Trial of Passion

by William Deverell

  Stoney’s plaintive voice: “How does he know, your honour? They coulda been tomato plants — is he an expert?”

  “I tender as exhibits twenty-three certificates of analysis from the botanical laboratory,” says the prosecutor.

  From my chair at the side of the hall, I can see Stoney in profile. He has a hangdog look. He is confused by the courtroom, lost in a sea of forensic mystery. Now he turns to look at me, reproachfully: I have refused to help him in his time of need.

  I am retired, why cannot anyone understand this? True, I have been manipulated into making one exception: but Jonathan O’Donnell didn’t fall an alder tree on my Rolls-Royce. I shall remain unbending.

  The gallery of half a dozen locals becomes restless during the interminable marking of exhibits. Turning, I see Margaret Blake take a seat at the back. How smartly dressed is this feisty woman: her best city clothes and — can it be? Are those slender firm legs wrapped in hose? How elegant she looks, willowy, and svelte. To my surprise she smiles at me. I am too flustered to smile back, and turn away to hide my blushing face.

  She is laughing at me. She is evoking visions of Emily Lemay’s body entangled with mine in sweaty embrace.

  “Okay, constable, continue,” says the prosecutor.

  “I subsequently encountered Mr. Stonewell hiding beneath one of the vehicles — “

  “I was installing a rebuilt transmission,” Stoney says.

  “Mr. Stonewell,” says Judge Wilkie, “you will give evidence later.”

  “I didn’t observe him to have any oil or grease on his clothes. I subsequently in his presence proceeded to seize the evidence, and as I was pulling out the plants, he said, if I can quote from my notes, ‘That was going to get me through the winter, man.’ “

  “No more questions,” says the prosecutor.

  “Mr. Stonewell, now you can ask the officer anything you want.” Judge Wilkie seems distracted, unaware that prosecutorial blunders have been committed here.

  “Naw, I don’t have any questions.”

  “Well, do you want to give evidence?”

  “Not much point. I’m dead.”

  “Do you have any submissions?”

  “Well, except only half those plants was female; the others I woulda just turfed out.”

  “Okay, well, unfortunately for you . . .”

  Can it be Wilkie is about to convict? On this paltry evidence? I find myself propelled to my feet as if by an external force. “If I may be so bold, your honour . . .”

  “Yes, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  “May I speak as amicus curiae ?”

  “ Amicus? . . .”

  “As a friend of the court.”

  “Well, okay, go ahead.”

  “I’ll be short. There is absolutely no evidence connecting this accused to the plants that were seized. He was simply under a car. Not a scrap of testimony that he owned that car. Or that property. Or that he even lived there. And the statement made to the officer is clearly inadmissible as not having being proved voluntary.”

  The judge calls upon the prosecutor for help.

  “He was hiding under a car, that’s evidence of a guilty mind.”

  “I can’t see how that’s enough. Not enough for me, anyway. I think I have to dismiss this one.” He looks at me with an expression that says he does not forgive my disruption of the flow of justice in his court. “I would have done that anyway, but thank you.”

  Somewhat red of face, Constable Pound gives me close inspection as he walks from the courtroom. He may be one of those many prideful members of the force who tend to take their losses as personal humiliations.

  Stoney just sits in his chair wearing a big smile as the morning carries on: an agenda of the typical detritus of a country court — setting dates, adjournments, a couple of guilty pleas to driving offences.

  “I’m really thirsty,” says Judge Wilkie. “Why isn’t there any water in this place? I want to take a break, and I’d like someone to get me some water. We’ll do the small claims cases after.”

  I wander out with Stoney for a smoke. He is in a merry mood. “This year my grow ain’t on the property. They’ll never find it. For this, a whole new paint job on the Rolls and I’m gonna build you a garage that’s like a palace. I wanna stay and watch you in action. Hey, man, if there’s any way I can help you in this thing with Mrs. Blake’s pig, you tell me, eh?”

