Trial of Passion (35 page)

Jonathan does stand tall as charges are read and pleas taken to counts of sexual assault, confining, and kidnapping. He is not afraid to look at the jury panel — that is good.

“Not guilty,” he says each time, and I am pleased that his voice does not crack.

I rise. “May the defendant be allowed to join me at counsel table?”

Patricia objects: “Accused persons usually remain in the dock.”

“I fear she's right, Mr. Beauchamp,” Wally says. “Be he pauper or professor, I can't grant special privileges.” Should I have expected else from this born-again advocate of equal access? “Are we ready to pick the jury? Let's start with fifteen names, Mr. Sheriff.”

Sheriff Willit shakes a wooden box containing cards with names of the panel members, then begins the draw, and ultimately fifteen persons are lined up beside the bench.

The first twelve seem quite an acceptable bunch — an equal mix of the sexes and several youthful faces: youth being preferred in morals cases. All twelve have been vetted by Gowan Cleaver, and have passed scrutiny. But the thirteenth person brought forward is the risky Hedy Jackson-Blyth, who looks bright though stern and distrusting, a woman of about forty, barren of any jewellery, liberated from the curse of female makeup. If any of the first twelve jurors is excused by the judge, she will be the next one sworn. Dare I take a chance that will not happen?

“A moment, m'lord.” I attend at the prosecution table. “We can spend a couple of hours at this, Patricia, or we can take the first twelve.”

She looks over her copy of the list — a big exclamation mark is beside the name of Jackson-Blyth.

“The first twelve. Okay.”

Her assent is too quick, and I have a sense she knows something I don't. And, of course, that is so: when the judge asks if anyone has a legitimate reason to be excused, panellist number three says his mother has just died. “My condolences,” says Wally, and he lets him go.

Patricia rises. “With that exception, counsel are agreed to take the first twelve.”

Five men, seven women. I have several friendly faces, and I can only hope Hedy Jackson-Blyth will not be all that adverse to the defence.

When the jurors are comfortable in their seats, Wally recites the boilerplate about their solemn duties: They may return to their homes in the evenings, but must not discuss the evidence outside the jury room. Innocence is presumed. The defence need prove nothing. The Crown must establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.

“I expect this trial will go two weeks, but we have legal matters to deal with, so I'm going to let you select your foreperson, and then go back home for — how long? Did we agree on two days?”

I am missing Margaret already. Do we really need two days of opening arguments? Cannot we finish this trial in five days?

I rise. “I hope we can shorten things a bit, m'lord. That's important to the complainant, whose university classes start tomorrow. I also understand her fiancé has a business crisis to attend to — some kind of cyanide spill in a river. If Miss Blueman can agree with me on some minor matters, we might all get out of here by Friday to enjoy a stress-free long weekend.” I can see Patricia looking sourly at me while I play the fairy godfather.

“Anything you can do to save time,” Wally says, and he orders a brief recess. Patricia and I arrange for a confabulation of counsel in the barristers' lounge. I tell Jonathan to stay put and not to worry.

“I'll be fine,” he says. “I think I've been sweating over this more
than I've let out. Suffered a morale collapse yesterday, so I had a long session with my therapist. I'm going to have her talk to you, Arthur. She can say some things I can't. I've been a shitty client; I'll try to make it up to you.” And he adds, “I've sorted a few things out.”

“What might those be?”

“I just have a clearer picture. I know what I have to do.”

“What is that?”

“Be honest with myself.”

I'm not sure what he means — I would much prefer he be honest with
me
— but I pat him on the shoulder. “I will do my best for you, Jonathan.”

“I know that.”

Will my best be good enough? If I entertain doubts as to his innocence, how do I convince a jury they should not? His earlier dishonest evasions, the screams heard by the housekeeper, the bizarre rites of sexual arousal with Dominique Lander: These do not inflame a righteous indignation that an innocent soul is entangled in the law's tentacles. Somehow I must resolve my ambiguous feelings about this man.

In the mezzanine, I see Patricia talking with Kimberley Martin, who is still downcast. Is she unwell? Beside her, Clarence de Remy Brown is on his cellular phone. Patricia parts from them and follows me to the lounge.

