“More than three times over the driving limit. And that’s why he was lights-out drunk when you made your alleged buy.”
“Irregardless, he took my thirty dollars and handed me an ounce of marijuana.”
This is probably the worst possible note on which to end the cross-examination, but the clock is ticking, and Arthur is aware that trying to reel in this wiggling fish is risky, and he sits.
As the Crown rests its case, Zoller makes a quick exit from the building, in the clenched manner of one who needs to pee urgently.
Arthur calls Corporal Jillings, hurries him through the boilerplate: the science of analyzing blood alcohol readings, alcohol’s effects on human behaviour, and finally narrows his focus to the case at bar, to the human beer keg watching from the prisoner’s chair, solemn and sober.
Without Zoller to upset him, Hayward restrains himself, though he still keeps glancing at the wall clock, at his watch, at what Arthur guesses is a ferry schedule.
Jillings continues uninterrupted: “It is likely that the reading, if taken at the time of arrest, would have been at least point three zero and perhaps higher. The accused would have been stuporous and barely aware of his surroundings if aware of them at all, and would be subject to mental blackouts even though appearing conscious.”
Arthur checks the time. A quarter after three. “Would he be capable of forming an intent to make a drug sale?”
“In my opinion, it is unlikely he knew what he was doing.”
Hayward perks up. “Okay, I get it. Your defence is he was so drunk that his mind wasn’t going with the act.”
“Quite so, Your Honour.”
“I had a case like this once … never mind. Let me ask the witness: Corporal, just because there was an exchange of drugs for cash doesn’t mean the accused knew what he was doing, right?”
“He may well have been acting by rote, unthinkingly.”
“It’s like the drunk driver who somehow gets home from the bar because he’s done it hundreds of times. Right?”
“Yes, Your Honour.”
Arthur knows he has won this case — in the nick of time: it is twenty-seven and a half minutes after three.
Renee Vickers looks resigned as she too realizes that Hayward, obsessed with making his four o’clock sailing, has cornered himself into having to acquit. Otherwise, a contested bail hearing would mean he won’t be giving out awards at the flower pressers’ gala.
With the evidence all in, Hayward checks his watch. “We have two minutes. I don’t need to hear from Mr. Beauchamp. As for you, Ms. Vickers, you can argue till you’re blue in your face.”
“I’m not even going to try.” She turns to Arthur, chin up, noble in defeat, failing to suppress a smile.
Eddie Hayward smiles too, for the first time this day. A smile that widens as he recites a quick judgement finding ample reasonable doubt on the issue of drunkenness. That smile makes the judge seem oddly pleasant and normal, Arthur can’t help chuckling, and that causes Vickers to laugh openly, and court clerk and court reporter join in while they stuff their bags and briefcases.
Soon, the audience chimes in — the townsfolk and barflies, the Free Doggers, the Woofers — a celebration that grows from infectious to contagious, the entire room laughing, almost uncontrollably, with Tildy Sears and several other Easy Pieces doubled up in the back row. It’s one of those exceptional, brilliant moments of mass elation — an exaltation in the Garibaldi Island Community Hall.
“I find the accused not guilty. You are free to go, Mr. Zibber …” Hayward is lost in the maze of that name. His poor effort causes another round of laughter from the locals. They all stand and applaud him as he adjourns this session of Garibaldi Provincial Court and heads for the back door with his staff in tow.
“That was fun,” Vickers says, pulling on her coat, shaking his hand, darting off. She will have a tale to dine out on. A ferry tale.
Arthur turns to Dog, who shyly takes his hand and struggles to put his gratitude into words while smiling from ear to ear. “Praise the Lord,” he says.
§
Outside, pausing to loosen his tie, Arthur watches as the Coalition shepherds Dog to a van, its engine revving for a run to the Brig. But he observes, confusingly, that among the many lingerers laughter has given way to sad, guilty looks. Yoki and Niko are waiting by the Fargo, and they too seem troubled.
“Poor man,” says Niko.
“We feel solly for him,” says Yoki.
Arthur’s attention is directed to the escarpment of Breadloaf Hill. He can just make out, between arbutus boughs, the bench at Lovers’ Leap, where Kurt Zoller sits, head bowed, his shoulders pulsing with grief.
