Stung

by William Deverell

  After showering away the body sweat — he’d heated up with anger at that irritating excuse for a judge — Arthur heads to the dining room. He picks up a Globe, takes a small table by the window, the view suiting his mood: rain squalling down on Howe Street. He has deliberately chosen to sit as far away as possible from Nathaniel Shawcross, who is across the room, entertaining a pair of TexAmerica directors. They are jolly. They are drinking champagne.

  They haven’t noticed Arthur hiding behind his newspaper. Their view is also hampered by four large men seated next to him, retired industry leaders, in their cups, loudly solving the world’s terrorism problem.

  “We’ve got them right here in Canada.”

  “Those hippie degenerates got away scot-free.” The Chemican invaders, Arthur assumes.

  “Marxist revolutionaries. We coddle them in our universities.”

  Leafing through the front section of the Globe, Arthur finds a brief account of the aftermath of the Chemican break-in, the company making a lot of noise about smears and distortions as its secrets continue to pour through the busy portals of the internet. None of the hippie degenerates arrested yet, the authorities tight-lipped. “Our inquiries are continuing.” A terse rebuff to the press from Inspector Jake Maguire, of the OPP.

  Jake Maguire. Arthur thinks back. Wasn’t he the lead investigator in the Ciccini mob hit in London, Ontario? A few decades ago. A double homicide that fell apart when a key witness recanted. Arthur remembers buying Maguire — a detective sergeant then — a few consolation drinks after the trial. More than a few. Maguire seemed a likeable guy, despite his considerable animus toward the courts and the legal profession. Arthur had stood his ground, and they departed, drunkenly, on good terms. That was a year or so before Arthur went on the wagon.

  Arthur retrieves his phone. For what it’s worth, he’d promised Selwyn he would seek Margaret’s advice about representing the Earth Survival people. “I’m fine with whatever you decide,” that’s her mantra, that’s what he wants to hear. She’ll surely understand his reluctance — she worries about his atrophying brain: his many lapses, his foggy memory, his scribbled reminders scattered about the house. His Jeremiah hallucinations.

  It’s close to ten in Ottawa, but she’s at her desk, dissecting the Budget Speech.

  “Any good news in it?”

  “More moolah for scientific research. The Pest Management Regulatory Agency relied on an American contractor for the Vigor-Gro testing, and the Health Minister is scrambling for excuses and fixes. What’s your good news?”

  A sardonic snort prefaces his tale of Innes’s fawning over a bullying corporation, his enjoining the protesters, his caustic dismissals of Selwyn’s every line of attack.

  He dares not mention Selwyn’s risky relationship with the Earth Survival Rebellion and simply explains that Selwyn had inquired whether Arthur would be available in case any of these rebels were arrested.

  “He inquired?”

  “Importuned might be the better word. Impossible, of course, given the toll the years have taken. I’m . . . let’s accept it, devolving into quite the scatterbrain.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. Maybe you’ve mislaid a few marbles temporarily, but that’s because your mind is so active elsewhere that you’ve stopped being observant. You’re still quick-witted and perceptive behind that lazy charade of pretending you have half your wits. I’ve seen you do a Times crossword in ten minutes.”

  Arthur is stunned by this exaggerated bill of health, based on flimsy evidence. “I am quick-witted enough to know that such a trial would be better fought by someone else. There are several extremely sharp criminal counsel in Toronto.”

  His favourite, Nancy Faulk, is embroiled in her own nasty divorce action, and advised, in her acerbic way: “Arthur, I’d drop everything, including my pants, to work with you again — you lead, I’ll follow, Astaire and Rogers — but I ain’t fucking doing it without you. I’m in a domestic crisis.”

  So Arthur had to give up on her. He has been on the horn to several others, but all are tied up.

  Margaret is relentless: “The activists who did that raid are heroes. And they may be in trouble — some over-height beanpole of a cop has been showing photos of two young women they suspect are involved — they were volunteers at the Bee-In. Staff have been instructed to keep mum. I hope no one gets arrested but if they do I believe you need to take them on. I know you. Once you get your teeth into it, you’ll get your focus back. And your self-confidence.”

