“We have. Dr. Muir said the blackbirds were edited from her final report. So was mention of a chemical spill in the creek flowing to the nesting ground.”
The judge: “Counsel, are you planning to ask a question somewhere along the way?”
“It’s hard to come up with one he’s willing to answer.” Nice.
Glowering. “Carry on, but make your point.”
“Thank you, M’Lady. Mr. Wakeling, the South Dakota study was released to the public in 2007. At that time you were Chemican’s director of public relations, were you not?”
“Yes, ma’am. Floor thirty-three of the Chemican Tower in Kansas City, Missouri.”
“And you advised removing all mention of the blackbirds from the report, right? Bad PR.”
“That’s technically true, but I suggested a separate paper focussing on that issue be drafted by a professional ornithologist.”
“And was that done?”
“I believe so.”
“And when was the ornithologist’s report published?”
Frowning, as if trying to remember, then capitulating: “I don’t think it was ever actually published.”
That’s just one of several graphic examples Nancy pulls from her arsenal of Chemican’s made-up facts and buried fuckups, mostly culled from intra-office emails. One of them, from a company executive, touts the “cost-saving benefits” of hiring academics to sign research papers ghostwritten by Chemican.
Wakeling denies that was a company practice, but he’s dehydrating under the onslaught, the court officer wearing out the carpet with trips to fill his water glass. Occasionally, the judge will show impatience, like with, “Counsel, is this relevant to anything?” or threats to put her on short leash — which maybe Donahue literally would like to do, given the occasional hints of kinkiness emanating from the bench.
Wakeling has to admit to a score of faulty tests, unsubstantiated claims, and examples of fraudulent math and statistics, but he heaps blame on the “aberrant behaviour” of certain staff scientists and technicians who were too eager to curry corporate favour by “bending” the truth. Seven of these miscreants had been told to seek employment elsewhere.
One of the string of emails had to do with the EPA’s demands for retesting of a new, milder “Home Gardener” version of Vigor-Gro in the U.S. The company had planned a big, corny launch for it last year, with TV ads featuring happy families that spray together.
Surprise, surprise: the EPA withdrew its retesting order after a Chemican-friendly Congressman — a Trump tub-thumper — worked some under-the-table magic in Washington with the acting administrator of the EPA.
Wakeling cannot be pinned down on this one. He was not involved. He was busy with new duties following his transfer to Toronto. Yes, he knew the Congressman, “a fighter for American farmers,” but was not consulted about corporate donations to his 2020 re-election campaign. In his former PR capacity, he also had friendly relations with the Trump-appointed EPA acting administrator, name of Blugenhoff.
“So when did the EPA green-light this product, Vigor-Gro for the Home Gardener?”
“Late last year, I believe. In December.”
“Just before Christmas?”
“Around then.”
“Though you’re no longer in public relations, head office still calls upon your expertise in that area from time to time?”
“I’m happy to offer input when asked.”
“And you’ve offered input in matters relating to the EPA?”
“Where there is public interest, yes.”
“So can you tell us how your company thanked the EPA’s acting administrator for his services?”
Wakeling bristles. “I find that question quite insulting, ma’am.”
The judge: “I suggest you be very careful, counsel.”
“Thank you, M’Lady.” She’s so courteous. “Are you telling me, Mr. Wakeling, that you’re not aware that Mr. Blugenhoff and his family spent the Christmas holidays in a palatial Cook Islands villa owned by a Chemican board member? All expenses paid, including first-class airfare?”
“I don’t know where you might have heard that or why you would think I know anything about it.”
“Because in an email of December fourteen, marked ‘confidential,’ you advised head office against flying the Blugenhoffs on a corporate jet.”
She passes him a printout, a copy going to Miss Pucket for the judge, another for the Crown, talking all the while: “Sender is the Vice-President of Operations. The subject reads, ‘Villa Shangri-La, Cook Islands, December 23, return January 7.’”
