Stung

by William Deverell

  “Yes.”

  And the judge and the jury and anyone who’s been paying attention to this trial will remember directionless Barney Wilson, ex–security guard. Some of my toes went crooked.

  * * *

  Cuddling a nearly new laptop — I just got it today — I pause halfway down the stairs and listen to Arthur taunt Ariana Van Doorn in the moose room. She will make her debut tomorrow, and Arthur and Nancy are prepping her.

  “Necessity? Necessity? My dear Professor Van Doorn, why was it so critical, so necessary, to commit a serious criminal offence, a surreptitious break and enter by night, when no one’s life was in immediate peril?”

  “Excuse me, my field is biology—”

  “It’s a simple question, madam, I’d like an answer, please.” Arthur has Khan’s slightly old-school accent down pat.

  “Okay, in my opinion, people have been hurt, they were in immediate peril. According to the pesticide poisoning statistics we heard yesterday, one in 12,500 users accidentally imbibe insecticides in any given year—”

  “Immediate peril, not some accident in the vague future . . .”

  “Objection, counsel is baiting the witness, and is also being ridiculous.” That’s Nancy.

  Ariana gives a throaty laugh. I carry on down to the back patio with the Dell notebook. Okie Joe will be stopping over to make sure it isn’t rigged to explode in my face. I pack a pipe with pot.

  I’m seeing criminal law in a new light. There’s flexibility to it. I find it profoundly creative of Arthur and Nancy to have made adjustments on the fly to the frail defence of necessity. They’ve narrowed its focus to real people, like the unlikely duo of Barney Wilson and Charlie Dover.

  Most people are deaf to the climate crisis, they don’t want to hear about the bees, it’s all too depressing and abstract. It was maybe asking too much of our jury to conclude we had to knock over an insecticide lab as a wake-up call against planetary collapse. But the poisoning of a fellow hominid brings it home.

  Because we raided the Vigor-Gro plant, because we exposed their corrupted tests, because we spoke up, because of the publicity, because of this very trial, we have rescued farmers susceptible to what we now call the Dover-Wilson Syndrome.

  That’s the essence of today’s testimony from an agricultural economist, a climatologist, and an actuarial scientist with a doctorate in statistics. Together, with reams of tables and stats and graphs and international sales figures for Vigor-Gro, they made a case that it’s statistically likely that a “significant” number of pesticide users out there are allergic to ziegladoxin. And it’s also statistically likely that our action has warned a “significant” number of accidental imbibers to get flushed out right away. Something like that.

  It’s a pretty stretchy theory, so taut it could easily snap as the jury tussles with it. But if they’re desperate to find reasonable doubt . . . just, possibly, maybe?

  Azra Khan attacked that proposition relentlessly, as a desperate ploy and phony guesswork. Hate to say it, but he did a damn good job. Four out of five.

  * * *

  It’s a rosy-hued evening, and I’m still on the back patio, having a last puff from the bowl of Purple Kush I shared with Okie Joe — he has just biked off after digging through my little Dell. “Bugless,” he said. “Pre-packed with goodies. I cleaned out some crap.”

  I had a laughing fit as I recalled to him Howie’s drunken malapropism: “Packs a punch, so don’t be conceived.”

  The laptop arrived by mail today at Nancy’s office, in its original box with an envelope taped to it, a note inside: Dear Rivie, then four words: As promised. Always believe. Underneath that: Howell.

  Always believe what?

  There’s a return address, a Penetanguishene box number. Should I reply? Received. Signed, Conceived but deceived. I think I’ve attained an excessive level of highness.

  We also found a Word icon on the desktop titled Rivie. It opened to reveal the same edict: Always believe.

  I reopen that document, start a new paragraph: Good evening, Howie, I know you’re there. You’re listening. You outsmarted Okie Joe. You’ve heard every word I’ve said. Please advise: Are my thoughts also being transmitted?

  I wait for the magic phrase. Then, magically, slowly, it comes: “Always believe.” But it is I who typed it.