  “Do I understand you’re suggesting I need that trial?”

  “I am. So you can be proud of yourself again.”

  That hurts. “Well, I’m sorry. I don’t need the strain. I have a farm to run. Ulysses threatened to follow me to the ferry yesterday, for God’s sake. I absolutely have to spend more time with him. And we’re losing Stefan at some point, so I’ll be sorely needed at the farm.”

  A long sigh. “Okay. Sorry, darling, I shouldn’t push you.”

  “Anyway, they’re probably in some safe haven in Latin America or somewhere. Hiding out with comrades in the Brazilian jungle.” He concludes, weakly: “I love you.”

  “Love you back.” They disconnect.

  Arthur watches a server approach Shawcross’s table with another bottle of Mumm’s. Meanwhile, the tycoons next table down are worried about their investments.

  “Our adviser says cut and run. Chemican has an image problem. Growing worse.”

  “I’m staying in, old boy. Once this bee business blows over, they’ll be back up there with Bayer.”

  “It’s mites, I read that they lay eggs in the beehives and the baby mites bore into the bees’ brains and suck them dry until they’re too disoriented to find the hive.”

  A menu is placed in front of Arthur. He no longer feels hungry. “The mushroom soup will do, I think.” Surely they can’t enhance mushroom growth with Vigor-Gro.

  He opens his newspaper to the Times crossword.

  3

  Thursday, September 20

  Across from the bustling harbour, the North Shore Mountains emerge wet and shining from the shrinking fluffs of cotton that once were rain clouds. The sun has burst forth, drawing Arthur from his gloom, propelling him down to the Seawall at eight a.m. to join the joggers and cyclists hastening to Stanley Park.

  The pleasant day brings at least feeble hope. Maybe Selwyn will make a lucky draw in the lottery that is the daily docket at the Law Courts. A liberal justice who abominates the Koch brothers and their ilk. A birder, a fancier of cliff swallows and peregrine falcons. Imagine, m’lord, a mining company being permitted to tear up Stanley Park . . .

  An unlikely fancy. They’ll get some antediluvian sourpuss with a portfolio of mining stocks.

  He slings his suit jacket over a shoulder as the day continues to warm, and enters the vast, forested peninsula that adorns the towered city like an emerald tiara. Malkin Bowl, Hallelujah Point, the totems, these familiar sights barely registering as he replays Margaret’s diagnosis. Has he really been performing a lazy charade of being addle-brained? Has he invented an excuse for his waning confidence? And is that born of the dread of being too sorely tested, of ending his career in failure? Maybe so, but he dares not risk making a mess of things, losing these brave mavericks to a long term in a federal penitentiary.

  He makes it all the way to Brockton Oval, then circles back by Lumbermen’s Arch. He is sorely missing Ulysses, who ought to be proudly at his side among the many dog walkers with their everyday little spaniels and terriers.

  He exits the park at Nelson Street for the long trudge to the Law Courts. Selwyn’s hearing is set for ten, and Arthur is a few minutes late, but he stops outside the registry to read the docket. Noggins et al v. Garibaldi Island Trust Council and TexAmerica Stoneworks Ltd., Court 41, Madam Justice M. Pearl presiding.

  Mandy Pearl? He blinks, focuses — it’s
no hallucination. Mandy Pearl, the wise, thoughtful trial lawyer with whom he’d shared not only courtrooms but rooms more intimate, whom he’d feted at a bar dinner on her appointment to the bench three years ago. She was elevated to the Court of Appeal just this spring.

  He hastens to the escalator, then up the stairs, avoiding the elevators — too slow for him — and on reaching the door to the Appeal Court chambers, takes a deep breath and enters, depositing himself in the back row, unobtrusive, unnoticed.

  Selwyn is decrying the projected pillaging of parkland that has long served as a favourite playground for Garibaldians, for their children. Shawcross is staring balefully at him, looking wan, hungover. Sitting behind him are the two TexAmerica directors with whom he was making merry last night, looking equally discomposed. Members of SOQ have returned in force, augmented by several parents, teachers, and children, a school outing. Hamish McCoy sits beside Taba with arms folded, scowling but behaved. Kurt Zoller has turned up too, alone, friendless.

