“My only defence, milord, is that I am telephonically challenged.”
Kroop cranes his neck in a vain search for the person snickering. Arthur can only hope there is an upside to his inept display-hearts could go out to the outgunned old fellow at the end of the table; all the world loves one who flounders at skills they’ve mastered.
Kroop waves a hand in dismissal, as if flicking away a mosquito. “You have been warned.” Arthur is surprised the judge didn’t take off an inch of his skin.
Buddy tries to pick up where he left off, but loses his way when a page of his notes slips free and flutters to the floor. The remainder of his opening is a monotonic medley of the science of identifying deoxyribonucleic acid and the benzodiazepine called Rohypnol-it has the jury stirring in discomfort or staring at walls or, in a couple of cases, offering Arthur timid smiles. One of them is the foreperson, Ellen Sueda: a teacher, warm, intelligent eyes. Another is Martin Samples, third from the right in the back, who runs a Web site devoted to obscure noir films, which he rates on a five-star system. Maybe he will see Faloon as immersed in a Kafkaesque quagmire. Four and a half stars.
“We’ll take the noon break,” Kroop says.
Buddy follows Arthur out like a grouchy dog, snorting at his heels. “Don’t tell me it wasn’t set up, that freaking phone call. While I’m up there sweating.” He continues on down the stairs. Stubb trots along behind him, with his pointless unabating smile.
On the way to the El Beau Room, Arthur fiddles with his phone, determined to master it, dialling, holding it to his ear in imitation of several passersby, hearing it ring, feeling accomplished, modern.
One of the new Japanese Woofers answers and turns him over to Reverend Al, who has volunteered to run Bungle Bay for the next two weeks. Yes, Stoney is out there, at the controls of the backhoe, calling encouragement to Dog, who is replacing the shattered outflow pipes, up to his knees in fecal matter. It is a scene so evocative of the picaresque carnival of his island that Arthur feels a tickle of nostalgia.
Reverend Al tells him arrests have slowed in Gwendolyn Valley. Agile protestors have taken to climbing trees during predawn hours, and the RCMP are loath to pursue them. The tactic is to wait them out until they give themselves up at day’s end. The Mounties have begun to see their endeavours as untypical of their many noble causes, and are showing signs of frustration-especially as the public mood is against them. This morning they busted Flim and Flam for getting in their faces with their cameras.
“Have there been any calls from, ah, overseas?”
“Nope.”
Gaining confidence with the cellphone, Arthur rings Doris Isbister. No long-distance calls to his office either, a number Faloon committed to heart long ago.
Brian is waiting for him in the restaurant, drinking a potion called near-beer, which Arthur has always avoided: too near for him. Brian looks through the jurors’ names. “I wonder if you want so many women, they sank you at Faloon’s last trial.” Eight women in that case, but the result was surely an aberration.
Brian has been on the line to Adeline Angella’s priest-a flimsy ruse, an anonymous client seeking to remember the parish in his will. While chatting, he dropped the name of an acquaintance. Ms. Angella is one of his faithful, said the priest. He recalled that she won a prize at the April 1 bingo, a gift certificate from a flower shop.
“‘How lovely,’ I said as my heart was sinking into the mud. But let us pray. The bingo started at noon, and she owns a car, a little Chev. After doing the dirty, she could have caught a morning ferry to Vancouver.”
Assuming she found a way to cross the Bamfield Inlet at two o’clock in the morning. How might she have done that?
As Arthur returns to the Law Courts, “You Are My Sunshine” burbles merrily from his suit jacket pocket.
“Reporting in.” Lotis Rudnicki in Victoria, taking a breather from court. Mewhort released Flim and Flam without conditions after a lawyer for the Civil Liberties Association carried on about irresponsible and baseless arrests of journalists. “Only three other new cases, the cops are pooping out.”
At the Law Courts, he remembers to turn his phone off.
Buddy stands by the jury box, shifting on his toes, peppier than when last seen, ready to parry more low blows. “The Crown calls Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn.”
The officer takes the oath, standing tall and square-jawed. Arthur hopes to make some hay with his sloppiness at the crime scene. A dumb cop, Buddy said, yet he seems disposed to lean on him for help.
The witness establishes his credentials: on the force for nineteen years, a staff sergeant for three, based in Port Alberni for the last eight months.
“And before that?”
“Here at Thirty-third and Heather, General Investigation Section, Serious Crime Unit. I liaised with some of the outlying detachments, co-ordinating evidence.”
“You have a family?”
“Two strapping boys, fourteen and sixteen.”
“And you’re a kids’ hockey coach?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And you’ve done volunteer work in schools?”
“I’ve done about fifty school visits, talking to kids in class.”
This is to arm Flynn against what’s to come, his sheltering of Holly Hoover. Arthur dares not object, but Kroop saves him from having to. “We have only two weeks, Mr. Svabo.”
“I note a couple of commendations on your…”
“Please, Mr. Prosecutor. We all accept that he’s a sterling fellow.”
Pleased with that gift, Buddy desists. “All right, is the Village of Bamfield within your jurisdiction?”
“Yes.”
Area maps are produced, showing the long bent finger of Alberni Inlet, the web of logging roads that lead to Bamfield. Photographs of the Breakers Inn, Nitinat Lodge, Cotters’ Cottage, the crime scene: Dr. Winters’s body, supine, a puff of cotton extruding from her mouth, the undergarment that blocked her airway. Most jurors glance quickly at these photos, distressed, but Martin Samples, the film noir buff, studies them with narrow-eyed concentration.
Close-ups of the Chablis bottle, uncorked, about ten ounces remaining. A grey smear of fingerprint dust, suggesting the surface was wiped by a cloth. Two clean glasses in the sink. Near the fireplace, a chair with bra, jeans, an outdoors shirt. A bath towel lying loosely on the bed. In background, from the wall, the cougar stares malevolently.
The murder weapon is passed among the jurors in a zip-lock bag. Serums and blood samples will be identified later, but are given exhibit numbers. The swab with the suspect semen is 52.
Kroop makes no attempt to alter the flow, rarely seeking clarification. Ears remains an unnoticed fixture at counsel table. With his handsome ears and his habit of chewing the ends of pencils, he brings to mind a rabbit.
Flynn is prompted to describe his doings on April 1, arriving by launch with two officers, first stopping at the Breakers Inn to investigate the thefts, then trudging up the rutted road to the cottage.
Arthur can see why Buddy wanted Flynn at counsel table despite his missteps: he is well rehearsed, organized, relaxed, even amiable. This notorious trial is the highlight of the officer’s career, and he’s giving it his best.
After sealing the cottage and calling in the Ident Section, Flynn went to the Nitinat Lodge, missing Faloon but finding a makeup kit and, in a trunk, garments of disguise. When he finally returned to Alberni, Faloon was in the lockup, in women’s garb. Efforts to take a statement were fruitless, the suspect staring close-mouthed at him.
Buddy shows photos of Faloon, staring moronically, pretending illness. “You’d met him before?”
“I introduced myself when I was posted to the area. Paid him a visit.”
“Why?”
Arthur is on his feet. “Before the witness responds, may I suggest we give the jury time off for good behaviour? A break until tomorrow, it’s been a long and tiring day.” It is almost half past four, and Arthur is weary himself.