His small support group, the Crime-Stoppers and the Trust Busters, has deserted him, but several others are moving toward him — slowly, carefully, so as not to provoke him into a suicidal leap. One of them is Stoney, who has abandoned the Brig-bound van.
Arthur makes to join them, but stops to watch a strange interplay: Stoney buoyantly greets Zoller and joins him on the bench. Zoller utters a few woeful words, and Stoney wraps him in a two-armed hug.
Stoney’s unprecedented behaviour, embracing the Nazi Dognapper, spurs Arthur voyeuristically into hearing range.
He hears an offering of succour: “You’ll always have a friend in Bob Stonewell.”
“They’ve made me into an escape goat. I’m never going to see my Hummer again.”
“Hear me, old buddy, hear me good. Bob Stonewell will get it back from those bums who lifted it off you. I promise.”
FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 28
“Some kind of plugged fuel line issue,” says Reverend Al. “Fixable. They say she’ll be back in service this afternoon.”
The she referred to is the Queen George, the Trannie. She returned to home port yesterday afternoon when her engines faltered, and never showed up at Ferryboat Cove for the four o’clock sailing.
“Terrible shame,” says Arthur, with a straight face. He has just picked up Al in the Fargo, and they’re heading up to Centre Road.
“They pressed the Saturna Princess into service, but the pokey old tub didn’t pull in until after nine. I guess a lot of Winnebagels were sold.”
Arthur knows it is mean-hearted to take Haywire’s plight lightly. It must have been especially painful to endure five straight hours of Ballentine J. Bingham. Overtime pay will be a bitterly small recompense for the chair of the Victoria Pressed Flower Society.
Meanwhile, Zoller managed to survive the night, well sedated by Doc Dooley. “It’s admirable, isn’t it,” Arthur says, “the way the island has found so much compassion for Kurt. Some of the fellows from the Legion sat up with him all night.”
“Kurt may be a stupid jerk, but he’s our stupid jerk.”
They are en route to bear witness on this sombre day — low-lying clouds, mists in fields, sporadic showers — to the unveiling of the distraught escape goat’s hidden Hummer. Stoney’s beery, slurred instructions by phone, late last night, were confusing. As best Arthur could make out, he was to show up at half past ten today in front of Stoney’s driveway. Arthur relayed that to Pound, then had to repeat it and tell the depressive constable to write it down.
Tildy Sears didn’t show up this morning, and is likely working through a hangover, so cables are still strung all over the house. There’s no urgency — Randy Skyler is on a two-week course to qualify as a wilderness watchman.
If Skyler remains steadfast in seeking rehabilitation, Arthur may have to give up his pastime of fretting about him. He’s not sure how he might fill that gap. How would he handle his daily routines without a crisis to deal with? The alternative, preferred approach is to transform himself, to learn to stop being a worrier and adjust to a carefree state. After all, has he not just won a magnificent courtroom victory? He’s the island’s latest hero.
Al kids him about th
at: Arthur is odds-on favourite to win the Garibaldian-of-the-Year trophy. “Tildy has dropped out of favour. Dog’s a long shot, but he’ll get the recovering alcoholic vote if he can stay away from beer till the election. I heard he didn’t take a drop at the Brig and left early.”
Where has Dog’s new-found piety come from? Arthur guesses that someone from AA got to him in the lockup. Maybe one of the zealots, with their Bibles.
As they make the long descent to the island’s central valley, Al cranes around. “Don’t look now, but I think that’s an anti-tank missile.”
Through the rear-view, Arthur sees the Cadillac DeVille, the metal detector pole strapped to the roof. Zoller is alone, wearing dark aviator glasses and an orange life vest. Behind him comes Ernst Pound in his cruiser.
Ahead, in the shelter of Shewfelts’ Hill, Stoney can be seen pulling out in his truck, Dog beside him, a backhoe on-board the flatbed. Stoney waves for the procession to follow him, and all must slow while his truck grinds up the hill. Zoller is impatient, tailing the Fargo’s bumper.
When Stoney takes the sharp turnoff to Upper Mount Norbert Road, Arthur guesses they might be heading for Alder Valley, a farming area: a couple of market gardens and a community farm.
