The camera loved Wendy Collins, I remembered. Her youth burst out from the lens, her wide-eyed, innocent beauty magnified exponentially. The newspapers, tabloids, and television programs spent hours filming her testimony. The headlines were gut wrenching for me, even now—Everyone Knew Professor Was Having Affair Claims Murder Victim's Best Friend. Young Girl Prey to Older Man. Sexy Teacher Seduces Student. She Thought He Would Leave His Wife.
Jacob began to read aloud from the trial transcript.
"Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Ms. Collins, please tell us how you knew the victim, Linda Courtnell
Ms. Collins: She was my best friend.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Shall I give you a moment?
Ms. Collins: No, no. I'm okay.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Can you give us a little more detail about how close you were to Linda, please?
Ms. Collins: We've known each other since we were in grade seven. We went to high school, then Three Arts Institute together. We are—were roommates.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: I guess you knew her very well then.
Ms. Collins: Yes, I did.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Can you please tell me what happened on the night Linda was murdered?
Ms. Collins: We went out for dinner with a group of friends. There's a nice pub on Granville, very close to the school, and it's cheap but the food is good, so that's where we go pretty often. It's got a good view of—
Mr. Shaw: Objection! We're not here for a restaurant review.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: Ms. Collins, please tell us the details of that particular night only.
Ms. Collins: Of course, yes. Linda and I met her boyfriend, Garrett, and a couple of other friends at the pub around seven that night. We had a few beers and shared some nachos and stuff. Then Linda made an excuse to leave.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: What time did she make this excuse to leave?
Ms. Collins: It was around eight-thirty or maybe a quarter to nine. Before nine, anyway. She told Garrett she had some work to do at the art studio. But I knew what she was really doing.
Mr. Shaw: Objection! Hearsay.
Mr. Justice Lent: Sustained.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: I'll rephrase. Ms. Collins, did you speak to Linda about her real reason for leaving the restaurant?
Ms. Collins: Yes, I did. When we went to the washroom after she said she was leaving, I told her I knew she was meeting Professor Thompson.
Mr. Sedgwick-Wilson: And what was her reply?
Ms. Collins: She just laughed and said, "Of course I am!" And then she left. Everyone knew she was having an affair with him.
Mr. Shaw: Objection!
Mr. Justice Lent: Sustained. The jury will disregard."
"Her evidence wasn't exactly strong," Jacob said when he'd finished. "Linda was probably being sarcastic when she said, 'Of course I am.'"
"Yes, but nevertheless her testimony was damaging. Do you think Linda Courtnell had a crush on you?"
Will looked surprised. "Again, no one has ever asked me that particular question. No. She did not have a crush on me."
"How do you know?"
"Because she would have told me. Linda was straightforward and never afraid to speak her mind. She didn't give a damn about what anyone thought. She'd even defied her very powerful parents by going to art school. She would have marched right up to me and said, 'I like you and I want to take you to bed' and to hell with the consequences. Besides, you just know."
"With Wendy, I was very cautious. I would never have been alone with her for a minute. She kept looking at me with adoring eyes, just waiting for an opening, thinking she was being subtle. Linda and I had a good, healthy relationship—the kind of respect that often happens between a brilliant student and a teacher. She was a genius and she knew I could help perfect her technique. There was absolutely no sexual vibe at all."
"What did you mean, she defied her parents?"
"According to her, Randall wanted all of his three kids to step into his various corporations. He insisted that they have business degrees. Linda's brother Harrison acquiesced, even though it made him miserable. She said he was also a talented artist, but was obedient to their father. Linda was determined not to do that. She didn't even care if he cut her out of the will. She told him that either he supported her wish to attend art school, or she'd turn her back on the family."
"Where did the talent come from?" Jacob asked. "Their father was—and really still is—a giant in real estate and so on, but he showed no sign of an artistic bent from the research I've done."
"They got their talent from their mother," Will answered. "She was a quiet, dutiful wife, so she stood behind Randall in everything, taking on charity work and making sure their home was perfect. But if you ever saw the way Paula Courtnell dressed up a convention centre for a presentation or an auction or whatever, you'd know she was artistic. She volunteered a lot at the art school, loved helping to set up displays and so on."
"So Randall gave in to his daughter?"
"Yes. He did make her promise that if she wasn't successful, she'd come back into the fold."
"What would Randall Courtnell have defined as successful?"
"Ha. Probably making money from her art. Showings in Paris and Rome. That sort of thing. Which she was perfectly capable of doing, had her life not been taken away."
"What did Harrison Courtnell end up doing? You'd think he would have been really pissed off his sister got to follow her dream and he didn't."
Jacob turned some pages in his thick file.
"He took over the real estate end of Courtnell Holdings. Until the market plunged this year, he was making huge amounts of money for his father. But he's heavily involved in the Olympics, so the rentals and building projects have saved him big time. It doesn't appear he did anything with his art, at least under his own name."
"What happened to the portfolio?"
We all stared at Monty for a moment, slightly confused.