A pause to let the reporters catch up — they’re enjoying this. “Quote: ‘The Embraer is available both dates. Thoughts?’ End quote. Your response: ‘Potentially bad optics. Best to keep our prints off this.’ If you’d like, Mr. Wakeling, I can show you the Air New Zealand travel voucher for those dates, two adult Blugenhoffs and their three kids.”
Wakeling studies the email as he takes a long, slow drink, briefly raising his eyes to the rows of scribbling media. “This was several months ago, so . . . I’m assuming it must have slipped my mind.”
Nancy has him hanging on the ropes, but her strategy is silence, waiting for this maestro of public relations to show his stuff. He studies the note again.
Finally: “I can see how a goodwill gesture might be seen as a . . .”
“Payoff,” Nancy suggests.
“Well, as a thank-you. But not intended that way, merely offered as a means to, ah, maintain future relations.” Another peek at the press. “Of course we didn’t want the gesture misconstrued, so . . .”
Again he tails off, and again Nancy fills in for him: “So you didn’t want your corporate fingerprints all over your sweetheart deal. I get it. Bad optics. I have no more questions. Thank you.”
Wakeling goes limp with relief. I can see into his brain: he’s mapping out the shortest route to the nearest saloon. But he only gets three steps in that direction before being hauled back by Donahue. “Excuse me, Mr. Wakeling, it seems counsel has further need of you.”
She means Arthur Beauchamp, who is standing patiently, awaiting his turn. Wakeling will have to hang in a little longer before he can get drunk. It’s just after four o’clock as he drags himself back to the stand.
* * *
Arthur does his trademark affable bit, which you’d think would ease Wakeling’s tension but seems to make him even jumpier, maybe because he thinks Arthur’s setting a trap. Nancy may have triggered a paranoid disorder.
Arthur commends Wakeling for saying kind words about Howie Griffin, the “fine fellow” who’d put out foreign fires for Chemican and who was reluctantly let go. “It surprises me therefore that he wasn’t awarded any severance pay after nearly eighteen years of faithful service.”
“I’ve been instructed that issue is being discussed as we speak.”
“Are you involved in these discussions?”
“No, sir. They’re being handled by our house lawyers, at headquarters in Missouri.”
“And who’s acting for Mr. Griffin?”
“I don’t know. I heard he has a lawyer.”
“And what prompted this sudden act of corporate contrition?”
“I can’t answer that. It was a board decision.”
“Do you know what it sounds like to me, Mr. Wakeling? It sounds like Griffin threatened to blow the lid off Chemican’s corrupt practices unless he got paid off—”
“You don’t have to respond to Mr. Beauchamp’s rhetoric.” Judge Donahue has jumped in a little late — the rhetoric will make for juicy headlines. But why is she doing the prosecutor’s work? Maybe because she used to be one, and prefers a more belligerent style than Khan’s. He just sits there, thoughtful. As if he has other matters on his mind.
Arthur cools it, gets chummy with Wakeling, thanks him for
being so helpful, regrets that this has been such a long day for him. He wants to know more about Howie’s routines, his work ethic. Wakeling says he wasn’t in the habit of looking over Howie’s shoulder. Howie was a self-starter, reliable, no demerits on his sheet. Sarnia security was his show, from hirings to firings.
Wakeling was also proud of his company’s outreach program, and was aware Archie Gooch was accepted for it and had a “minor” criminal record.
“Despite that record, your usually reliable Mr. Griffin put him on night security duty.”
“It appears so. Just one night. We learned he mainly did equipment checks, deliveries, pickups, various things. Garbage, recycling.”
“You learned that from whom?”
“Well, we retained a firm of investigators shortly after the incident.”
“So out of the blue Gooch was given all the key codes to the plant and a highly sensitive night posting.”
“We found that troubling, of course, after the fact.”
“Mr. Griffin was not keen on installing security cameras in the plant. Did that concern you?”
“That has been a long-term budget item.”
“You’re aware from your private investigators that Griffin was a heavy user of cocaine?”
“Objection. Hearsay.” Azra Khan finally heard from.
