“This was when you brought Dr. Winters her laundry?”
She nods.
“Get your lungs into it, Mrs. Cotter, we all want to hear.”
“Yes, sir.” She would not be more intimidated were she facing a bully at a bus stop. Arthur is fascinated, perplexed, and immobile.
“Describe her demeanour on that tragic day, the last of her life.”
“Looked like she didn’t have no worries, like she was free of all burdens, that was the impression I got.”
“And how much time did you spend with her?”
“She made tea, and she paid me for the laundry and something extra, and we had a little chat about this and that…”
Buddy cuts her off. “I want to thank you for coming all this way to help us, ma’am. That’s all the questions.”
Arthur decides, for a lark, to join this travesty. As he advances past the bar, Kroop glances his way with little interest, the merest nod of recognition. Jurors, for some reason, offer looks of sympathy. He’d not had time to shave, he must appear a mess, a ghoul in a gown.
“Cross-examination,” says Kroop.
A tousle-haired shorty rises from behind the cover of bulky Sheriff Willett. Lotis Morningstar Rudnicki. “You’re, um, seventy-nine years old, Ms. Cotter?”
“Yes.”
“And you still manage to maintain that beautiful cottage for rent. That’s wonderful.”
“Kind of you to say, dear.”
Arthur sits beside Lotis, who starts, then her face floods with relief. “Can I…may I please have a few seconds, your Lordship?”
“Welcome Mr. Beauchamp back for me. I trust he’s feeling better.” Adding to the surreal atmosphere is this display of good humour by Wilbur Kroop. Lotis looks absurdly formal in her black barrister’s gown. No makeup-she eschews it except as an occasional art form. A silver ornament in her lower lip, small and fine, discreet enough. She’s cut her hair.
An angry hiss: “Where have you fucking been? Act like you’ve had gastroenteritis. You told me to carry on till you got here.”
Lotis has pulled his pants from the fire, but his gratitude is slightly soured by resentment. Something else for the whippersnapper to crow about. Let’s see how she handles the heat of the courtroom. She can’t do much damage with Inez Cotter.
“Carry on, my dear.” Arthur winces for the judge, as if fighting off another attack.
Lotis looks at him pleadingly, is denied. He’ll be damned if he’ll mention the Viagra, the long, unsettling night. She takes a deep breath. “Okay, Ms. Cotter, your chat with Dr. Winters-what was that about?”
“Objection. Hearsay.”
His Lordship, still aggrieved at Buddy for his lumpish prosecution, says, “I didn’t hear you objecting when Mr. Beauchamp went on a hearsay rampage yesterday.”
Lotis looks uncertain. “Have I won that one?”
“Having already heard you on the subject of hearsay, Miss Rudnicki, and having been thereby persuaded that the rules of evidence are no longer taught in our law schools, I rule that Mrs. Cotter’s chat with the deceased comes, as you put it, somewhere within the zillion exceptions to the hearsay rule.”
Arthur cannot help but laugh. The pixie has been getting her comeuppance from a master of the art. It is just as well for her that Kroop is in a sanguine mood, content to throw light barbs. He probably admires her gumption. He dislikes weakness in lawyers. In anyone.
Lotis resumes. “Okay, what did Dr. Winters say to you?”
“She asked how long mail takes to reach the mainland.”
“What did she want to mail?”
“She had a few postcards and a letter.”
Which were never found and, one assumes, never sent-none of Winters’s friends mentioned receiving a card from her.
Though Lotis has trouble framing her questions, she brings out Sergeant Flynn’s lackadaisical reaction to the squabble between Ruth and Eve. “He had a little chuckle over it,” says Mrs. Cotter.
The morning break finds Lotis hectoring Arthur. “A murder case! Half past nine, I phoned, no answer. I’m thinking, What if he’s had an accident? An illness, an attack? Then it’s five to, and everyone, Gilbert Gilbert, Buddy Svabo, his nerdy junior, are giving me horror stories about how the Chief Justice is going to rip your face off if I don’t come up with something. I lied for you! In open court.”
He sits. “Well done.”
A theatrical, gasping look of amazement. “What happened to you?”
“Far too complex to explain.” A quick shift of topic: kudos for her cool head in a crisis, her admirable relief pitching. Excellent rapport with Mrs. Cotter. A few rough edges that will rub smooth with the years.
“Don’t give me that bullshit. They were trying to make a fool of me.”
Buddy probably seized every chance to do so, but the patronizing tones of the judge would rile her most. In her arena, the street, she is queen. In court, uniformed, she has to abide by the rules and rigorous formality she despises. She can adjust or chuck the job. But she is mollified by his compliments, and her temper subsides.
“What have I missed?”
She reviews her notes. “Bill Links, the whale-watching guy, asked Nick if he heard about the robbery last night, and they sat over cappuccinos speculating that it was an inside job. In front of the jury, Buddy went, ‘Cool as a cucumber.’ The prick.”
“You have to fire back, Lotis.”
“You kidding? I’m scared shitless. It’s a murder charge! I’m not defending some teenager who climbed a tree!”
“Easy, my dear.” Arthur mustn’t take pleasure from Ms. Know-it-all’s discomfort. No one is born a trial lawyer. The dues of sweat and fear and error must be paid. Maybe by your fifties you get it right.
“Mr. Cotter was next. He’s hearing impaired, that’s how Buddy got into the habit of shouting. Came by to see if Eve had enough firewood, stayed for granola. ‘Damn fine young lady,’ he said. She asked to be invited to their fifty-fifth anniversary next year. Gave him a peck on the forehead as he left.”
Lotis slumps into a seat beside him. “It’s all about Eve, isn’t it? Everyone loves Eve. Flighty young students, eighty-five-year-old codgers. I love her. I even like that she sometimes acts the queen and sleeps with married women.” She’s talkative, peppy, she got through it. “What I don’t understand is, why am I talking about her in the present tense?”
Maybe because Eve is somehow floating around, a frustrated spirit demanding their ear, calling, like Buddy, from across the courtroom.
“I’d like you to remain at the helm for the rest of the morning.” The next witness is Meredith Broadfeather, the Huu-ay-aht sociologist. She’ll do the defence no harm. “I will save my strength for this afternoon.” Holly Hoover.
“Whoa, I filled in, it was an emergency, you overslept after doing God knows what last night. I’m not prepared.”
“It’s a test you’ll face many times. Cross-examining on the fly against surprise testimony. Ninety per cent of good cross-examination is knowing when not to ask a question. The rest involves good instincts. Let’s see how yours work.” He sits back, closes his eyes.
“The judge thinks I’m dumb as cowflop. I don’t understand the hearsay rule.”
“No one does.”
“I expected to watch and learn. I don’t do impromptu…Arthur?”
He’s back in Dogpatch, daisies growing everywhere, faceless, beckoning. Find me. Find me. Lotis squeezes his knee and he blinks awake.
“We’re being called to court. You’re not ill?”
“No.” He gains his feet.
“What were you up to last night?”
“Nothing really. Thinking, reading. Problem with the alarm clock.” He turns his face from her. Without a beard, it’s harder to hide his blush.
“You’re not having an affair, are you?”
Gilbert pokes his head out, flustered. “Get in here, for goodness sake. We’re late.”