  “I think I’m in love with her more than ever.” Did he actually say that under oath yesterday? What kind of love is this? Obsessive? Fanatical?

  I’m too stoned. And I’m losing the light to the night and the mosquitoes. Also, one gets a little spooked as darkness creeps in, at least in this neighbourhood. Donald Stumpit is still hiding in some rathole waiting for the fuss to die down so he can come a-visiting again. This kind of stuff shouldn’t be in your head when you get stoned.

  I pack pipe and bud and laptop into the house, flop on my bed, hit the remote, check on the Jays at Fenway. Biggio’s waiting at the plate, there’s a conference on the mound.

  I’m too loaded to focus on the screen. There’s a conference in my head. Phrases flutter there like butterflies. Packs a punch, so don’t be conceived, conceived, deceived, always believe.

  Dear Howell,

  Always doubt, never deceive.

  Rivke

  3

  Friday, May 31

  Ariana Van Doorn is relaxed, dry in manner, stating clearly and calmly what we have been shouting from the rooftops. Our howls of doom caused people to tune out — she’s jargon-free, gets to the nut, makes sense of the complex, she’s like everyone’s favourite teacher from college.

  Nancy Faulk asks few questions, lets her ace insectologist run the show, starting with taking apart Dr. Easling and his purchased opinions about the good that is done by pesticides.

  During a TV interview, he’d scoffed at a UN report blasting the agrochemicals for their greed and lack of ethics. Ariana’s comeback: “Condemning that study as alarmist anti-corporate propaganda is the irresponsible rhetoric one might expect on Fox News, not from a dispassionate, unbiased scientist.”

  You’d think that would get a rise from Mr. Khan, but he just doodles on his writing pad.

  Easling had also pooh-poohed a Harvard study that concluded neonicotinoids were the main cause of colony collapse — not varroa mites or other parasites and pathogens, not climate change.

  “Regrettably, Dr. Easling has ignored the evidence. The Harvard team examined eighteen bee colonies at three different apiaries for over a year. Twelve of the hives were regularly treated with neonics, and half of those were completely wiped out.”

  Ariana makes a terrific point about how neonics makers, “if they cared about the health of the planet, would invest their millions to modify crops organically so they don’t require insecticides.” Encouraging growers to use less chemicals “obviously isn’t part of their business plan.” She directs that to the stone-faced Chemican officers in their reserved seats.

  Their business plan (if I may add a footnote) hadn’t taken into account the Earth Survival Rebellion. Chemican’s numbers continue to slump on the stock markets. We may destroy them yet. Direct action works.

  I feel rosier today, slept well enough — though with vivid stoned dreams. My optimism chart has risen a few ticks since we began our defence. Nobody expects complete exoneration, but even if Justice Donahue takes away the necessity defence, we’ve still got Abbie Lee-Yeung to hang the jury (such a lovely, dark, ironic colloquialism).

  I’ve been trying not to make eye contact with Abbie, I don’t like the way she locks on to me. She’s in my peripheral vision now though, staring at me, barely hiding a smile. This time I answer — with a blink she could take as a wink. You’ll vote for us won’t you, Abbie? I will love you if you do.

  Sort of mockingly, Ariana applauds Easling’s expressed concerns about monocultures, but then builds on them: vast fields of corn or canola or soya are “kil
ling grounds for beneficial species.” Monoculture demands more and more insecticide, pests grow resistant, pollinators accustomed to varied habitats and diets vanish. “And today, because of neonics’ long lifetimes, vast landscapes are permeated with neurotoxins, accelerating the collapse of biodiversity.”

  I’ve heard this in rehearsal, of course, but in my ears it sounds true, unprepared, felt.

  How true was Howie? I was in love. I would have done anything for her . . . What is his game? (Why must I cynically assume he has one?)

  I think back upon that big, handsome, horny, fumbling, over-apologetic marriage rebounder, and wonder if that was the real Howell Griffin or a clever act. Had both of us been imposters? And had we somehow fallen into each other’s trap?

