Stung

by William Deverell

  Old bull Jake Maguire is just back from Hawaii. Third row, left, with his sidekick Gaylene Roberts, now a Detective Inspector, promoted for busting us. Maguire looks tanned but not relaxed, very stiff in fact, maybe still freaked over Lucy’s penilingus photo and the prospect of the press getting hold of it. Or maybe he’s just grumpy about having to tie up loose ends before he can fully retire. The deadly duo, I gather, are back in town to prep their team of witnesses for next month’s trial.

  Their star hitter is, of course, Howie Griffin, batting cleanup despite last year’s slump. (The Jays’ opening day is only a couple of weeks away. Do they let you watch the games in prison?) I’m still spinning after Nancy Faulk threw this curve: Have you ever considered the big goof may still be in love with you?

  Howie isn’t here today, but he’s been subpoenaed for May 13, first day of our trial. I won’t be able to look at him when he testifies. My eyes will be downcast in shame.

  I am near the entrance, and as a court officer slips inside I see Nancy pacing out there. She is on the dry, her divorce proceedings on hold. But if it’s not one thing it’s another, and high-strung Nancy Faulk is tearing out her hair over Arthur Beauchamp’s nonattendance.

  He was supposed to do the talking today because, unfortunately for Nancy (and us), she’d called this judge a fascist cunt at a bar retreat several years ago. Nancy was smashed, a mitigating factor that, along with a formal apology, saved her from disbarment. Her backup position, if it turns out Beauchamp has absconded to Bolivia with the defence fund, is asking Donahue to recuse herself by reason of their mutual loathing. No one sees her pulling that off.

  We have yet to file a Missing Persons Advisory for Beauchamp, but there has been total loss of contact since late yesterday. His last words, to Nancy, were that he’d just missed an afternoon departure from Vancouver and hoped to catch the Midnight Express, the flight from hell, he called it. He should have landed two hours ago. There have been no reports of airline crashes. Maybe his phone went dead.

  There was much media ado over the bravery of his mahoosive dog, Ulysses, in rescuing a child, and over the assassination of Tigger, a cougar whom the kind-hearted islanders loved despite its faults. The demands made of Beauchamp kept him tied to the island all Friday and Saturday. He was on the weekend news, railing against an evil mining company. The assassination of Tigger was symbolic “of how these heartless invaders plan to ravage our island.” He pressed for a company henchman — Tug McCool? — to be charged. It was a spirited rant. I thought: save some for us.

  Colleen Donahue sees she may lose the media, accelerates her delivery, a sprint for home: “Victims of severe abuse must not be allowed to assume they have licences to kill, either in cold blood or hot. Leniency in this case would send a wrong message. I impose on you a sentence of life imprisonment.”

  She is a fascist cunt. The Earth Survival Rebellion is at the mercy of a heartless judge.

  Tearful Ginnie is led out in handcuffs to murmurs of disapproval when there should be calls for outright rebellion. Lucy and I tightly hold hands.

  Donahue gives the press a moment to capture this climactic moment, as Ginnie’s lawyer stalks out, muttering about an appeal. Then the judge asks, “Are counsel here for Regina versus Knutsen and Six Others, and can they identify themselves for the record?”

  A rhetorical question because she can see that no defence counsel are here. The urbane, dreamy-eyed Deputy A.G. rises, and says, “Azra Khan for the Crown.”

  He introduces his juniors: a bland-faced person with slicked-down hair, apparently male though possibly a cyborg, and a gawky, enraptured female student-at-law who has been leering lasciviously at Khan all morning. “My learned friends from the defence side seem not to be here.”

  Donahue asks a court officer to take a peek in the hallway. Assuming the judge will order a break, half the reporters leave, hoping, I guess, to phone in the Littledeer weeper.

  But suddenly there’s gridlock at the courtroom doorway. Exiting journalists return, some walking backwards. They form an unruly honour guard for man of the hour, who strides in like an angry Moses, unshaven, rumpled hair, revealing a flash of bright red suspenders as he shrugs into his robes.