There, she and her associate, Gundar Sindelar, listen politely to my pitch to jettison Miss Lander. “We'll save a day of argument. An argument you will lose.” I feign utter confidence.

“Oh, no, I have previous acts of bondage,” Patricia says. “I have all that body-painting she did with O'Donnell.”

“Ah, but, Patricia, the judge won't like the chicanery. Clarence de Remy Brown hired a private investigator to track Miss Lander down. Frank Sierra posed as a hireling of the defence to obtain her statement. Walter Sprogue will be furious.”

For some reason, this argument seems to be playing to attentive
ears. I have a sense that Patricia, who looks contemplative, is — surprisingly — about to bite. She looks at Gundar, but he stubbornly shakes his head.

“I say we go for broke.”

I close my files and stuff them in a briefcase. “Let's put it to the judge. He will shortly send Miss Lander packing back to the Slocan.”

“Hold it,” says Patricia. “What does your client have to say about this bondage stuff with Dominique Lander?”

“You'll have to wait to find out,” I say.

“I can always get it out of him in cross.” She ponders. “Let me talk to Gundar.”

They walk a few paces away, but we can hear low snatches of conversation. “Don't want to give him any grounds of appeal . . . we could keep her in reserve….”

On her return, Patricia says, “Okay, this is the deal. When O'Donnell takes the stand, I'll be asking him if he was into S and M and all this body-painting. I'll call Dominique Lander in rebuttal only if he denies it. Agreed?”

I tell them that now I must speak alone with Augustina. We caucus by a window.

“Exactly what I was about to propose myself,” I say, pleased with my craftiness. “If Jonathan doesn't testify, the Crown
can't
call Dominique in rebuttal. That neatly gets rid of her.”

For appearances, we spend a few more minutes in quiet discussion, then return to the foe, and ask them to throw the polygraph results into the deal. Patricia protests. I accuse her of having something to hide. Her hasty denials seem suspect. I produce a copy of a recent legal brief on polygraph disclosure — authored by one Walter Sprogue.

After another conference of prosecutors, Patricia finally says, “All right, it's a deal, but you have to undertake not to object to my calling Dominique to contradict your client.” She takes no chances, penning our promises to a scrap sheet of paper that we both initial.

Patricia may feel she has the better bargain — she keeps Lander
in reserve. But with one swoop I have not only eliminated proof of previous kink but shortened the trial. I am on a fast-track schedule that may yet get me to the fair on time. But I must curb this otiose wanderlust for my island.

I return to the fifth-floor mezzanine and brief Jonathan, who greets this turn of events with an acerbic sense of humour. “Now Dominique is free to sell her story to the tabs. The
National Enquirer
will love it — ‘Law Prof Hits Bottom.' “

Court reassembles without the jurors, the next order of business being a voir dire, a trial within a trial to determine whether the jury may hear Jonathan's words to Sergeant Chekoff: “I did no such thing. Of course I touched her. I took her to bed.” “Or
put
her to bed”; he wasn't sure at the preliminary inquiry. I do not fancy either version, however exculpatory. I would have preferred silence.

Chekoff is Patricia's sole witness in the voir dire: a man of military bearing with grizzled hair who wasn't particularly keen about making this collar and who failed to caution the suspect.

The officer begins to relate his conversation with Jonathan in his front yard. “Mr. O'Donnell said, ‘Is this some kind of practical joke?' “

“How did you respond —”

Wally impatiently cuts Patricia off. “Hold on. Was there a warning given? He was a suspect, wasn't he? A very serious complaint had been made against him, and
recited
to him.”

“M'lord, the accused is a law professor. He may be presumed to know his rights.”

“Pauper or professor, Ms. Blueman, same rules apply to both. I'll hear from the defence.”

“I have case law on the point,” says Augustina.

“And I know those cases. The Crown can argue until it's blue in the face on this one.”

“Your mind is closed, m'lord?” says Patricia, her tone overpolite.

“Not closed, but only slightly ajar.”

He impatiently hears Patricia out before ruling. “The Crown has
not proved beyond a reasonable doubt the statements are voluntary. They will not go before the jury. Okay, let's have them in.”