  When I come back to this world, Ariana is raising the stakes: Hummingbirds are in serious decline. A single neonic corn kernel can kill a songbird. She relates how white-crowned sparrows were fed four treated canola seeds for three days, just one percent of their diet. Then came severe weight loss, disorientation, they barely hung on.

  New studies showed neonics are “an alarmingly major factor” in the plummeting numbers of birds. In Canada and the U.S. bird populations have fallen by three billion from ten billion over the last five decades.

  Test rodents also showed brain abnormalities and spatial confusion. Pregnant rats fed neonics transmitted neural disorders to their offspring.

  Nancy asks, “And what about humans?”

  “We are at risk. These nicotine-based products target an insect’s nervous system so there’s real concern that chronic use or accidental ingestion may also damage the nervous systems and brain structures of our own species. That risk expands as neonics make their way into our food and contaminate groundwater and wells.”

  Khan continues to doodle. I can roughly make out his artwork: faces, I think. Unhappy faces. How will he go after Ariana? Mockingly? Surgically? Full bore? He did a pretty good job on our witnesses yesterday.

  I heard his mom is fading. He must be in agony as we approach the last days of the trial, the final speeches, the climactic verdict. One would have to be made of stone not to feel pity for him. It seems almost unfair that he has to carry this burden . . .

  Not that I want him to win.

  Ariana spends several minutes on U.S. government charts and stats that prove neonics are regularly found in common fruits and vegetables — and, shockingly, in thirty percent of all baby foods.

  Anyone thinking of having a baby (which, Dear Diary, I am not) may want to look up some recent studies that Ariana scares us with: persistent neonic exposure to pregnant mothers can cause birth defects, deformities, autism.

  Nancy lets that set in for several hushed seconds, as the clock closes in on twelve thirty. Donahue finally breaks the silence, sending the jury off to lunch to reflect on deformed babies.

  * * *

  Lucy and I get tacos from one of the wagons by the square and find a sunny bench. We critique the morning — which I feel good about, Ariana was brilliant. But Lucy is cynical, distrusting the jury, claiming to sense their negative vibes.

  “The foreman, the mini-mall designer, he thinks we’re pulling a fast one . . .” Hesitating, studying me. “What’s with that shit hanging from your ears?”

  “A joke. I found them in my pack when I was in the jane, thought I’d try them on.”

  “Holy shit, Howie’s snake earrings.”

  I slip them off. “I forgot I was wearing them.”

  That causes Lucy to guffaw. “Like, you walked out of a courthouse washroom unaware you’re flaunting those two dangling modifiers which your boyfriend gave you as seduction bait after shafting the Brazilian natives?” A gasp for breath after that speech, then another scornful laugh.

  “He was gathering evidence against his corporate masters.”

  “Bullshit. You’re signalling, you’re flashing like a bird of paradise, announcing you’re ready to mate. Too bad the imposter didn’t see you displaying or right now you’d be scarfing down his spermatozoa instead of a chicken taco.”

  When I told her about his gift laptop, it was the same song. Howie had turned the tables on me, it was his turn to hose me, to seduce the seductress.

  Okay, maybe I’m not using my brain, I’m under the subconscious control of some other organ. Surely not the heart. Which pretty well narrows it down to a body part rarely active except in my fantasies.

  “He’s not into you, my sweet. ‘Always believe,’ that’s what sham artists want us to do.”

  I don’t buy that. He isn’t asking me to believe in him. Or even the Lord Buddha. I think it’s more conceptual. Always believe in truth. In life.

  This is too heavy for me right now. It’s been a tough week.

  4

  Azra Khan is cross-examining Ariana and I can’t take it in, I’m imploring my memory cells to release some information. When did I stick those earrings in my day pack? Why did I? How come I put them on in the ladies’ room? Am I having a nervous breakdown?

  I return to the reality of Court 6-1. Khan is doing something unexpected — he’s not challenging Ariana, he’s not defending neonics, he’s not denying the decimation of pollinating insects. “If all you say is true,” he begins a question, or “Assuming neonics pose dangers to human health,” then he concludes with various versions of “So what?”

