Arthur puts on his glasses for the smaller print. Calling into question the headline, the author of this enthusiastic account admits, in reluctant afterthought, that Van Doork may have succumbed to a heart attack. Lansana has disappeared, perhaps to his embassy, perhaps to Sierra Leone. Ms. De Carlo, in whose name the alleged love nest was registered, said only, “Ne sais pas, ne parle pas.”
“I don’t know if Nick made it, Mr. Beauchamp,” says Willy, “or if he got nobbled.” When he last saw Faloon, the ambassador was bounding down a stairwell after him.
As his guests stir and sip, Arthur cross-examines them. In sum, it appears Faloon vanished after a dodgy climax to a thieving spree, along with, possibly, a fortune in diamonds and euros. That he hasn’t phoned Arthur, as promised, bodes ill.
A loud noise, a thud, and a splintering. A yelclass="underline" “Shit!” It’s Brian, stumbling from the Cadillac. Somehow-in the throes of a nightmare? — he nudged the gear lever, and the car rolled down a slope into a corner post of the garden fence. Brian stands for a moment, looking bewildered.
On close examination: a smashed headlight, a twisted fender that rubs against a tire. Jacoby shrugs. “A minor catastrophe in the universal scheme of things, except we may have to indulge you, Mr. Beauchamp, for a taxi.”
Arthur has the number handy. Stoney promises to send “one of our fleet.”
“You will stay the night,” Arthur informs Brian. “You will dry out for at least the next twelve hours.” Arthur will recommend he take leave from work, go into intensive treatment.
Brian nods, uninterested, dials his cellphone. Further evidence that he has fallen apart comes as he snaps it shut. “She won’t let me talk to the kids, claims they’re in school. What school? Sunday school?”
“It’s Tuesday, Brian.”
“That can’t be right.” He fumbles with his phone. “Operator? Operator, what day is this?”
Arthur plucks it away, pockets it. “I am seizing this device.”
“Wait, no, you can’t.” Frantic.
He leads the cellaholic to the house, puts him in the spare bedroom. Kim is to guard against escape attempts.
Outside, Stoney has parked the Fargo and is voraciously eyeing the gleaming classic Caddie, running a finger along the chrome behind the fins.
“Can you recommend a bodywork specialist on this here island?” Jacoby says.
Stoney smiles grandly. “No problem.”
Todd Clearihue holds the courtroom door open for Arthur, who walks past him without a word-he can’t bear to look at his unwearying smile, fears he will give in to violent impulse.
Again, Arthur parks himself in the last row, and again Wilbur Kroop, on mounting the bench, hunts him down with his steely eyes. But this time he smiles, as if pleased to have drawn him to his lair.
Prudhomme is also here, he’s but a spectator too. This is a criminal matter now, and the Crown is represented by Jennifer Tann, a good-hearted woman of middle years who seems uncomfortable with her assignment. Selwyn, Lotis, and a few other lawyers line the defence table.
“How many new guests will be joining our company today, Madam Prosecutor?” A kind of chuckle issues from Kroop’s small, pursed mouth: “Himf, himf.” The jailing of protestors has put him in a good mood. He has set the next six weeks aside, to the end of June, for bail hearings and speedy trials and all the other detritus that follows in the wake of a contentious injunction.
“Only eight today,” Tann says.
“And why is that? I understand there’s been a mass migration to the logging site.”
“The police had to unshackle all these people from machines. It was a day-long process, milord.”
“Let’s bring them out in one group, I don’t want to spend the rest of the day at this.”
Earlier, Selwyn, desperate to disqualify Kroop, slowed proceedings with argument: his Lordship has prejudged matters; a judge innocent of the issues should sit; the presumption of innocence was withheld from these jobless roasters of hot dogs. Kroop listened patiently, thanked him, and dismissed the motion without reasons.
The clerk calls out the list, and into the prisoner’s dock crowd five men and three women, none over twenty-five. Most wear Save Gwendolyn T-shirts. A young black man has a slogan embossed on his: “We’ve upped our profits, up yours.”
Selwyn and the other lawyers urge reasonable bail. Kroop stares at the wall clock, as if timing these exercises in futility. The Chief Justice has issued a diktat: bail will be ten thousand a head, cash down, no exceptions. It will be forfeited by anyone returning to Garibaldi Island.
One of the lawyers pleads that his client could lose her job as nurse’s aide if she languishes in jail.
“That ought to have been uppermost in her mind as she was chaining herself to an excavator. Call the next case.”
“Bill Watters,” says the clerk. The fellow in the message T-shirt shuffles to his feet. No counsel rises with him.
“Where’s your lawyer?” Kroop asks.
“Don’t have one. What good would it do me?”
Kroop glowers, here’s another upstart. “A lawyer will help you to understand the charge and the consequences that could follow.”
“Okay, well, what exactly am I charged with?”
“Being in criminal contempt of a Supreme Court order to stay off private property.”
“Who issued that order?”
“I did, as it happens.”
“If you already ruled we’re in contempt, what more is there for you to decide at our trial? You called us lawless dope-smoking squatters and…”
Kroop cuts him off. “Young man, such reckless ignorance convinces me you’re in dire need of legal counselling, and some lessons in manners. You would do well not to make utterances that could be construed as adding to your contempt…” He stalls, backs up. “Of which, of course, you’re innocent until proven guilty.” The judge is enduring a rare moment of fluster. “Beyond a reasonable doubt.”
“The way you’re setting punitive bail for everyone, it’s obvious you don’t have any doubt at all. That’s not bail, it’s a jail sentence. I don’t have a nickel, let alone ten thousand dollars.”
Lotis turns, locates Arthur, winks. The message: This mini-protest has been scripted to bring home the folly of Kroop’s bad snap judgments. “Call it punitive bail,” Selwyn would have told Bill Watters.
Kroop’s black eyes almost disappear behind drooping folds of skin-he’s fighting his fury, wants to explode at this riff-raff rebel. “The court will not be provoked by a show of petty insolence.” Tight and reedy. “I shall disregard your comments as having been made out of simple-minded naivete.” He shouts, “Get a lawyer!”
The young man shows undue courage: “Why? You’ve already decided I’m guilty.” A grumbling of approval comes from the back, where the protestors’ allies have gathered.
As if searching for support elsewhere, Kroop reviews the press table, sees a few disgusted looks. He doesn’t have an ally on the Crown side either-Jennifer Tann proposed the defendants be released on good behaviour bonds. She too is displeased at Kroop’s teach-them-a-lesson, assembly-line justice.
Kroop glances at Arthur, who’s smiling, enjoying his discomfort. The Chief Justice looks quickly down, in the manner of one realizing his fly’s open, exposing his prejudice. He doesn’t want all his hard work to be reversed on appeal.
“Check the calendar, Mr. Gilbert. Who’s available to sit this week?”
“On this case, my Lord?”
“Yes! This case! I’m not talking about someone sitting on the moon. Anyone standing idly by?” Chief Justice Kroop has power to delegate which judge sits where, and is clearly about to use it. Goodbye Wilbur Kroop. No one could be worse.