn’t do that publicly.
Instead, he goes straight to the bank of elevators and joins a handful of conventioneers going up. We witness this literally from behind a potted palm.
We return to the lobby, speculating. A nooner with his secretary? With his storky student? With the gorgeous designer who redid his upstairs study? His best friend’s wife? Should we linger, to see if he comes down alone?
Lucy finds a house phone, confirms that an A. Khan is registered, but can’t wheedle out his room number. Registering under his own name, that shows either balls or recklessness. Or maybe his wife knows he has affairs and has given up caring.
We decide to skip out quickly to take lunch at one of the wagons, giving him time to get his rocks off before we return to our potted palm. As we approach the front door, we see a young, attractive face peering wide-eyed through the glass. Lucy goes, “Oh, my God.”
As we step outside, Abbie Lee-Yeung seems about to take flight but holds her ground, digging her phone from her handbag, pretending she hasn’t seen us.
It seems silly to play her game, to ignore her, so I say, “Hello,” and Lucy says, “Hi, you.” Abbie does a little nervous jump as she looks up from her phone, recovers, smiles, says, “Oh, hello,” and we pass on by.
We wait forever for the walk light, too stunned or embarrassed to turn around to peek at her until we reach the square and find a bench. And by then she has disappeared. Obviously into the Sheraton Centre, because there’s no sign of her on Queen Street.
I am the first to break the silence. “She wants to see the home decor displays. She�
�s looking for ideas to brighten her dorm.”
“She’s getting it on with the prosecutor.”
“No, it’s ridiculous, it’s beyond the bounds of human possibility.”
“He hypnotized her with those dark, haunting eyes.” Lucy playing devil’s advocate.
“He’d have to have supernormal powers to work that fast.”
“She slipped a note to him somehow. With her number.”
“She’s a juror. He’d be triple cray-crazy. He’d be disbarred.”
“But only we know. We could blackmail him. Subtly. With hints. Suspended sentences would be nice.”
I’m suddenly overcome with a laughing jag, prompted by the absurdity of it all. Lucy can’t keep her face straight either, cracks up.
4
Clarkson Wakeling returns to the stand looking sullen and tense after steeling himself for further enhanced interrogation techniques. Nancy begins by going after Chemican over their dubious research on Vigor-Gro in lab and field.
Wakeling’s strategy is to employ the ever popular arts of stonewalling and buck passing. He’s not an agronomist, not a chemist, not an entomologist, not a scientist. He is a businessman.
But Nancy perseveres, pointing to goofs and deceit in various research studies, getting them on the record. These studies date from 2001 to 2006, when Vigor-Gro was finally approved by the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency. Nancy’s team of scientists, mostly volunteering professors, had found hundreds of nuggets when mining the files we filched.
Nancy focuses on a few prime examples, including a multi-year study in South Dakota: “From 2001 to 2005, varying potency levels of Vigor-Gro were applied to a two-hundred-acre plot of canola. Not included in the final report, but mentioned in a memo marked ‘Do not distribute’ is a seventy percent decline in the population of red-winged blackbirds in a marshy nesting ground bordering the test acreage. That was in the second year of the study. By the last year, all the blackbirds were gone.”
“Again, you would have to talk to the expert who led that study.”
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