  And there on her dais is Madam Justice Mandy Pearl, listening intently, making notes. A petite, dimpled, grey-streaked blond no less pleasing to the eye than three decades ago when she rescued Arthur from alcoholic despair.

  She is either not aware of Arthur’s presence, or is pretending not to be.

  Memories flood. It was 1987. He had just finished a tense, ugly murder case while on the wagon, desperately trying to break his addiction. Mandy, in her late twenties, had been junior counsel on the opposite side, and for no reason he could divine seemed to be keen on him.

  After the trial, on returning to his car, he found Annabelle, his perfidious first wife, in its back seat under a thrusting, bellowing Wagnerian tenor. Arthur fled, in search of strong drink. Mandy traced him to a restaurant where he was powering through multiple martinis.

  She made a citizen’s arrest, bundled him into her car, bedded him down in her condo, and they made love for a week until he was on the dry again.

  He has not had a drink since. Mandy saved his career, maybe his life, even though Arthur did return to Annabelle, his other cruel addiction. Mandy remained single, gave her full devotion to the law, but she and Arthur remained friends. No one knew of their short, intense affaire d’amour.

  Mandy is obviously aware that Arthur R. Beauchamp is a party to this action — he is named as such. Ought she to have recused herself? There’s still no sign of recognition from her — but he’s slouching behind a large, half-asleep retiree, the type of fellow who wanders about the courts looking for drama. Likely, he’ll find none here.

  Shawcross has become alert to the judge’s obvious interest in Selwyn’s argument, his attack on the concept that mining rights defeat all comers: the legislation was archaic, unsuited to modern times. Selwyn answers Mandy’s questions succinctly and with clarity. She is clearly intrigued by his uncanny ability to quote precedent verbatim without eyesight.

  As Selwyn concludes, the bulky fellow in front of Arthur gets up to leave, and Mandy takes a quick glance their way, then down, expressionless. That she dared not look him in the eye could bode ill, he fears. That she seemed so encouraging to Selwyn could be a way of letting him down easy.

  Why must Arthur always retreat to the dark side? Mandy does not play games. That is demonstrated when Shawcross, taking his turn, gets into tough going.

  “But as I understand it, Mr. Shawcross, this land was deeded as a community park long before your client obtained mining rights. That was only three years ago.”

  “Mining rights have prevailed in this province since 1891, M’Lady.”

  “Is a nineteenth-century act appropriate for the twenty-first century?”

  Shawcross seems shocked by the boldness of that question. His ambiguous response is delivered in a frantic tone of disbelief — could a stay-work order actually be in the cards? A full appeal could not be heard for many months. He complains that TexAmerica would lose half a million dollars for each week their operations are held up — an obvious exaggeration.

  “Well, that’s too bad,” Her Ladyship says. “But doesn’t the fault lay with the company for rushing ahead without a proper environmental study? For lack of due diligence? For failing to properly consult with the community?”

  “That is simply not the case, with respect. The island’s two elected Trustees were fully briefed and are enthusiastically in accord with this project.”

  “Yet the petition filed by Mr. Loo bears four hundred signatures — two-thirds of the island’s population.”

  “Your Ladyship may note that a substantial number of those are children.”

  “And children have no right to be heard?”

  “The issue, M’Lady, is the supremacy of mining rights under long-settled law.”

  “As I read the Islands Trust Act, its object is to preserve and protect the unique amenities and environment for the benefit of everyone in the province. That’s a sweeping mandate. Do you not agree there is at least an appealable issue here? Do we allow mining corporations to run rampant over sensitive areas protected by law?”

  Shawcross may be wishing he hadn’t overdone it last night. He is palpably in physical pain, and muffs the wording of precedents relied on. Finally, cornered, he is forced to concede there is no case on point involving the primacy of the Mining Act over the Trust Act. He has no answer as to why no environmental assessment was made.

  The lawyer for the Garibaldi Islands Trust, aware of how the wind is blowing, says he has nothing to add.