The road hairpins around Mount Norbert, then descends to a lowland of alder trees and ferns, ten acres of which have been cleared and drained by the Community Farm Society. Arthur can see the deer fence, a few tool sheds, a greenhouse, and rows of raised beds, some harvested and bare, others still offering fall produce. The vehicle gate is closed. A seven-foot hill of manure sits by it, ready to be wheelbarrowed in.
Many residents of Evergreen Estates, where the land is rocky and barren, have plots here, and several of them are in animated conversation about some pumpkins whose fast-spreading vines are threatening a spinach patch. All pause to watch the flatbed, Fargo, Cadillac, and police cruiser park by the gate.
Stoney steps down from his cab, followed by Dog, who seems unusually alert and sober. He does not look at all fatigued, though he reportedly showed up at Winnie Gillicuddy’s at seven-thirty this morning and split and stacked two cords of fir.
Stoney looks around. “Okay, these are the rough coordinates they gave me, eh?”
Zoller frowns, leans his magnetized pole against the garden fence. “Who’s ‘they’?”
“Kurt, you’ve been around, you know how it works. I had to call in some debts to get the instigators to talk. Can’t mention any names for fear of reprisals.”
Ernst Pound joins Arthur and Al by the Fargo. “Other than Kurt, is anyone buying this bullshit?” He’s wearing an amalgam of RCMP harness and rough wear — jeans and a ball cap — so it’s hard to tell if he’s on duty. He’s chewing mints, but Arthur’s trained nose picks up the scent of rum.
Zoller takes a deep breath as he surveys the wide swath of alders and ferns in the wetland outside the deer fence. He tests his pole on the metal gate, which grabs it with a clang. He pulls the heavy magnet away with some effort and the force causes him to swing around. The pole plunges into the manure pile like a heat-seeking missile, almost dragging Kurt with it. Another clang, rather muffled.
“There’s something in there, man!” Stoney says excitedly. “You’ve done it, Kurt. You’ve done it!”
Zoller retrieves his pole, uses it to hollow out enough of the compost to reveal a thick tarp covering his Hummer. “I want to get a trace on this manure,” he says.
Stoney unchains the backhoe. “I’ll have it out of there in a heartbeat, man,” he calls down to Zoller, who looks wary, disbelieving. “Trust me, eh. Bob Stonewell plays the backhoe like Heifetz plays the piano.”
Dog shakes his head. “Ain’t a real good idea, is what I think.” It’s remarkable enough to hear Dog complete a sentence of such complexity, but Arthur has never dreamed he’d hear him publicly admonish his hero and mentor. Stoney is looking oddly at Dog, as if trying to decide whether to feel betrayed.
“I also think it ain’t a good idea, Stoney,” Reverend Al says.
“Did you boys bring shovels?” Arthur asks.
Dog responds by grabbing one from the flatbed, stripping down to one of the leftover Save Dog shirts, and going to work.
“That’s the Dog we love, man.” Stoney retrieves a spade from his truck. “Who wants to have a go?”
Zoller complains he has on his clean clothes. No one else comes forward. Between grunts, Dog says to Stoney, “Get on it, boss.”
Stoney is taken aback by the blunt command, then forces a big smile to imply he and Dog are sharing a joke. He makes a spirited effort with the spade, occasionally pausing to grimace and hold his back.
Restless with the slow pace, Ernst Pound borrows a shovel from one of the community farmers, all six of whom are now at the gate. More implements are brought from the sheds. Arthur and Al do shifts. The gardeners join in.
But none match Dog in industry. An inspirational force, he takes no breaks, and hums a well-loved tune: “What a friend we have in Jesus.”
PART THREE
BAD TRIP
WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 24
“The dark themes that resonate throughout comprise concern pertain to the capricious gods and their godforsaken foundering playthings: [members of?] the blighted human race.”
Arthur pauses to decipher his messy pencilled edits. It is evening, and he is at his desk trying to come up with erudite commentary on the new translation of Euripides’s plays. His review is intended for the Journal of Ancient Drama, and he fusses about getting it right and getting it done on time: he is two days from deadline.
And yet he can’t focus. It’s the camera up there, high on the wall, always on, blinking, a distracting green. There’s another in the kitchen, two more outside. They connect to a monitor on his desk. It’s eerie, seeing himself on that monitor, in profile, scowling. He’s tempted to dismantle Tildy’s mazy, over-engineered Rube Goldberg derangement, which he suspects is out of date. It has not lessened his fears, may even have exaggerated them.