  “Arthur Beauchamp for the defence,” he announces.

  2

  Judge Donahue has directed her senior clerk, Miss Pucket, to remind us we belong in the prisoners’ box. Our lawyers have decided this is not an issue they want to waste energy on. Arthur Beauchamp told us to imagine ourselves as royalty, with uniformed ushers escorting us to the best seats in the house, front and centre.

  It’s almost twelve and a half minutes since Beauchamp’s theatrical arrival. If I deciphered Donahue’s twitches correctly, she couldn’t tell if his entrance was spontaneous or staged and so wasn’t sure whether to tangle with him. All she said was, “Very well. Resume in twelve and a half minutes.”

  Such exactness. Why not ten or fifteen? I wonder if she’s seeing anyone for her OCD.

  So it turns out Beauchamp’s plane was an hour late, he didn’t know enough to take the train in, his cab got stalled on the 401, and he forgot to bring a charger for his phone. It wasn’t much of a mystery after all. As I get to know him better I’m learning such lapses aren’t rare. Hope they won’t impair his performance this morning. Already he doesn’t look ready, with his sour expression and baggy eyes — he can’t have had much sleep.

  With Arthur on the case, Nancy has chilled, or at least lowered her hysteria to a manageable level. At the defence table, to our left, they study her laptop screen, some legal precedent or maybe, for all I know, cat videos on YouTube. At the table to our right sits Azra Khan, next to the student who wants to fuck him, who’s next to the cyborg.

  Barrel-shaped Madam Justice Donahue bounds up to her dais, glances at the clock, checking it against her watch, then puts her glasses on, wrinkles her bunny nose, and finally speaks: “The issue is whether the defence of necessity is available to the accused. Since this is a motion from the court, it behooves me to offer some initial comments.

  “As I understand it, both defence and prosecution have engaged the services of numerous expert witnesses travelling from afar. It would be a waste of their valuable time, and, similarly, the court’s time and resources, if their evidence is ultimately ruled inadmissible. I am bound, as I see it, by this language from the Supreme Court of Canada in Regina v. Osolin — ‘Speculative defences that are unfounded should not be presented to the jury. To do so would be wrong, confusing, and unnecessarily lengthen jury trials.’”

  And she goes on like that, literally making the case for the prosecution: plug the defendants’ only escape hole, whisk them off to the pokey, let’s not waste the court’s time. But Azra Khan doesn’t seem offended at being usurped, or even interested in her spiel — in fact he has turned to look at us. Or more particularly, me. I remember that look from the escalator: appraising me as he bantered with the press, a look I gave right back at him, letting him know I was uncowed by the famous prosecutor, unflattered by his interest.

  Does a smile tug at his lips? Impulsively, the mischief imp takes over the cockpit controls: I wink. The merest flick of an eyelid, but it causes him to turn away, as if caught being naughty. Score one for Rivie.

  Donahue continues, “I do not seek to denigrate a rare but important defence. But before necessity can be put to the jury, I must be persuaded there’s an air of reality to it on the facts, given it is available only in urgent situations of clear and imminent peril when there’s no lawful way out.”

  She looks up, removes her specs. “I see you are standing, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  He is, with his thumbs under his red suspenders. Donahue seems to have more to say, maybe a final punchline, but brings the matter to a head: “Very well, counsel, please persuade me that the necessity defence is applicable to the facts of this case.”

  “If I may be so bold, M’Lady, what f
acts are those?”

  Hesitation. “The facts alleged against your clients, Mr. Beauchamp.”

  “With due respect, M’Lady, facts that are alleged aren’t facts. They are not facts until they pass the courtroom smell test.” Spoken in the rich, reverberating voice that I guess he saves for the court, Olivier playing Hamlet. Or Gielgud. Voices remembered from my year of Shakespeare.

  A lovely titter running through the Bee-Dazzle section gets a glare from the judge but no sound escapes those clamped lips.

