In cross-examination, Arthur stresses the minimal nature of the injuries. Dr. Sanchez agrees they could have been sustained on the trail, from slips and falls on roots and creekbed rocks.
“No trauma to the vaginal area?”
“No, there wasn’t.”
“In fact there was no bruising anywhere on her body that might normally be associated with a violent sexual assault, isn’t that so?” The point is vital to his case that Eve Winters wasn’t raped.
“I would agree, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Thank you.”
Kroop, sensing a possible hole in the Crown’s case, moves to plug it: “Clarify for me, doctor-would you expect bruising to the deceased’s private parts if, during copulation, she was beyond all mortal capacity to resist her assailant?”
Dr. Sanchez looks around as if for help. “I’m…sorry, my lord, I didn’t follow that very well.”
“If she were dead.”
Behind Arthur, someone sucks in air. Sanchez responds with a shrug. “With all the variables, I couldn’t say.”
A telling reminder of why judges ought to stay out of the fray. Some jurors look slightly irritated by his Lordship’s crude intervention. Martin Samples, however, enjoys this black moment, a barely hidden smile.
“May I be allowed to continue, milord?” Arthur’s faux politeness causes someone in the gallery to snort.
“Do so, and don’t make a major issue of it.” Kroop is hunched back, scowling at Arthur with his ferrite eyes, blaming him, as if he engineered the awkward moment.
Arthur establishes Rohypnol’s notoriety as a tool of sexual predators, and asks Dr. Sanchez if it can lead to death.
“Yes. Particularly when mixed with alcohol, Rohypnol may cause respiratory depression, aspiration, or even death.”
“And certainly coma.”
“Yes.”
“And there is no way to be certain that Dr. Winters was conscious when she was asphyxiated.”
“I can’t dispute that.”
“It’s a uniquely powerful sleeping pill?”
“Yes, used mainly for sleep disorders.”
“Such as?”
“Insomnia, recurrent sleepwalking.”
The one question too many. You’re not supposed to ask. Arthur spins out his examination for a few minutes in an effort to bury the last answer, then packs it in. Nick Faloon wasn’t using medication for sleepwalking…Or was he? Did anyone bother to ask him?
Still avoiding the Topekans, Buddy brings in Constable Beasely, Flynn’s sidekick. He adds little but an echo of evidence heard. Beasely at the Breakers Inn, Beasely at the crime scene, Beasely at the Nitinat Lodge. Beasely finding nothing. Certainly no Rohypnol.
After Buddy’s store of questions is exhausted, he looks pleadingly at Arthur to take up the slack with cross-examination. “No questions,” Arthur says.
Buddy must clear his throat before addressing the judge. “I’m afraid that’s all I have for this morning.”
“Mr. Svabo, are you saying you have run out of witnesses?”
“At this point in time.”
“Mr. Prosecutor, at this point in time we are about to take the morning break. When we return in fifteen minutes I expect the stand to be occupied by a person prepared to give relevant testimony.”
He leaves, shaking his head. Kroop detests incompetence, abhors clumsy prosecutions, and might be incited to start sniping at the Crown. Carpe diem.
While the prosecution joins in frantic, three-headed debate, Arthur slips out to crack open the door of the witness room. It’s full of Topekans.
Still buying time for some unstated reason, the Crown has dredged the holding cells in the bowels of the Law Courts, where Father Yvon Rechard has been awaiting his call to duty. This bald, lugubrious penitent lacks the collar, but has been permitted a black suit. He has a haunted expression-as if knowing he’s hellbound. Fallen, like myself, so far from grace. He takes the oath with the Bible in both hands.
Buddy lightly touches on Rechard’s sinning ways-the jury learns only that he’s awaiting sentence on morals offences. Ellen Sueda, who is Catholic and instructs grade fivers, is already looking at him coldly, perhaps guessing the worst. Jasper Flynn is bent over a pad, doodling, fretful about this unsavoury witness.
As Rechard recounts talking to Faloon about faith and philosophy, his lawyer makes clamorous entry, still knotting his tie, face muscles bunched with indignation. Howie Solyshn, known as the Dealmaker, a large, loud, and windy rascal. He steams past the bar of the court, roaring at Rechard. “Don’t say another word!” The witness recoils.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Solyshn?” Kroop’s eyes have sunk into their sockets.
“I represent Father Rechard, who I was assured was not on today’s witness list.”
“You have no standing at this trial.”
“I have every right to advise my client about self-incrimination.”
“You would interrupt the proceedings of this court and have the jury twiddling their thumbs while you finally instruct a client who has been ten weeks under subpoena. Ample opportunity, Mr. Solyshn.”
“I’m making a motion to adjourn.”
“I cannot hear your motion. I cannot hear you.” With each syllable, Kroop’s voice rises. “You do not have standing. So sit down!” A screech.
Resigned to his fate, the rambunctious Dealmaker plumps down on the bench behind Arthur.
Buddy must now go into bullying mode with Rechard, who’s been so cowed that his voice has dropped, his words less intelligible, his French accent more pronounced. Haltingly, he tells of finding Faloon in a pensive mood one day, inviting him to unburden himself, then taking confession several hours later. Rechard glances at Arthur, at Solyshn, a silent plea for mercy.
Arthur has a perfectly valid explanation for Faloon’s words: She was beautiful, I just couldn’t help myself. He was sleepwalking, sleeptalking, his unconscious mind on his guilty night with Holly Hoover. But Arthur won’t rely on that. More profit lies elsewhere.
To Buddy’s final question, Rechard repeats a phrase from his statement: “I felt it was my duty to come forward.”
A tap on Arthur’s shoulder, the smell of Solyshn’s salty breath. “Help me here, pal, ask for a recess.”
Arthur stares him back into his seat, rises to face Rechard. Shallow breathing. A repeated grimace, like a tic. Staring at his hands.
“You felt it your duty to come forward. Pity you didn’t feel such a citizen’s duty about your own crimes. Look at me!” Rechard does so with difficulty. Arthur snaps his suspenders. “Witness, one of the reasons you’re in jail is that eighteen years ago you sodomized an eleven-year-old boy who was in your care.”
“That’s one of the…yes.”
“This occurred at a Native school where, among other subjects, you taught religion. The words of Jesus Christ.”
“Yes.”
“As well, you’re charged with forcibly using a nine-year-old the following year.”
“I face that charge too, yes.”
“You’re guilty of it.”
“Yes. I am. Yes.”
In this manner, occasionally seeking elaboration, Arthur takes him through each of his seven counts. Still sour at the priest’s presumptuous lawyer, Kroop lets Arthur run unleashed. Jurors are looking askance at the witness. The press is busy, but the gallery still. Neither Buddy, the pencil beaver, or the doodler dares look up.
“And you pleaded guilty to these seven charges?”
“I did.”
“There was a plea bargain? The Crown dropped another eight charges?”
“I would not say a bargain…Okay, yes.” This after a furtive look at his lawyer.
“When did you enter these guilty pleas?”
“I think maybe late in March.”
“Three months ago. Some in this room may be wondering why it’s taken so long to get you properly put away.” A low rumble of assent from the public area. “If you perform for the Crown here today in Court 67, you’ll earn a recommendation of leniency. Am I not correct?” His voice has been rising.