It’s been a month since that hectic, disturbing visit from Brian Pomeroy, who occasionally makes distress calls — he’s broke, his Haida artist has moved out — or to pass on reports from Parole Officer Jenkinsop. The thrill killer remains at the Abitibi Conservation Area, checking in with headquarters regularly by satellite phone. An enforcer of laws, he has already ticketed three poachers. He is well regarded. A model parolee.
Still, Arthur worries. The subject claims that he is no longer angry and embittered, but his assurances do not ring sincere … He may be prey to an obsession of some kind. Arthur has tried in vain to contact Dr. Hawthorne, who has taken leave to write a paper on sociopathic behaviour patterns. He’s somewhere in Ontario cottage country. Arthur intends to track down his cell number — there’s been a storm over Georgian Bay, and land lines are down.
Here, on the West Coast, October has been remarkably warm and dry, setting a record. Arthur feels sorry for Margaret, who has missed out on this fine month and had to cancel Thanksgiving at Blunder Bay. She’s been working relentlessly, attending rallies when not in the House, constantly on her BlackBerry. The law protecting endangered species is at risk, and the bill will come before Parliament within days.
Yet she has not sounded weary, and on their last weekend call she was vigorous and quick witted, excoriating the fools across the aisle with sound bites too explicit for the press. The late-night sessions, the speeches, the cocktail affairs. Where does she get her energy? Again, Arthur has the sense they live worlds apart, that he does not know this mystery woman.
After her harangue was done, Arthur found the courage to drop Hubbell Meyerson’s name. “Did I mention he’s coming out here this weekend?” They’d agreed to meet at Arthur’s club in Vancouver. Arthur found no way to wiggle out of it. “He’s stopping en route to Ottawa. For the royal visit.”
“I can hardly wait,” Margaret said.
Arthur finds that enigmatic. She could hardly wait for what? For the royal visit? For Hubbell? Arthur’s mention of his name doesn’t elicit any sudden recall of her attending his swearing-in. Arthur has not yet shared with Margaret his daughter’s revelation about Hubbell and Annabelle. He’ll not speak of it to anyone until he confronts the scoundrel.
He thought of mentioning Skyler to her, but in an offhand way, an anecdote, a jest. But he couldn’t find a way to make it seem funny. Had she come for Thanksgiving, how would he have explained all this security apparatus? He couldn’t have told a lie; he’s maintaining one though, by his silence.
He looks balefully up at the camera, then down at the stubby, ugly monitor and keypad. I got it cheap. It’s like beyond cool, the kind movie stars use for their mansions. Back in the 1980s, maybe. The system even issues recorded warnings, in an irritating male voice. Bright sensor lights flood the yard when the system is triggered, as it was last week. Cameras, lights, and the siren outside the porch are armed or disarmed only by punching codes into a keypad.
Homer won’t set it off, or the geese, or even an escaped goat. But last week, Mabel Lewis’s mare got loose and wandered into the yard. While the siren blared, Arthur thumbed clumsily through his notebook for the shut-off code, then had trouble punching the five-digit sequence into the keypad. He has since had Tildy change the code to something he can remember.
He returns to the Euripides criticism, jots down a few more phrases, flips through the book, laboriously copies a passage onto his notepad. He has never learned how to compose on a computer, and has stubbornly refused to try. He can barely type anyway.
It’s Wednesday. He has to have this done by Friday, the day he ships out to Vancouver to join that venerable and hard-drinking assemblage of criminal lawyers, the Downtown East Side Trial and Error Society, for a toast and roast of outgoing Justice Thomas McDougall and incoming Justice Mandy Pearl.
The estimable Mandy Pearl, who gave herself to Arthur as a substitute for the bottle, who put him on the dry. Arthur still cherishes that brief, empowering week, an affaire d’amour he’s spoken of to no one, not even Margaret. He sees Mandy occasionally when he’s in Vancouver, over tea, or at an AA meeting, but that magic time in 1987 is rarely mentioned — because of awkwardness, he supposes, or delicacy. It annoys him that Pomeroy has guessed it.
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