“That is a shocking—”
“Break it up!” Judge Donahue barks. She’s the referee pulling the NHL stars apart before blows get exchanged. “Mr. Khan, you may explore the issue of Mr. Griffin’s claim to have seen the light but you know better than to use the tools of cross-examination.”
“Very well. Mr. Griffin, let me rephrase more gently: given your decision to blow the whistle on Chemican, did you renounce a claim to severance pay?”
“I received legal advice about my rights in that regard, and my lawyer is proceeding with a claim.”
“Well, good luck with that. What do you expect to get, given your testimony today?”
“Hopefully enough to pay my lawyer.”
That gets laugher, which blunts Khan’s gains. “And she is here, Ms. Adelsen, the smiling young woman on the counsel seats behind the defence table. When did you hire her?”
“About six weeks ago.”
“And did anyone recommend her?”
Beauchamp stays seated, smiling, pretending the question doesn’t faze him.
“I spoke to Nancy Faulk in this courthouse. I told her I needed someone I could completely trust, a fighter.”
“So though you never conferred with Mr. Beauchamp, you did with Ms. Faulk.”
“I approached her because she knows who’s who in the Toronto criminal bar.”
“And you’re aware that Ms. Adelsen formerly worked as counsel in Ms. Faulk’s office.”
“She knew Greta was a smart, skilled counsel, and that was good enough for me.”
“Your miraculous awakening coincided with your loss of taste for cocaine. Or had you merely lost your connection?”
The quick shift seems to startle Howie. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Your source was in a coma. Poor Archie Gooch.”
Finally, an accusation rankles Griffin. “That is completely false. Only a fool would choose a misfit like that as his drug dealer.”
“It’s a theory that Mr. Beauchamp has been hammering away at for the last two weeks.”
Beauchamp is up. “So what? With respect, M’Lady, how long is my friend to be allowed to mock the rules and procedures of the criminal law?”
“Mr. Khan, I’m not giving you any more freebies. If I hear another challenge to this witness, or even a leading question, I will shut you down.”
For the next while Khan uses more finesse, but still manages to work Howie over, gets out he didn’t know Gooch was on a big oxy habit and didn’t think he could do much damage on a single overnight shift. Admits that was careless but insists the break-in would have happened even if the regular guy was there.
As to his actual source of coke, Howie checks with his lawyer and she gets the judge to affirm he’s still protected from self-incrimination so he admits his pure flake travels from Latin America with his checked luggage.
Khan studies the wall clock — it’s getting near the end of the day, he’ll want to end on a high note. “You told Mr. Beauchamp you were in love with Ms. Levitsky. Is that still true?”
Howie deliberates over this, as if it’s one of the great issues of our times. “I think . . . I’m not sure, but I think I’m in love with her more than ever. In the sense that I’m blown away by her, by what she has done.”
A murmur of oohs and aws.
“You told Mr. Beauchamp, ‘I would have done anything for her.’ Is that still true?”
Another thoughtful moment, a quick glance at her, then he nods, as if the answer has suddenly come. “Pretty well anything, because I know she wouldn’t ask me to lie for her.”
“But you’ve already done that, haven’t you?”
The judge, sharply: “Don’t answer that. The witness may stand down.”
Khan shrugs. “Very well. The Crown has completed its case.”
Griffin makes a sound like “Whew,” departs the stand, and joins Greta Adelsen, who rises and squeezes his hand. Levitsky stares at them, glassy-eyed, as they make for the exit.
Nancy Faulk gives notice she has a lengthy motion to make when they resume. Judge Donahue excuses the jury until two p.m. tomorrow.
Lucy Wales, in bladder agony, races from the room like a greyhound. Her comrades file out slowly, shepherded by their lawyers.
Khan’s long-boned student flutters about her boss, applauding him, and when the room clears she can’t hold back, and kisses him — a cheek shot, which Azra obviously doesn’t mind because he gives her a pat on the ass.
Maguire can’t quite decide if all this exhilaration is warranted. Azra Khan was going to take Griffin off at the neck. But at the end, no one carried him out on a stretcher.
Sushi tonight. At least once a week, it’s one of Sonia’s decrees. He shudders at the thought of sushi.
Chapter 23: Rivie
1
Wednesday, May 29
Despite a night to recover, it still feels like I’ve fallen down the rabbit hole (it’s still brillig). It hasn’t helped that I tied one on at the Cameron with Lucy and some Bee-lievers who kept buying rounds.
When I got home I tried to read my notes from court. They were barely decipherable. On one page, prompted by Howie proclaiming to the world his everlasting love for me, I lost control of my pen, there’s a scrawl zigzagging down the page.
The Bee-lievers were sure that Howie underwent an eco-religious transformation, and why not? I can see him having his catharsis, his cleaning-out of false assumptions — ironically inspired by his love for Becky McLean. I can see him reading Klein and McKibben and Monbiot, and doing a big rethink. And hadn’t Nancy Faulk told me in early March he’d be happy to see me get off? Have you ever considered the big goof may still be in love with you?