  Like all readers of the Island Echo, Stoney is familiar with the pertinent details of the case. The betting on the island is that I will win hands down. Though Margaret Blake is popular — despite her occasional bite — her wandering animals are not. Friends have parted with her on this issue. So the pressure is on me to win this test case, to make a stand against the Garibaldi Island obstacle course.

  I puff my pipe and ponder my dilemma. By winning, I will do terminal damage to any hopes of closing the rift with Mrs. Blake. But no, I will not play dead for her. My current win streak stands at fourteen: it shall not be broken in Garibaldi Small Claims Court.

  But I see I am facing no unworthy foe. Mrs. Blake is truckling to the judge, pouring him ice water from a Thermos. She can’t be faulted — it is a clever act of generosity, but now I must work from a slight disadvantage. To boot, I am in poor mental condition. I still have l’affaire Lemay on my mind: It is not concentrated.

  But that will change. When the case is called I shall become another person. I will doff the garb ofWalter Mitty and don the cape and tights of the man of steel.

  Judge Wilkie wipes his lips and effusively expresses his thanks to Mrs. Blake, and we follow him back into the building.

  “Blake versus Beauchamp,” the clerk announces.

  I hear Margaret Blake coming forward, her heels tapping on the wooden floor. I cannot meet her eyes. I feel oafish, clumsy.

  Mrs. Blake is forceful in her description of that fateful night when the defendant came to her door to confess. She speaks caringly of Betsy, and attempts to justify her outrageous claim for a hundred dollars on every basis but the relevant one: current market value of a pig.

  “Do you have any questions, Mr. Beauchamp?”

  I rise, pulling on my braces then snapping them, a habit of mine when commencing cross-examination. “Mrs. Blake, I shall go right to the point. You have received dozens of complaints about your animals being loose and wandering onto the road.”

  She speaks without a tremor. “I have free-range chickens, Mr. Beauchamp. I can’t pen them up. I run a farm. I have animals on this farm. People have to be careful. Most people know they have to be careful.”

  “The animal that struck my car was not a free-range chicken.”

  “Betsy must have tunnelled out from her pen. I don’t know what speed you were going, though I suppose you will say you were under the limit —”

  “Quite so. I was.”

  Here Judge Wilkie interrupts, in a fashion I consider unkindly. “Was there any indication the defendant had been drinking?”

  “He was quite sober. He had all his senses. He should have seen my pig at the side of the road, and he didn’t. Or couldn’t.”

  “I could see perfectly well, Mrs. Blake. Had the pig been in front of me, I would have braked. I assume the animal darted from the side of the road.”

  “From your right-hand side.”

  “Yes.”

  “You knew my animals sometimes strayed.”

  “All too well.”

  “Did you know you were nearing my house?”

  “I saw your house. Your yardlights were out, making it all the darker.”

  “Well, if you were looking at my house y
ou weren’t looking at the road.”

  Touché. I am stunned. I glance at Stoney, who seems to have lost some of his respect for his hero. I attempt to compose myself with a display of forensics. “Madam, I am supposed to be cross-examining you, not the other way around.”

  “Okay, ask me what you want.”

  Suddenly, as I stare into her dark, pulling, confident eyes, I find myself at a loss. I can think of not a single question. She has quite confounded me.

  “Fine. I have no questions.”

  “Do you have any other witnesses, Mrs. Blake?” the judge says.

  “I’d like to call Mr. Stonewell.”

  My mind roils in confusion. Stoney? What could he add to her story?

  As he is being sworn in, he looks at me and shrugs.

  “Stoney, I heard you did some repairs on Mr. Beauchamp’s Rolls-Royce afterwards.”

  “There was a dent in the fender I straightened, yeah. And some other things.”

  “One of which was the right headlamp.” It comes back in a rush. I had totally forgotten. My headlight was out. “It wasn’t working at all, was it?”

  “Yeah, well, yeah. I’d have to say that. The right headlight had been kinda burned out.”

  “And it was the right bumper that was dented?”

  “Yes. I admit that.” Stoney looks at me guiltily.

