Stoney doesn’t allow further protest. He is already in the Fargo’s cab with Dog, waving at the film producers as he drives off. Arthur dismisses the notion of going after them in hot pursuit. The backhoe will be evicted tomorrow.
He returns to Brian. “Two of the local malefactors. Not quite in Nick Faloon’s league.” He sits and packs his pipe. “Where do you think you’re going with his case, Brian?”
He’s still on his back, chewing a grass stem, playing with another cigarette. “I’m not going to pull it off, am I, Arthur?”
Arthur coaxes a burn from his Peterson bent, and decides to go straight to the nub. “Insanity makes a dangerous mix with alibi. Jurors who might otherwise entertain reasonable doubt do not take chances on alleged insane murderers. This Gertrude Heeredam business can only blow up in your face. That you have got this far is a tribute to the mendacity of Dr. Endicott Sloan.”
“I thought I’d throw it in the pot. It was a backup if I couldn’t find a real defence.”
“Act quickly on this, Brian. Get him out of VI before they find out his father is still alive.”
Brian sits up too suddenly, grabs his head. “He is?”
“Mr. Faloon is a senior civil servant in Lebanon. He flew here not ten years ago to visit his son. When I met him, he showed no signs of having been shot by the Falange.”
“Oh, shit.”
“It’s a story Nick has told so many times it has become accepted legend. The child refugee, anxious, bewildered, thrust into a new world, unable to withstand its temptations. It won him many suspended sentences. He was three years old when his parents emigrated from Beirut. They have since returned. All this will be discovered if the authorities dig into citizenship and immigration records.”
“God, I’m fucking up so badly I’ve become a menace to my client. My last lucid moment was nine days ago, on April Fool’s Day, when I innocently pulled a pair of foreign panties from my jacket pocket while Caroline was bundling the kids for a walk. I got up this morning after two hours’ sleep so I could come over here and show you what shape I’m in. I can’t do this trial alone. So forget insanity, let’s move on to greener pastures.” Brian does just that, collapsing on the grass again.
“What else do we have?” We-Arthur let slip that troubling pronoun.
“To start, there’s nothing to tie him to the scene but his semen. No prints-but you’d expect Faloon to wear gloves. No hairs, fingernail scrapings, blood. The only signs the victim resisted are a chipped front tooth and some redness on the lower abdomen and the wrists. That could have come from tight clothing worn on the trail. No apparent means of illegal entry, so she may have let Nick in.”
This hints of another problem-Brian lacks faith in his client. “Or whoever did it.”
“Right, of course.”
“At an odd hour of the night-what was the pathologist’s best estimate?”
“Around 2 a.m. Also at that time, one Harvey Coolidge from Kansas, a teller of bad dinner-table jokes, was out of bed too. He couldn’t sleep, wasn’t digesting well, went out to get some air.”
“He dined with Faloon and Winters?”
“And was looking cross-eyed at her all night.”
“How strong are those four counts of theft?”
“They can’t make him on those, there’s not a thimble of proof. Forensics vacuumed the rooms, Faloon didn’t leave a hair. Mind you, he did it, all right, buried the loot somewhere.”
“Anything stolen from Dr. Winters?”
“No. She had a fanny pouch, four hundred and change, credit cards, all untouched.”
“Earlier, she was at the local bar?”
“Listening to a jazz band.”
“In anyone’s company?”
Brian is onto his fourth cigarette, his voice hoarse. “Came in alone, took a barstool, hung around for almost an hour, drank two glasses of wine. Another woman had some chit-chat with her, Holly Hoover, unemployed, single, a local. Winters left during the last set, about eleven o’clock.”
“And returned to her cottage how?”
“No one knows. She would’ve had to be boated across. The cops can’t figure that one out-no one’s come forward.”
“The murder weapon was unusual.”
“White cotton standard-brand underwear. Her other clothes-bra, jeans, sweater-were on a chair by the fireplace. A bath towel was at the foot of the bed. A fair theory is she just got out of the shower when she was surprised by her attacker.”
“In the meantime, of course, the authorities are focused on their all-too-handy prime suspect while other trails go cold.”
“They’ve got his DNA prints, Arthur.”
“That’s a stickler.”
“But circumstantial. DNA doesn’t prove he raped or killed her. It’s consistent with the rational theory that Faloon was simply invited to her bed at some point.”
“Rational theory?” Arthur finds it inconceivable that he could urge it on the jury with a straight face. Who would believe that Eve Winters found this Peter Lorre lookalike of romantic interest?
“At least let’s be creative with the concept. Doctor Eve may have wanted to try…something different.”
“Were the sperm motile?”
“No, but the swab didn’t get to the lab till late in the day.”
“Cat McAllister makes a case that Nick was framed, that someone might have had a sample of his semen.”
“And we’re back to Adeline Angella.”
Arthur nods, and they smoke quietly for a while. “She wants to interview you for a magazine piece. Why you, Brian? Was your assault trial controversial in any manner?”
“Not really. Sales manager gropes secretary in the stockroom, rips her dress, she calls the cops.”
“And was that after you were on record as Faloon’s counsel?”
A pause for thought, then he nods. “Okay, that’s why she targeted me.”
“I would be very careful with her.”
“All I need to make my world complete is a false accusation of rape.” He repeats his offer: “I’m willing to do my part, Arturo, if you do yours.”
This case has the desperate smell of a loser. Yet Arthur’s pride is in play. If Nick Faloon were to be wrongly convicted again, this time for murder, it would be an egregious insult to Themis, goddess of justice…
Not for the first time today, his thoughts scamper squirrel-like up a tree. Where proudly stands, waving to the cameras, the smiling, defiant spouse. In contrast to her, we have the doornail sitting in his club chair with his dead poets. You were a famous lawyer when she met you. What have you done since to impress her? Deborah’s words echo harshly.
He suddenly feels weightless, like Atlas upon Hercules relieving him of heaven’s burden. His shoulders straighten. “Take up Angella’s invitation. I’ll want to visit Bamfield, particularly to meet the woman who engaged Dr. Winters in the bar. In the meantime, we must have all laboratory tests-they may have examined the wrong material, confused their exhibits. And let’s get Nick out of that asylum.”
A smile blooms on Brian’s crooked, ravaged face. “The return of Cyrano.” His cellphone rings again. He answers, “Last Round-Up Funeral Home. How may we help you?” Arthur retreats. His senses quicken as he approaches the support group. He is no longer a local yokel, he’s a lawyer again. Margaret will understand. He’ll seek her consent, of course, that’s the right thing to do.
The three faces shine expectantly at him as he slices more bread from his bowbacked loaf. He must complain to Abraham Makepeace that he’s stocking old and impotent yeast. The only sound is produced by Jacoby, playing with the bundle of bills, snapping the elastic. Finally, he says, “We are waiting with bated breath for your verdict, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“I’ll do it if I have permission from my wife.” Yes, he’ll explain to Margaret that he faces a challenge of his own. I have to do this. Faloon’s trial will be many months away. He can do much of the preparation at home.