There’s a tussle over this. Khan complains about “Mr. Beauchamp’s habit of ignoring the rules of admissibility.” Arthur urges the Crown to produce the report from Chemican’s detective agency to confirm Inspector Maguire’s surmise about “Mr. Griffin’s coke habit.” Judge Donahue seems either unaware or unconcerned that the jury is present through this, so the damage, if any, is already done.
“Where is Mr. Griffin anyway?” she asks.
“He is under subpoena,” Khan says testily, “and will be here when we are ready for him.”
“It seems most odd that we have not heard a word from a central witness whose name pops up almost monotonously.” The jury also has to be wondering. Me too. I worry about Howie being a suicide risk.
Khan mouths something muted. Donahue says, sharply, “Please proceed, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Mr. Wakeling, may I put it simply — you are aware that Mr. Griffin, while employed by Chemican, was using cocaine.”
“I actually found that out after he was terminated.”
“And your investigators checked into whether Archie Gooch, in the course of his various deliveries and pickups, supplied cocaine to Mr. Griffin?”
“I don’t think they concluded that. It was speculated.”
Khan half-rises, then subsides, as if finding it an unbearable effort to restrain Arthur’s misbehaviour.
It’s almost four thirty. Arthur obviously hopes the jury will be fixated all long weekend (Monday is Victoria Day) on his weird (to me) diversionary tactic of incriminating poor Howie. Won’t this ultimately be an exploding cigar? When I take the stand I’m not going to say Howie set this whole thing up and we were somehow entrapped. I’m not going to lie.
Donahue reminds Wakeling that he may not talk about the case during the three-day weekend, then sends him off. Miss Pucket is eager to call order in court, but the judge waves her back down.
“Mr. Khan, has the Attorney General had a chance to consider the manslaughter count?”
Smiles are shared among counsel and veteran court watchers. Obviously, Azra Khan, as Deputy A.G., calls such shots himself. He plays along. “Yes, M’Lady, the Attorney General prefers that we focus on the main issue, the conspiracy. I am directed to enter a stay of proceedings on the count of manslaughter.”
We, the Seven Sarnians minus Doc, go off to our favourite public house to celebrate. One down, only thirty-eight charges to go.
5
After court, as Lucy and I hoof it west on Queen, I get a paranormal message: we’re being followed. Sure enough, when I look back there’s the follower, about a minute behind us: Abbie Lee-Yeung. Okay, coincidence, we’re just a couples of blocks from the courthouse.
According to the jury list she lives nowhere near Queen West, but in the leafy enclave of Wychwood, probably with her parents, who have to be moneyed to live there.
Weird that she’s going our direction. Is she on her way to meet the learned counsel for the Crown? Not likely, because the Sheraton is behind us. Lucy buzzes the hotel anyway, and asks if A. Khan is still registered. He is. The mystery deepens.
Lucy suggests we check out the latest spring styles of the bourgeoisie, and we stop at a shop window, commune awhile with the mannequins. As Abbie passes by there’s a round of smiles and hellos. She half-pauses, as if there’s more that needs to be said, then carries on at a quickened pace.
We dawdle behind her until she turns up Spadina toward Chinatown. Where we’re heading is the Cameron, a dive favoured by proletarian artists and poets, to join our gang for an unwind over bar food and beer.
Lucy’s in a mood to celebrate, obviously. Rockin’ Ray’s vindication was documented by the microphones, cameras, and notepads of the world. A bunch of Bee-lievers had to form a phalanx to break him from the scrum and get him safely into a cab.
Ray is no longer a free agent, he has signed back on with Lucy. They even have a place to shack up, T.J. Gully’s snug in Cabbagetown, an illegal suite where he also keeps his office. The impresario-agent–human drugstore has been sent to a farm in Quebec for a month’s rehab.
Predictably, Spooky Sooky is going for the gold. Last seen, outside the courts, she got picked up in a gullwing Tesla. Four out of five for me, who made that happen.
* * *
We’ve taken over a table in the Cameron’s dark and smelly far reaches. Lucy is horsing around, awarding Ray with a knighthood — “I dub thee Lord Wozniak, the Count of Manslaughter.”