"Linda Courtnell's portfolio, the one she came back for," he clarified. "Was it in the studio?"
Just like that, Montgomery Cardwell opened an uncharted path. I began to believe Simon's prediction he would uncover information no one else had, but hope, at least in this case, was something I had difficulty trusting.
Monty looked at his watch. "OK, the steward wants to serve us lunch soon, so let's keep going. We're making great progress."
He shuffled some papers, made a few notes, highlighted a couple of sentences.
"Frank Jeffries was the Real Estate Agent and Manager of the factory-turned-market. He testified he'd seen you and Linda together a lot and he'd heard rumours. How the hell was this stuff allowed in that courtroom?"
It was almost as if Montgomery were talking to himself, but if he'd asked, I could have told him those same sentiments were as familiar to me as the beat of my heart.
Then he looked up at us with more alacrity.
"Did you know three of the people involved in your case were failed artists?"
"What do you mean, failed artists?" I asked.
"I mean they had entered the contests that Three Arts Institute ran, for which Bill chaired the adjudication committee—and they lost. Some more than once."
Will shook his head. "I can't believe it. Why wouldn't someone have brought that up?"
Monty's big shoulders shrugged.
"No one knew it, not even Simon. I just found out this week. It's amazing the information that has been posted on the Internet these days. All kinds of histories for the various schools, including Three Arts. They listed every contest they've held over the years, all the entrants, and all the winners. By supergenius deduction, I was able to name the losers."
We chuckled, though everyone was aware of the tension and our response was mostly in gratitude for Montgomery's attempt to lighten the mood.
"The writer of Three Arts's history points out that many of the losers went on to become very well-known artists. Of the three involved in your case, two actually managed to gain a lot of resp
ect in the art community—in Vancouver at least."
"Don't hold us in suspense, Monty. Who were they?"
Will leaned forward in his seat and I unconsciously did the same.
"They were—or I should say are, because they're all still with us—Constable Charles Haynes, Harrison Courtnell, and Ronald Stevens."
We gasped and made other noises of shock and disbelief.
"The police officer who investigated the case was a failed contestant and no one brought that forward?" Jacob was incredulous.
"Minimally, Haynes should have declared a conflict of interest," Monty said. "But obviously the bastard wanted to be part of that homicide investigation no matter what. But how could he have kept his entry a secret from everyone, Bill?"
"The names of the contestants weren't released unless they won. Certainly the judges never knew their names. We tried to keep everything anonymous to ensure fairness. You couldn't vote for someone's painting just because you liked them, or vice versa of course. All correspondence with the contestants went through the office, such as informing them that they won or lost, inviting them to the presentation and reception, giving feedback if they asked for it. Some of them would come up to me at the reception and tell me who they were, say they hadn't won, but appreciated the direction and so on. Some wouldn't speak to the Judges at all, which was their right."
He thought for a moment, struggling to pull the memories back into the forefront.
"Harrison Courtnell attended the reception with his family, but I thought that was because of Linda's win. I had no idea he had entered the contest himself. I certainly don't remember ever seeing or speaking with Constable Haynes or Ronald Stevens—until Linda's murder and the trial of course."
"They probably didn't attend the celebration, especially if they were pissed off. Or maybe the murderer did go, and you didn't notice him in the crowd. That might've been a severe snub in his mind."
Monty held up his long fingers and counted.
"Okay. One, you have a disgruntled police officer wannabe artist who, right from beginning, pins you as the suspect. If he is the murderer, that could've been his plan all along. Two, you have the brother of the winner, who could've been just as angry with his sister as he was with you, making her murder in your studio a fitting revenge. Three, you have another wannabe who happens to walk by your studio on the night of the murder and testifies he saw you walking out of the building at ten o'clock."
"The defence could have made such a dent in their testimonies with that information!"
Jacob's voice was almost hoarse with the injustice.
"You're right, Jacob. The defence should have done some research on all the players," Montgomery conceded. "As they say, though, hindsight is 20-20. The contest might not have entered their minds as a motive."
"Every entrant signed a release form, stating their names could be used by the Three Arts for promotion purposes, which was extremely vague. The names could've been used if they won another contest or if they became famous later on. Exactly what they are now doing on their website, I guess," Will added. "But at that time, the nonwinners wouldn't really have been listed anywhere public. Now and then, they might win some other award and would mention Three Arts or something."
"There were so many things that first defence team didn't think about," I said, unable to keep the bitterness from my voice.
"Even Simon didn't find this stuff, Emily. The Internet has opened up the whole world," my husband said.
I gulped down the sudden spurt of anger that leapt up from my stomach, feeling my face turn red with the effort. Will put his hand on mine. I felt angry toward him, too, wondering why he was always so patient and calm. I couldn't figure out how he could give Mr. Shaw and his legal team any excuses at all for their incompetence.
Once again, vital information that "our" team should have discovered years ago had been uncovered so effortlessly by Montgomery Cardwell. Information that might have saved us so much pain, humiliation and despair. Yes, the Internet had opened avenues they didn't have thirty years ago, but all that meant was they should have worked harder.