  Mandy rules: “All operations of the respondent with respect to Quarry Park will cease until this court meets in full session to hear the appeal.”

  Zoller stalks out. The room applauds.

  “Order!” cries the sheriff.

  Mirabile visu. It was wonderful to behold.

  * * *

  Taba scampishly locks elbows with Arthur as Selwyn leads them unerringly to the Robson Square exit and into this benign end-of-summer day, tap-tapping along the walkway among the rushing waterfalls and floral gardens. Arthur and Taba are on their way to the Pacific Centre parkade to meet Herman Schloss, a wealthy retiree and the treasurer of SOQ, who will be taking them to the island ferry in his hybrid SUV.

  “You were on top of your game,” says Arthur.

  “I had not imagined it would be so easy. Incredible judge, Ms. Pearl. Have you had previous dealings with her?”

  Arthur frames a careful answer. “Long ago we did some things together.”

  “Like what?” says Taba. “Did you fuck her?”

  Selwyn seems a little shocked at Taba’s earthy humour, then he laughs. So does Arthur, though with a hoarse rasp.

  * * *

  Herman Schloss has invited a full complement of boisterous friends into his commodious SUV, into which Arthur secures a position midway in the back seat. He fully expects Taba to squeeze in beside him or even perch on his lap. But instead she accepts Schloss’s invitation to join him up front.

  Arthur isn’t sure why he feels miffed by that. Or by the hug and kiss she bestows on Schloss, a ruddy, handsome man in his sixties. He’s currently on marriage sabbatical, his actress wife doing a bit part in Hollywood. A generous fellow, he’d forked out for the group’s multi-room Airbnb.

  As they work their way through city traffic, Arthur pretends to ignore Taba’s coquettish deportment — leaning toward Schloss, touching, pulling her blouse tight over those heroic breasts. The thought is laughable that he might feel jealousy, a pitiable emotion to whom only those of feeble character fall prey. After all, he and Taba have solemnly agreed on a truce from her flirtatious advances. He is pleased, he tells himself, that she has honoured their pact.

  * * *

  While his fellow SOQers celebrate over a twenty-six of rum in a stateroom of the Queen George, Arthur settles into a secluded nook and phones Margaret, pulling her away briefly from a staff meeting.

  “Brilliant,” she says.
“Congratulations.”

  “All credit to Selwyn Loo.”

  “Give him a smooch for me. You owe him big time, buddy.”

  * * *

  Arthur’s Fargo is waiting for him in Ferryboat Landing’s upper lot, so he goes ashore on foot. As he strides across the ramp, he stops short, frozen with shock at seeing Ulysses waiting, furiously wagging his tail, now racing to him gleefully.

  “Been here a couple of hours, Mr. Beauchamp,” says one of the local ferrymen. “But he’s been good. Gave him water and a ham sandwich, hope you don’t mind.”

  Arthur is nonplussed — how did Ulysses again break out of Blunder Bay? He’d given strict instructions to Stefan and Solara to shore up the snake fence and keep the driveway gate closed. And how, except through some arcane doggy instinct, did Ulysses know Arthur would be arriving on this boat?

  But here comes bad news — Constable Dugald pulling up in his Ford Explorer. He steps out, scowling. “Your goddamn wolfhound has been running loose.”

  “I regret that, Irwin. The gate must not have been latched. He’s just a pup. Quite harmless.”

  Dugald lurches back as Ulysses leaps at him. Arthur has to grab him around the neck to pull them apart. “He’s just being playful,” Arthur says, wincing. “See? He likes you. Good dog. Sit.”

  But Ulysses is too excited to sit. He wants to play with his new friend, and dances behind him for a rear-end sniff. Again, Arthur must corral him.

  Dugald brushes a dusty paw print from his uniform. “I got nothing against dogs. Used to have one. But you don’t secure this hound, I’m looking to laying charges under the Animals Bylaw. That means the pound. He’s a hunting dog, right? We got livestock all over this island, and if he takes down a sheep there’ll be hell to pay. Any farmer has a right to shoot him. We don’t want to have to put him down.”