  Arthur stays with his condescending tone, as if to a student, which I suspect is deliberate, to piss her off: “It is not the judge but the jury, as the trier of fact, that, according to centuries of British and Canadian law, must decide whether an urgent situation of imminent peril exists and whether all other avenues to meet it are closed. When all the evidence is in we propose to argue that the defendants’ actions saved human lives that were in immediate peril.”

  With that he snaps his red braces for emphasis, and carries on:

  “It would be a clear error of law to close off a defence before it has been raised. That would result in long, costly, and needless delay, because an appeal based on that error of law would likely succeed and a new trial would follow before a different judge and jury.”

  Right back at you, Donahue. He’s saying, Hey, lady, don’t be a schmuck and risk an appeal, you could blow this chance to bathe in the bubble bath of this front-page trial. She seems pretty stubborn, though, hard to tell if his pitch to ego will pay off. Especially since he’s being so curt and frank.

  They haven’t got off to a great start, these two. I can’t figure why he wants to inflame this judge so early in the game. Maybe he’s just grumpy over having had to rush sleepless into this tense courtroom. Maybe it’s round one of a battle to decide who owns this court.

  “In my submission a dangerous precedent is set — a threat to civil rights and the rule of law — if a court denies an accused the right to raise a defence without having heard its full nature. Especially if a judge makes up her or his mind from pretrial hearsay and press reports.”

  An icy stillness prevails. Donahue’s voice finally forces its way through clenched teeth: “I hope, Mr. Beauchamp, that you have recovered from what I understand was a long travel ordeal. Do you wish to have a break to reconsider the words just spoken?”

  Arthur spurns her thinly disguised demand for an apology: “Not at all, M’Lady, I am raring to go.”

  He’s not kidding. This is something I noticed about him from the bail hearing: the court transforms him, becomes his theatre, he its star performer, eloquent and sly, with great marksmanship.

  “Let me state my concern clearly: the Toronto public, from whom a jury will be chosen, will perceive that you have belittled the necessity defence, only weeks before the trial is to open, with remarks like ‘waste of valuable time,’ ‘extremely rare and difficult defence,’ or, last week, ‘we don’t want experts flying in from all over the world.’ The very fact that you have brought this motion sua sponte suggests a bias.”

  Major points for Arthur Beauchamp. He has taunted Donahue to shoot back: “You will find, here in Toronto, that our public are not obedient sheep. Those who will be empanelled can invariably be trusted to make up their own minds.” Point for the judge.

  “In which case they should be trusted to hear our defence.” Point for my guy.

  “Counsel, you overstate and distort a simple procedural issue. And I take offence to your imputation that I have made up my mind.”

  I get it. Arthur wants to drive her off the case somehow, make her quit, get her recused, or whatever they do. I remember Selwyn Loo musing over that strategy. He’s missing the fun today, his pipeline case in BC dragging on.

  There’s murmuring in the court, and Miss Pucket calls for silence while staring aghast at this interloper from Canada’s western shores. I had expected a different movie: Beauchamp against Khan, the old gunslinger against the suave federal marshal. But Khan just sits there, suppressing a smile, staying out of this barroom brawl.

  Donahue can no longer look at the media, whose reviews may not look so hot over tomorrow’s coffee and paper. The hard thrower drafted from Vancouver is throwing strikes not against the prosecution team — those three silent spectators — but at the umpire. She digs her cleats in, takes a swing: “I expect you to respond, Counsel. Do you accuse me of already having decided this issue?”

  “I very much want to believe that is not the case, despite views expressed in the national media, including one from a CBC newscaster who predicted we would merely go through the motions today. I can only hope these commentators were wildly off the mark and that Your Ladyship shows an open mind on the necessity issue.”

  That’s evil. He’s boxed her into a corner where she’ll look like a shit if she strips us naked and leaves us defenceless. Judge Rebuked for Pre-Judging. It finally dawns on me that Beauchamp’s threat of an appeal and a new trial also looms large. New trial, new judge, she’s off the case, no more clippings for her scrapbook.

  “I shall make my point as succinctly as I can, M’Lady: you cannot make a pre-emptive attack on a defence until you have heard all the evidence. With all due deference, you have jumped the gun.”