Even Simon's team obviously had flaws. My disappointment and resentment became a rage that had no place to go but into twisted knots of frustration.
To distract myself, I looked out the window of the small jet. The sun glinted off the silver wings. Straight below us, a shadow of ourselves glided over the brown fields of the prairies. A shadow of what might have been or what was going to be?
"The homeless woman. The one who testified she saw you and that you spoke to her as you came down the stairs," Monty prompted.
"Shirley Johnson."
Will looked as though he were back in the unfinished marketplace, the woman's wrinkled brown face gazing at him as he came and went.
"She was a very tragic case in lots of ways. She'd lost her husband and two sons, who were practically babies, in a car accident, then became addicted to pain pills. Most of the time she just sniffed glue or drank cheap wine. But she wasn't disruptive or aggressive, so the islanders tolerated her. A lot of us would buy her gift certificates for meals, stuff like that. I talked to her every day when I was at the studio."
"She's the witness Simon eventually discredited, right?"
Will nodded his head, almost sorrowfully.
"Yes. He found her in a rehab, where she recanted. She said the very nice police officer prodded her to remember she saw me on that specific night at that specific time."
"But in reality, she couldn't distinguish one night from another and couldn't possibly have known the time."
"Exactly."
"Getting her to recant went a long way toward the positive result at the Supreme Court," Jacob said. "Also proving Linda Courtnell could have died anywhere from 10 p.m. to 8 a.m. was brilliant. The medical examiner insisted at the first trial that she died just after 9 p.m., but the temperature of the wall could have sped up rigor. Then they opened up the whole debate about the tattoo needle being used to draw on the body. Bill had never used a tattoo needle in his life and the weapon was never found. When Simon's medical witness provided evidence Bill could not have been the suspect who left that drop of semen, they had a very good case for dismissal."
"Simon did a very good job with the tools he had," Monty said. "He really did prove Bill is not guilty."
"The only reason the Supreme Court did not state 'innocent of all charges,' in my opinion, had to be political. They didn't like to admit the justice system was flawed. Not until David Milgaard and Stephen Truscott and similar victims were successful with their appeals, did we start to admit that a completely innocent person can be convicted. We have all the ammunition we need to get the Minister to declare Bill an innocent man."
In the fierce way Jacob said it, we could all read his determination.
"You're right, Jacob, but I disagree we have all the ammunition we need. There isn't any DNA evidence, so the Minister won't necessarily be one hundred per cent convinced. In the majority of cases like yours, Bill, the clincher was the DNA evidence. Look at how much trouble Truscott had proving his innocence, mainly because they couldn't use DNA."
"In this situation, we've only got the semen droplet, which was shown to be from a nonsecretor. And even though you are a secretor, the judges bought the premise that Linda could have had sex with someone else before the rape. They were persuaded that Linda was sexually promiscuous and therefore the drop didn't necessarily belong to the killer. They were also convinced the murderer was far too careful and organized not to have worn a condom."
"Simon believes we have to amass a little more proof before we go to the Minister. The legal team agrees with him. They don't want to blow the last chance to have a complete exoneration. And it really is the last chance. Realistically, there won't be another viable route for you to take if you don't get your innocence proclaimed through this appeal. You'll have done pretty much all you can."
We all nodded, understanding the gravity of pursuing the truth, k
nowing this was the last shot. We'd been through every other level of appeal available to us. Short of finding the real murderer, Will's innocence would always be doubted.
A cloud of gloom settled over my heart. I thought of naïve, younger Emily to whom the term secretor had been a foreign concept, but one with which I became entirely familiar. I'd read and reread the story of David Milgaard, appalled and fascinated at the parallels with my husband's own tragedy.
The steward interrupted my reverie with lunch. We decided to continue talking, making the most of our time, as we ate shrimp appetizers and steaks, roasted potatoes and salad. I would scarcely have believed we were on an airplane except that I could see white clouds circling around us in the sky.
"Ronald Stevens, the other witness, held onto his story forever. He still claims he could see you in the studio window, lit up by the lights, staring outward. And since he didn't finish his shift at Micon until ten o'clock, it had to have been about 10:15 when he walked past."
Monty chewed thoughtfully on his food.
"I think we find Mr. Stevens and see if he's changed his mind yet."
I thought of the number of times someone had said something similar in the past. I found my throat closing as I tried to swallow a piece of the succulent steak. When I began to cough, my eyes watered and I let the tears stream down my face. I croaked out some reassurance to the group and went into the washroom.
The cubicle was luxuriant by normal airplane standards, but I still felt surrounded by mirrors. My face was red and blotchy. The tears hadn't finished, but they weren't from the choking. I sat down on the toilet lid and buried my face in my hands.
I hadn't wanted to come on this trip. I didn't want to look the past in the eye. I missed our girls, our house, Angel. All the negativity swirled around inside me. I felt angry and self-pitying.
The Emily Taylor Mystery Bundle Page 79