But Lucy, ever cynical, thinks he has a less principled motive: he’s suing Chemican for wrongful dismissal, wants to come to court with clean hands as a reformed fixer. He’s more in love with his own dick than you, sweetie. Did you catch the body language going on between him and his lawyer?
As if I could care. Though that was low, trying to make me jealous.
Anyway, here we are, back in court, a morning of legal wrangling to add an extra dose of throb to my headache. I notice the lawyers do less posturing when there’s no jury, though there’s still some chippiness going on between Beauchamp and Khan.
Nancy has launched into what they call a no-evidence motion. She wants all charges against Ivor and Amy dismissed, arguing there isn’t a scrap of evidence to go to the jury. Even if a conspiracy was hatched in the backroom of Ivor Antiques it doesn’t mean they were among the hatchers. There’s no proof they even knew the Ivor Antiques van was used overnight on September 10. Its keys always hung in the backroom.
Azra Khan argues there’s ample evidence against Ivor and Amy. Their prints were in the backroom and the van. The jury is entitled to infer they condoned the use of their premises and van for an illegal purpose. It would be laughable to suggest they didn’t know what was going on back there. There was no rental agreement, everyone had keys, all were friends of long standing.
Ultimately, Donahue dismisses Nancy’s motion because she’s “loath to usurp the jury’s function.”
That adds to my malaise. I just want to suffer alone at lunch break, so I hike aimlessly through Queen’s Park and the university and the Annex, kvetching to myself about this trial, our prospects, my future, or lack of it.
I can’t kid myself about Howie anymore. Lucy is right, he was not an honest witness. That had to be transparent to the jury. I told her about my thoughts, my doubts, my sense of guilt about the role I played in Brazil. Bullshit, Howie. In fact, over dinner you boasted about the role you’d played. Still . . . He did sound sincere about his feelings for me.
* * *
When we resume, Arthur rises to address the jury: “You have heard several Crown witnesses praise a powerful, nicotine-based insecticid
e called Vigor-Gro. Witnesses paid by an agrochemical giant that earns billions from it. You are now about to hear the other side of the story, from witnesses who are not being paid, who owe allegiance not to Chemican-International but to the truth.”
Thus begin Arthur’s opening remarks, a summary of testimony to come from Ariana Van Doorn and the several other wise women and men sitting in the front row, most of whom, he points out, have generously waived expert witness fees “so their words cannot appear tainted by monetary bias.”
These witnesses, he promises, will give effect to the “great, historic defence of necessity.”
Our microbiologist uses up most of the afternoon, with a detailing of the history and structure of neonicotinoids, ziegladoxin in particular, and their interaction with bees. An expert in parasitology as well, he explains the roles of the other foes, Nosema ceranae and Varroa destructor. I barely stay awake through this, thanks to the banging in my head.
The other witness is a shy, stout woman about sixty, a professional beekeeper from the Niagara area. Arthur leads her through her training, her background, her business, its struggles to stay afloat selling honey at local markets.
A fifty-acre cornfield nearby had been planted with neonic-treated seeds — Vigor-Gro, as she found out later. She speaks of the shock she felt last summer when walking among her hives. “Piles of bees in front of them, dead and dying, the dying ones just shaking and vibrating.”
I’m haunted by this insecticide holocaust, a ghastly death dance, bodies piling up. She lost more than a million honeybees. Her reaction: “I cried. It wasn’t just the financial loss. You become attached . . . it’s hard to explain.”
Her struggle prompts sniffles from the gallery. The press laps it up. Jurors look troubled. (“Appeal first to the heart,” Arthur told me, “then to their minds.”) He probably wants more from his beekeeper, but sits. (“It’s all about timing, never spoil the moment.”)
Khan pretends confusion. “Madam, do I understand you blame a neighbour’s cornfield for your loss of bees?”
“Not his field. Windblown neonic dust from when he was planting his seeds. We sent some of the dead bees to a lab.”
“Did you ask the lab if you had a varroa infestation?”
“They tested for neonicotinoids.”
“But not for parasites that commonly affect honeybee colonies?”
“No, sir.”
“And you still have forty hives?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you were insured for your loss? You were compensated?”
“Not really, we’re arguing.”
“Is that because the provincial bee inspector blamed you for poor maintenance of hives?”
“He did, but . . .”
“Thank you, that’s all I have.”
Donahue snaps at Khan. “Let the witness finish her answer.”
She does: “It was a difficult year, that’s all. We tried . . . We tried so hard.”
2
Thursday, May 30
I am back to being myself this morning, though I share the sadness that pervades room 6-1, hanging in the air like smog as Arthur leads Charlie Dover through the private hell he has endured for seventeen years. But no bitterness shows — he’s comfortable on the stand, polite and convincing, earning sighs of empathy from the Bee-lievers, sympathetic looks from the jury.
I get that Dover’s null sense of direction is heartbreaking, but if played by Chaplin it would be hilarious. His accounts include: spooking neighbours as he wanders into their yards, getting tangled in dog leashes on the street, his panic at the screeching of brakes and blowing of horns if, unattended, he steps off a curb.