  It is a rout. I, the indomitable Beauchamp, am being chewed alive in this courtroom. I sag into my folding chair like a whipped dog.

  “Your honour,” says Mrs. Blake, “you have heard Mr. Beauchamp say he could see perfectly well. But he was driving blind in one eye.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, do you have some evidence you want to call?”

  “No, your honour. I surrender.”

  I am seized by a barely controlled urge to burst into laughter. I must struggle to maintain control.

  “Well, Mr. Beauchamp, I think you’re in some trouble here.”

  “I agree, your honour.” A small sound escapes from my voice box: a self-disparaging chuckle.

  “You could be fined a hundred dollars for that front light, and I’m going to add it as punitive damages on to the hundred dollars you owe Mrs. Blake. That may be a little steep for a pig, but that’s what she says and I haven’t heard anything to the contrary.”

  He is smiling, too. He is enjoying the humiliation of the city-slicker lawyer. “Plus costs,” he adds. “I’m afraid I have to make an example of you, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  Stoney, looking very serious and awkward, squats beside me. “Gee, sorry about that. Should I have lied?”

  I find myself trembling, enduring an agony of stifled laughter. It breaks free, at first in little rumbling chuckles, then in a rich thunder.

  My laughter is astonishingly infectious, and clerk and judge give in, then Stoney, and those in the gallery, even Nelson Forbish. And even, ultimately, Margaret Blake, a musical laughter, like bells.

  I cannot remember when I have enjoyed myself more than on this last Monday ofJuly.

  The court finally adjourns, and I find myself outside, packing tobacco into the bowl of my pipe while still suffering the aftershock of my mirth attack. Margaret Blake is standing by the open door of her truck — she is smiling, too.

  She slings her bag into the cab and walks briskly over to me.

  “Congratulations,” I say. I shake her hand — I am used to the soft hands of city women; hers is firm, callused but warm. No dirt underneath the fingernails today.

  “I’ll probably spend most of it on fencing.”

  “If you ever decide to take up law, Mrs. Blake, I shall be glad I retired.”

  “Law? God, no. I see you’ve traded in your cigarettes for a pipe.”

  “Am I to be sued for that?”

  “No, it’s better. I like the smell of it. More organic. They put saltpetre in cigarettes to keep them burning, did you know that? It’s an ingredient of gunpowder, so you can imagine what it does to your insides. Don’t call me Mrs. Blake. It makes me feel old.”

  I want to say how youthful and attractive she looks, but again she has me tongue-tied.

  “I liked what you did for Stoney, Arthur. That was decent.”

  She proffers her hand and we shake again, and she returns to her truck, then cocks her head and casts me a sideways look. Have I aroused in her at least some mild curiosity? Or is that smile a secret one, inspired by images of me and Emily Lemay in gross combination?

  Nelson Forbish hones in on me as I make for my own vehicle.

  “Mr. Beauchamp —”

  “Not now, Nelson.” I escape.

  She is in front of me all the way down Breadloaf Hill, along Centre Road, up Potter’s Road. I can see the nape of her slender neck. I can see her smile in her rearview mirror.

  Good morning, Kimberley.

  Morning, Dr. Kropinski. Well, it’s over. I wrote my second paper yesterday. Con law. Gee, that sounds like a course on how to be crooked. Constitutional law.

  How did you do?

  I think a B-minus at least.

  This accounts for your good spirits, yes?

  Now I can spend the rest of the summer trying not to think about my trial. God, it’s just a month away.

  You will not be able to stop thinking about it. Do not let it consume you.

  No. I’m just going to go in there and tell the truth. And I am telling the truth. I got straight A’s on their lie detector. So I’m not going to carry the trial around with me like some kind of monster on my back. Anyway, I’ve got Cynthia to keep my mind busy. She’s the new me. She’s the character I play in Switch?

  Oh, your play. How are the rehearsals coming?

  I’m pretty good, I’m surprising everybody. We open in a week. . . . It’s just a little tin can of a theatre. Just four main players and several bit parts. Oh, here’s some tickets for you and your wife. Opening night.

