When court is called, Kroop charges in like an impatient bull. His first order of business is to ride his clerk. “That took nearly seventeen minutes. I said ten minutes, Mr. Gilbert. Ten minutes, not ten hours.”
“I’m sorry, milord.”
The clerk must be looking forward to the weekend with more alacrity than even Arthur. Apparently he had a breakdown some years back, due to some form of neurological imbalance of which Kroop seems either heedless or uncaring.
The judge snaps at Meredith Broadfeather as well, tells her to remove her polemical button from her fringed, deerskin jacket. Whose Home and Native Land? “Advertising is not allowed, madam.” Broadfeather obeys but gives Lotis a look. Two militants here, a risky setup.
She describes following Sergeant Flynn and two constables to the Brady Beach cottage. They called out, pounded on the door, struggled with it. She slipped around to the bedroom window, and almost fainted on seeing Winters naked in death.
Broadfeather saw the officers examine the body for vital signs. They were radioing for support when one of them noticed her at the window. “They told me to skedaddle.”
“Why had you followed them there in the first place?” Buddy asks.
“Because when the police are in town on a weekend they’re usually looking to bust an Indian. I like to witness. I don’t like my people getting beat up.”
That is more than Buddy bargained for-it reflects poorly on his seatmate that a leading figure of the Huu-ay-aht community so distrusts him. Jasper Flynn shows bland unconcern, doodles. The prosecutor can see no good in tangling with this witness, and ends his examination with muttered thanks.
Lotis may have forgotten she isn’t watching a skit, and sits smiling. Arthur has to nudge her. “Oh, my turn?” She jumps up and, to Arthur’s delight, goes on the attack. “So when Jasper Flynn’s in town, you have to play a kind of witness protection role?”
Buddy makes a grand display of being irked. “I object, that’s offensive, that’s real low.”
“She’s entitled to explore an issue you raised, Mr. Svabo. Perhaps you asked the one question too many.” Sardonic. Buddy continues to annoy Kroop, the showy style.
“You’ve had lots of contact with Sergeant Flynn?” Lotis asks.
“Many consultations.”
“Confrontations too, Ms. Broadfeather?” She doesn’t know the game, thinks it’s politics.
“That’s right.”
“Much racism out your way?”
Flynn is seething. Buddy’s indignant. “Aw now, that’s too much. What’s she trying to imply, that Sergeant Flynn harbours prejudice?”
“Whoa, why would you infer that?” Lotis firing back. Jurors are getting an inkling there are other facets to the gruff, friendly cop.
Flynn can take no more of these outrageous slanders. He stands, bows to the judge, and strides smartly to the door. Either taunting or pretending naivete, Lotis calls, “Wait. Come back. I withdraw the question.” But he leaves to nurse his wounds.
“Is this going anywhere, Miss Rudnicki? Ms., I suppose, that’s what the young ladies demand. It sounds so harsh. Miz.” This is followed by himfs. Is the old fellow flirting with Lotis? The only likely answer: he’s seen the detergent commercial, has joined the numberless throng under her spell.
“I want to bring out that Nick Faloon gave free rooms to the Native elders when the weather kept them from home.”
Svabo takes so long to object that Kroop upbraids him. “Of course it’s irrelevant, but now it’s in, isn’t it? We may as well hear it from its source.”
Broadfeather not only complies but adds, “He’s a minority person himself, he’s not racist.”
This would be a good point to end on, but Lotis whittles away the winnings of a good cross by dragging it out, going back to the crime scene. “You saw the police checking the deceased for vital signs?”
“Officers Flynn and Beasely.”
“Did they have gloves on when they were, like, looking for a pulse?”
“No, they put gloves on after. Not regular ones, latex gloves.”
“Okay, thanks.” Lotis looks questioningly at Arthur. Just sit down, his eyes implore, and she does.
Buddy is up to re-examine. “What did you mean, the accused is a minority person?”
“He was born in Lebanon,” Broadfeather says.
“He’s an Arab. Okay.”
Lotis jumps up. “Are you trying to suggest that’s bad? And you give us that load of cheese about my making racist insinuations?”
“Yeah, well, you hurt a veteran RCMP member’s feelings…”
“That phony exhibition of walking out…”
“We will have ord-er!” Kroop gets his lungs into it. Scream Seven.
Arthur must tug Lotis back to her seat. She could get the defence into trouble yet. But she’s gritty and quick. (And why is it so hard to concede that? It’s her new-generation style, her in-your-faceness. He feels creaky in her company.)
Buddy squeezes in another witness before noon, grey-bearded Roger Kapoor, yard supervisor for Crown Zellerbach. Grizzly he’s called, for good reason-at sixty he looks able to bring down a caribou barehanded. He’s an entertaining talker with an entertaining tale: how he picked up Gertrude, warned her in pidgin English about a psychotic murderer, and subsequently observed her taking a standup pee. That prompts laughter among the jury, and is even awarded a single himf from the bench. Kapoor’s wild ride in the back of his hijacked truck elicits more jollity.
The gruesome evidence is behind the jury now. The phantom of the courtroom is coming across more as a careless clown than a swashbuckling jewel thief, but it isn’t a harsh image. Arthur hopes he’ll find the energy for Holly Hoover, who licked his ear and fondled his groin, a memory, he sourly remembers, that arose last night.
He looks forward to getting past the afternoon, into the soul-healing weekend. His forgotten garden, his injured septic field, his soon-to-be-shared bed…He awakes to a gentle nudge. “Uh, Margaret?”
Lotis, tossing her hair, her condescending smile. “You were asleep. Which is okay, court has adjourned.”
Arthur blinks, looks about, disoriented. Sheriff Willit is patiently waiting to lock up. “Was it obvious?”
“Well, your eyes were closed, but…Don’t you remember rising for the adjournment?”
“I stood?”
“The clerk said, ‘Order in court,’ and yes, you stood.”
It’s what forty years of conditioning does to one.
They leave for the barristers’ lounge, where Arthur nestles into a corner sofa on which he slept off many hangovers. Conversation turns to Margaret, to the truce in the forest. “She’s won an admirable victory, so I expect we’ll see her coming down presently.”
“Keep your pants on, Arthur.”
The insolent tramp. She could be more supportive.
She hands him a few printouts from Eve Winters’s files. “No Daisies, no hillbillies, no mother living rough with two sons, no gorgeous diamonds in the rough. Doctor Eve specialized in the bourgeoisie.”
He studies a profile of a woman who thought herself unattractive and was so afraid of losing her husband that she abided his adultery, shouts, and slaps. “Doris is actually lovely. Beautiful within too. She won’t know that until she leaves him. She won’t suffer financially, he does well as an investment counsellor…”
This isn’t Dogpatch. Bamfield is Dogpatch. It is where one might meet a Daisy. Maybe she lived nearby, a logging town, and after getting rid of Ruth, Eve sought an assignation by mail. Maybe she did indeed send that letter, and the abusive husband opened it…Enough. He has too many suspects.
Gulping coffee after an hour’s nap, Arthur follows Lotis to 67, feeling less like a sleepwalking ghoul, he’ll survive to the day’s end. Holly Hoover-the same explosion hairdo, a smart outfit-is getting a final drill from Ears, who seems bothered. Maybe it’s the smell of patchouli oil. Jasper Flynn is back in court and studiously avoiding eye contact with her.