  Again he snaps his suspenders. After that, all you can hear is the hum of air ventilation. Nancy passes him a heavy casebook that he opens to a bookmarked page.

  “Your Ladyship relies on Osolin. So do I. This could not be clearer: ‘It is only when the totality of the evidence rendered at the trial has been taken into account and considered in the light of all the relevant circumstances that the trial judge will be in a position to make a ruling.’”

  “What page is that?”

  “Six hundred and fifty-one, Supreme Court Reports.”

  A long pause to read and reflect, then: “Mr. Khan, what is your position?”

  “I’m pleased to be asked, M’Lady,” he says with a smile, though his words seem acerbic. “The Crown doesn’t wish to tempt the defence with grounds for appeal. We can argue about the necessity defence at the appropriate time. This, I submit, is not the appropriate time. I side with my learned friend, though I urge him not to assume that will become a habit.”

  He has earned a murmur of approval for his light touch, everyone in the room decompressing except the judge. She is in a fury, betrayed. “The motion of the court is withdrawn. I believe that is all the business we have.”

  Khan has sat, but bounces up as she barrels her way out. “No, M’Lady, my friends have filed two contested motions to exclude evidence—”

  “We’ll deal with them when I decide to deal with them. This court is adjourned.”

  3

  Sooky-Sue gives Ray a squeeze as they join the horde making for the door. Lucy glares at her. “She’s an agent provocateur.”

  I go, “What? Where does that come from?”

  “She’s a secret agent. The police state hired her to infiltrate Ray Wozniak.”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s credible.”

  “I’m serious. The church thing with the Star Trek motif is just her cover. He’s her entry to the Earth Survival Rebellion. To Résistance Planétaire. She might even be a cop.”

  She continues to develop this cockamamie conspiracy theory, so I shut down, take a boo at Azra Khan as he holds the door for his two useless appendages. He gives a last look around and for a moment we are again eyeball to eyeball. I’m not sure what his face is saying to me: something close, personal, like, We’re in this together, Levitsky. What does he want from me? A reaction to his subtle upstaging of the two combatants? Okay, you notched one. Three points.

  Richard Dewilliger-James, my surety, Lucy’s sex trainee, waits for her, so she gives me a “See you later, masturbator,” and follows him out, looking dispirited, as if thinking, What have I got myself into?

  I hang here, waiting to be in
troduced to Professor Ariana Van Doorn, who just now is getting to know Arthur Beauchamp. This statuesque, unruly-haired blond had been in the bleachers, enjoying the back-and-forth. A farm girl from Saskatchewan, precocious, kept beehives since she was seven. “Famously reclusive” is a phrase that recurs when you Google her. Or “publicity-shy.”

  Nancy Faulk meanders up to me, all smiley for a change. I tell her I figured Beauchamp was trying to goad the judge to quit this gig.

  “That ain’t gonna happen, kid.”

  “Then why the happy face?”

  “The jury will hear our experts. We have a shoe in the door.”

  “For how long? Doesn’t this just postpone the inevitable?”

  “Not if we wear them down. All we need is one holdout to get a mistrial. Then the A.G. has to start all over. New judge, new jury.”

  I ask her about the contested motions the judge brushed aside.

  “Has to do with your footprint in Howie’s office and a video of the bust. We want to exclude them.”

  The court officers try to clear the room, and while Nancy and Arthur stuff their briefcases I grab Van Doorn who, Google confided, had been captain of her college basketball team. I’m five-four, so I have to look up, way up.

  Introductions made (“Ah, the audacious young enchantress”), we stroll out together and wait near the escalator for the lawyers, who have trouble breaking through a phalanx of demanding reporters. I’ll have to catch up later with my gang, they’re off to a sushi place for lunch.

  “You don’t seem famously shy to me.”

  “I don’t know how they got that wrong. I think I’m quite outgoing. What I famously do, I suppose, is shy away from publicity. I abhor the role of a talking head debating some hired goon for the pesticide industry. Giving him airtime so the network can boast it presents both sides.”