  You are most kind.

  Don’t be offended — there’s some tart language. I will steel myself.

  I had a fight with the playwright — he thinks he’s such an intellectual with his satirical, jaded outlook and all. Some of his stuff is witty, but he just can’t write for women. I’m going to refuse to do the Marilyn Monroe routine, the blonde with tits for brains. Let’s reinforce that stereotype, guys, the cutout cardboard doll. So I’m helping him rewrite the lines — we’ve come up with a couple of zingers. I’m now sort of sexy but clever, with a kind of flower-child edge. There’s a little nudity, but it’s necessary to the script. The play’s about two swinging couples. It’s coming together, there’s a nice undercurrent ofjealousy:The men get possessive as the women bond.

  It sounds intriguing.

  Remy and I had this humungous battle over it the other night, just after my last exam. I was feeling very up, happy as heck, and I was regaling him about the play, and suddenly he screamed at me: “You mean you’re going to be half naked on a public stage?” He used the word obscene, ranted about how he was going to be disgraced in front of all his friends. Sometimes Remy really gets centred on himself. His friends, his fiancée, his fucking career. He thinks a public revealing of a breast or two will be used to embarrass me at the trial. I’m not going to censor myself because a man attacked me. Remy doesn’t want me on the stage at all. Doesn’t want me to have a career. Wants babies. I don’t intend to be locked away in some goddamn nursery for the next ten years. I have a life. Well, we didn’t sleep together that night. Is this what you call ventilation? God, I can’t stop, I’m on a roll.

  I … I am sorry, you make me laugh.

&nbs
p; I’ll settle down. I’m kind of hyper today.

  There is nothing wrong with that.

  So, what else? I woke up with the sweats a few nights ago after a dream. I couldn’t retrieve all of it. It starred Jonathan O’Donnell, but it wasn’t one of my run-of-the-mill nightmares. He seemed sad and lonely, and he was trying to talk to me, but I couldn’t understand him; I couldn’t hear his voice. But I wasn’t scared of him like I am in my nightmares. I’m angry. I want to hit him, but I can’t reach him. It’s as if we can’t communicate. And my mother showed up, warning me to stay away from him. You’re making notes. Am I revealing something significant?

  It is of interest. Has Professor O’Donnell been in other dreams?

  Yes, he comes to me . . . I mean, he shows up in the oddest dreams sometimes. But not as someone menacing … I don’t know how to explain.

  These are not like your nightmares about being attacked. Have you had any recently?

  Bad one last week.

  They have been more severe since this business with Professor O’Donnell, yes?

  They were for a while.

  But he does not appear in them?

  Not in those dreams. But, you know, I’ve had them since I was a kid.

  Have you ever been hypnotized?

  Uh-huh. Once. Do you think there’s something back there, hiding? Is it like some terrible little alien monster is inside me, trying to come out?

  I would not put it so vividly. I do not know, Kimberley. There may be, yes, pushed deep down. The usual signs of post-traumatic stress disorder, these you do not exhibit, but there may be some amnesia — this is what we call a dissociated memory. If so, there is nothing to be afraid of to try to recover it, yes?

  I’m not sure about being hypnotized. When I was fifteen, I went to this show. Some charlatan, I guess he was, made me into a chicken, and I was clucking and flapping all over the stage. Apparently I tried to lay an egg. Utterly mortifying.

  I work in a different way, yes? No chicken, no egg.

  I have finished my tai chi (the Repulse Monkey: cross hands, roll back, transfer weight onto right foot) and am now sitting on a divan on my front porch, leafing through a pile of old Echoes. I am bathed by a sun still hot but falling to the horizon, its light burning upon the softly rolling inner sea and painting the clouds pink beneath a cerulean sky. Only the pained cries of nails being wrenched free from boards mar this perfect evening. Behind the house, Stoney and Dog are working late disassembling the remains of my garage. It is the day after Margaret Blake and I shook hands in agreement to war no more. Tomorrow I will visit her with the cheque.