Joining the applause is Nancy, who has popped in for a quick one en route to pick up our ringleader for yet another romantic dinner (they’ve been outed, but no one’s taking bets it will last).
Just as she’s about to split, Lucy and I draw her aside and eagerly share our circumstantial case against Azra Khan: his lunchtime tryst in the Sheraton, conceivably with Abbie Lee-Yeung.
Nancy laughs until she’s hoarse and wiping tears. Finally, she recovers enough to explain: Khan has installed his seventy-eight-year-old mom in the Sheraton so she doesn’t have to come in from the suburbs for radiation treatments.
“That’s actually not funny, given his mother’s condition. But you are.”
Nancy leaves, and Lucy and I slink off soon after, feeling like two creepy, gossipy little schoolgirls.
6
Saturday, May 18
Dear Diary, a.k.a. Semi-Autobiographical Mystery,
It’s half past ten on a lazy Saturday and I’ve just had a confessional chat with Arthur over coffee and scrambled eggs — though God knows I have more than enough egg on my face already from Nancy’s revelation. I feel all the worse when Arthur confirms that Azra Khan’s mom is terminally ill.
At least he doesn’t chide me, though he asks me to keep my counsel about the matter. I shall so advise Lucy Wales, fellow snoopaholic.
I keep kicking myself: my God, I’m not sixteen, I’m twenty-four, an age at which I should have some idea of who I am and where I’m going. Aside from the clink, that is. It doesn’t help that I have no idea how long I’ll be in stir.
I’m probably not going to make a living as a diarist, or a novelist, or an author of anything except my own misfortunes, but I’m still toying with the idea of becoming a brilliant trial lawyer. The effective word is toying, since a criminal record may bar me from the bar.
Still, I can dream. Crack prosecutor Rivke Levitsky takes on the corporate crooks. Could I put up with the stuffy proprieties of the law, the medieval traditions, the flagrant hypocrisy? I don’t know but I enjoy digging into Chemican’s files, looking for crime and corruption.
&
nbsp; Anyhow, Dear Diary, that’s how I plan to spend most of this Saturday afternoon, ferreting through the enemy’s files in the boardroom of Faulk, Quan, Dubois, with Ariana Van Doorn as my mentor.
Enough. I back up, shut down, hide the external in my underwear drawer, head down the trippy staircase.
* * *
We’re looking for studies done on humans, Ariana and I. She’s intrigued by the peculiar disorders endured by the singing watchman, Barney Wilson: his temporarily swollen feet, his crooked toes, his navigation problems.
Vigor-Gro was tested on rodents, with no apparent ill effects, though Ariana thinks something about Chemican’s data doesn’t add up. Research in Saskatchewan showed that white-crowned sparrows fed neonic-treated seeds became disoriented and lost so much weight they were on life support.
Several of Chemican’s researchers went a brave step further, volunteering to ingest teaspoon-sized hits of Vigor-Gro. All came out of that unscathed, except for one case of the shits that was traced to an overripe crab salad.
Ariana and her team found hints — scraps of information buried in subfolders in a backup hard drive — that a much broader study was done with paid human volunteers. An internal email mentioned testing procedures “on individuals M 1-59 and F 1-44” that involved a range of dosages in millilitres. Another made reference to a return date “for a final physical.” But no results showed up, no conclusions.
Dr. Van Doorn believes those findings have been erased. Nancy plans to confront Chemican’s chief scientist over that. He’s up next, on Monday.
We have two computers running, accessing Okie Joe’s uploads to the internet. Ariana also brought in a wagonload of printouts, copied from booty from the Sarnia lab, categorized and labelled, and she’s going through them one more time, looking for the overlooked, occasionally cross-checking on her computer.
I burrow through a smaller pile of printouts, from the files I photographed after Howie succumbed to Lucy’s Mix. (Uploaded to the Cloud, accessed by Okie Joe’s seventeen-digit password.) Business stuff. Staff memos. Security alerts. Reports to his bosses in Kansas City from overseas or Latin America. Oblique references to “expressing gratitude” or “reaching an understanding,” had to be codes for bribery.
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