“That was too easy,” Augustina whispers.

My sense that the trial has got off to a good beginning is eroded by the fact that Hedy Jackson-Blyth is leading the jury in — she has been elected forewoman. As such, she has been elevated from ordinary pawn to influential queen on this human chessboard.

I watch the jurors' faces as Patricia makes her opening address. Eyes grow large and mouths fall open as the salacious allegations are described. I decide I do not like the fourth fellow in the back row: he smirks too much, a smart aleck. Goodman, a young investment broker. A woman in the front row — a nurse, according to the jury list — often smiles, too, but in a different way, with a slight frown, as if she senses absurdity here. Miss Jackson-Blyth is looking distrustfully at Jonathan, who sits with head bowed in the dock, his reading glasses on, occasionally writing notes.

Patricia's opening is a rather flat summation of the evidence she proposes to call, and to her credit she does not use her speech as a platform to flog her case, to win votes for the prosecution.

After she concludes, Wally asks, “Would you like to defer your first witness until after the lunch break?”

“Well, I thought tomorrow —”

I jump up. “Tomorrow? M'lord, we have half an hour left of the
morning
yet. Should we not plough on and allow Miss Martin to get off to her classes?”

“Mr. Beauchamp, you're full of zip today.”

“According to my daughter, I'm in my second childhood.”

“Maybe that explains it.”

The jurors are chuckling — so important to relax them early.

“M'lord,” says Patricia, “I hadn't expected Ms. Martin would be needed so early. She hasn't been fully briefed.”

I leap at this chance. “If my learned friend needs time to rehearse her witness, can we not proceed with some of the other evidence?”

“Brief her, not rehearse her.”

“If she doesn't know her lines by now, she never will.”

Patricia is aflame. “M'lord, that's entirely improper! The jury is present!”

“That kind of comment is best reserved for argument, Mr. Beauchamp,” warns frowning Wally. “I wonder if counsel will oblige me by taking a few minutes in my chambers.”

I suppose I am in for it now. Wally will chide me and prohibit further displays of forensic misbehaviour. But when we enter his chambers, he is chuckling. “Beauchamp, you naughty bugger, I'm going to have to keep an eye on you. Very good opening, Patricia. Brief, to the point; we're sledding right along. Well, this will be a
very
interesting case. Please, sit down.”

Wally's eyes rove briefly to Augustina's stockinged knee as she perches, dainty and cross-legged, on the edge of a chair. Melanie, his wife, is of a jealous bent, and with cause.

“This is a manner of date rape that you're alleging,” Wally says. “Acquaintance rape, that's the right term, I think. Too much of it going on. I'm not prejudging of course, but a lot of this stuff never even gets reported. Professor and student, boss and secretary — there's still that power imbalance thing between the sexes. We're part of it ourselves, Arthur, it's ingrained in old-timers like us. The patriarchal male hierarchy.”

I fear he is warning me that if convicted my client will face the full measure of the law. I hope he does not see Regina versus O'Donnell as a test case — one in which his sentence must send a loud message to the patriarchal dictatorship.

“Now, Patricia, can we call someone other than Ms. Martin? One of the boys in blue? Or, ah, girls. Women. “Tangled among the thorn bushes of politically incorrect speech, Wally can find no escape, and silently surrenders.

“I'd like to put in the exhibits first.”

“We'll admit all exhibits,” I say. “Just show them to the jury, and
we'll agree they are what they are.”

“You're being awfully accommodating, Arthur. I get suspicious.”

The marking of exhibits consumes the remainder of the morning, the jurors examining each item in turn: an outlandish tropical tie and a simple, unadorned gold-cross pendant, larger than I expected, about three inches high. Items seized from O'Donnell's house are tendered: coat, dress, spike heels, pantyhose, panties, bra, pair of small gold earrings, purse, a tube of Shameless lipstick worn to a nubbin, and various bedsheets. Photographs of O'Donnell's home, inside and out, are marked and identified.

Upon adjournment Patricia confers with me. “I'm going to start with the students this afternoon. Your buddy Mr. Stubb first. Unless you need more time to prepare. I wouldn't mind talking with him and Paula Yi a little more.”