  “Let us get to the nut of this, Dr. Van Doorn. The defendants rely on the defence of necessity. They seek to be exonerated because no option was open, they had no alternative, no way out. I ask you, not in your capacity as an expert, just as an ordinary, rational human being: Does that make sense? Couldn’t they have organized a boycott or a demonstration? A social media campaign?”

  “I can’t say. They may have done that, I don’t know.”

  “Petitioned various governments, their regulatory agencies?”

  “Those would be options only if there was more than an infinitesimal chance of their being heard.”

  “Picketed the offices of neonics makers? Picketed Chemican’s Sarnia plant, the head office in Kansas City?”

  “Well, my answer would be similar. Where would it get them?”

  “They could have brought a court action against the agrochemical industry. A class action.”

  “In my role as an ordinary, rational human, Mr. Khan, I can’t believe that wouldn’t take untold years. The crisis is happening now.”

  Bring it on, sister. Ariana has unshackled herself from the role of dispassionate expert, has become openly partisan. Arthur shows no eagerness to intervene. I can tell he likes her spunk.

  “Nonetheless, Professor, the defence of necessity obviously doesn’t operate when lawful courses of action are wide open.”

  “But if those lawful courses are all likely to fail, no options are realistically available. The proof is in the pudding. The form of direct action they chose has gained a worldwide audience and in fact is inspiring demonstrations and boycotts.”

  I wonder if she was in a debating club in college. Judge Donahue seems to be enjoying the to and fro, but with a skeptical twirling of her nose that says Ariana Van Doorn is reaching, it’s all guff. Donahue will eventually pay back our lawyers for their saucy manners by denying the jury our only defence.

  But who’s to stop them in the privacy of the jury room? Their basic obedient Canadianness, I guess. Eleven of these good soldiers can be depended on not to mutiny — but it only takes one to hang the jury. Plan B double e, Nancy calls it.

  Abbie has stopped gawking at me, is madly writing down Ariana’s points, arming herself for the wrangling to come in the jury room. Ariana gets some smiles from other jurors but no eager nods of agreement.

  Khan is unrelenting. “Another requirement of the defence is that there be direct, immediate peril. Tell me, Professor, how does plotting in a backroom of an antiques store in Toronto to commit a crime far
away and months ahead meet that test?”

  “When the crime, as you called it, was committed, the peril was still direct and immediate.”

  “And what particular individual was in immediate peril?”

  “I heard evidence that it is statistically probable that many were in peril, especially those severely allergic to the ziegladoxin in Vigor-Gro. Like yesterday’s witness, Charles Dover.”

  “But that wasn’t the goal of these accused. Theirs was a much wider mission. To save the bees.”

  “And every other life form, including ours.”

  “They weren’t directing their minds to the plight of any Charles Dovers out there, were they?”

  Finally, Ariana looks kind of stumped. “I can’t imagine they were, no.”

  Azra Khan says, “Thank you, ma’am,” and sits.

  And that’s the case for the defence, our lawyers announce.

  Then, with the jury out, Khan asks the judge: “Now that the evidence is all in, M’Lady, I should apprise you that I have discussed with my friends the sequence of closing arguments, and it is agreed that the Crown will sum up first.”

  “Unusual, but as you wish.”

  “As well, can Your Ladyship instruct us whether our addresses to the jury should touch on the necessity defence?”

  Donahue looks down at the lawyers with a crafty smile. “No, that wouldn’t be right. I don’t dare make a ruling on necessity until I’ve heard the final speeches. My duty is to listen to both sides and keep an open mind.”

  I assume the lawyers know that’s bullshit, and that she knows that they know that she knows it’s bullshit. But Arthur looks relieved that she didn’t immediately pull his only defence.

  It also helps that Nancy and Arthur will get last kick at the can. That happens Monday.

  Then on Tuesday, the judge will lay down the law to the jury. And then we’re in their hands.

  5

  It’s happy hour, stress-remission time, and the Cameron is our target, but halfway there a powerful magnetic force causes my bike to brake and skid to a stop. Lucy, close behind, almost piles into me.