But mostly, when in public, he was with his twin sister, Dr. Tammy Dover, who is here, front row, where Judge Donahue invited her to sit. They’d walked into court hand in hand.
Dover is put on pause while counsel debate the non-disclosure clause: whether the settlement amount can be disclosed publicly. Arthur gets in a barb about Chemican desperately wanting that clause “to give them cover for ripping off a teenaged college student.”
Donahue admonishes him for playing to the jury, then takes her own shot at a sound bite: “The Superior Court of Ontario cannot be fettered by a contractual term in a foreign civil agreement.” One out of five, M’Lady. Anyway, she orders the $200,000 settlement made public.
Arthur spends another fifteen minutes asking about how Dover copes, and gets out how he never gives up hope that someday he’ll recover.
Abbie Lee-Yeung dabs at tears. Four out of five for compassion.
* * *
Khan flips through Charlie Dover’s affidavit, frowning, as if finding his claims of dubious value. He looks at the clock — he has half an hour to take a run at him. “Despite your difficulties, you have held steady employment at the Joplin Hospital for eleven years.”
“In the admitting department, at a desk, yes.”
“Once you’re home, you can find your way about.”
“I have a system of railings installed in my suite.”
“And despite this odd disability, your health is good?”
“I’ve broken a few bones in falls. Otherwise pretty good. I wish I could exercise more.”
“You’ve testified to taking a dose of three millilitres of ziegladoxin as part of a test in September of 2003. Afterwards, you reported a dizzy spell?”
“Yes.”
“How long after you imbibed the solution?”
“Maybe half an hour. The doctor who examined me said not to worry about it.”
“You didn’t have second thoughts about taking a second test on December twenty-eight?”
“I thought they knew what they were doing. They were scientists.”
“During that second test you imbibed eight point five millilitres of ziegladoxin. You were examined the next day. Blood and urine tests showed no abnormalities, and it wasn’t until a day later you had more dizzy spells.”
“And I was disoriented.”
“But it didn’t come on for forty-eight hours after you consumed the potion, correct?”
“Give or take an hour or two.”
“Had you consumed alcohol between the test and the onset of these symptoms?”
“I joined a few other test volunteers for a few beers after we were examined. We were making jokes about how nobody turned green or grew extra limbs.”
The vision prompts nervous giggles behind me, makes me queasy.
“Did you take any drugs or narcotics during that time frame?”
“No.”
“Marijuana? Amphetamines? Mushrooms?”
Dover reflects. “Months later I tried drugs. Psilocybin, MDA. I tried everything.”
“After you developed these symptoms, you somehow got back home to Joplin?”
“Yes. They arranged a car for me.”
“And you went to your family doctor and he referred you to a neurologist. Despite their best efforts your condition got no better.”
“Correct.”
“So you retained counsel. Mr. W.W. Squirely.”
“He was recommended, yes.”
“A former judge, widely respected. Many decades of experience.”
“Yes, he told me—”
“Now I don’t want to hear what your attorney said, but he made a claim for compensation from Chemican-International and entered into talks with their lawyers. Right?”
“Yes.”
“And in the course of negotiations, you were examined by a host of medical experts. Your affidavit refers to three neurologists, an internist, an allergist, and, ah, what else . . . oh, yes, a psychiatrist.” A verbal wink, intended for the jury. “And as I understand it, none could point to ziegladoxin as a causative factor in your problem with getting about.”
“They were advertised to us as indepe
ndent specialists. But they were all hired by Chemican, paid by them.”
“Nonetheless, they were all distinguished professionals, academics. Their examinations of you were long and exhaustive. You were given dozens of tests, blood, CT scans, EEGs, neuroimaging, and they found no clear link between the Vigor-Gro you consumed—”
“Objection.” Arthur is up. “I have been patient, M’Lady, but I give up waiting for my friend to ask a question. This isn’t cross-examination, it’s a harangue.”
“You know better, Mr. Khan.”
That was not even a glancing blow from Her Ladyship. Khan just carries on. “None of the other one hundred and two who consumed the same amounts of ziegladoxin showed any ill effects. Does that not surprise you, Mr. Dover?”
“Not really. I was unlucky — I was susceptible, they weren’t.”
“Did you suffer any physical abnormality after these ziegladoxin tests?”
“Nothing disabling, sir.”
“No problem with your feet?”
He thinks about this. “I walk oddly, I can’t bend my toes.”
“Why? Never mind.” Khan awkwardly pulls back from that knee-jerk follow-up. “Happily, you haven’t suffered intellectually. Your mind seems very sharp indeed.”
“Thank you.”
I’m guessing Khan knows his efforts to discredit Dover are backfiring. So he suddenly becomes Dover’s best friend and advocate, applauding his strength, his survival tools, his cool, the contentment he finds in his books and music, in photography and art magazines.
“Well, then, good luck.” Khan sits, trying not to show he’s frazzled by having asked the one question too many.
Obviously, Arthur had set him up so he could take advantage of the neat little tool called re-examination. “Mr. Dover, please don’t leave us in the dark about why you can’t bend your toes.”
“It’s as if my toe bones have turned to jelly. They flop about.”
“Crookedly?”
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