A gasp from somewhere in the gallery, the rustling of shifting bottoms.
“And I screamed louder, and he didn’t say anything, just kept pushing at me, pushing and pushing, and I began twisting this way and that, he was hurting me, and. . and he said something, I can’t remember, and suddenly he was gone, and I was frantic, and, I don’t know, I managed to free my hands, and then twisted around to release my ankles — ”
“Ms. Martin,” says Patricia. “Please. Slow down.”
“Sorry.”
“Are you all right? Would you like some water?”
“Please.”
As the water is fetched, I see that Jonathan has his eyes tightly closed. The expression on the face ofJudge Pickles, as he regards the witness, has undergone a metamorphosis, a sagging, a softening. I have a sense he is no longer our steadfast ally.
“Would you like a break, Miss Martin?” he asks, his tone solicitous.
“I’d like to get this over and done, your honour.” Patricia Blueman shows a wetness of eye. Emotions here are riding uncomfortably high.
“Now exactly who was it who was on top of you?”
“Who?. . Professor Jonathan O’Donnell.”
“You saw him.”
“I think so.”
“What do you mean?”
“I guess when I twisted around, I. . well, I wasn’t actually memorizing details for court or anything. It washim.” “
The accused.”
“Well, it wasn’t the Queen of Sheba.”
The remark is too flip, and Judge Pickles stiffens.
But Kimberley recovers from thisfaux pas,and says, “I’m sorry, that’s a terrible way to put it. I shouldn’t try to be funny. I’m just. . very nervous.”
“Was he wearing any clothes?”
“Not that I could see. I mean, I was in. . an hysterical state. I didn’t know what was happening at first, I didn’t even know where I was, or where I’d been, who I’d been with, I hardly even remembered my name. I was just being. . well, I was beingraped.”
“Okay. Did he ejaculate?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. You’ll have to ask him.”
“Well, Ms. Martin — ”
“I wasn’t. . this is so awful. I wasn’t wet. Okay? But I felt, what?. . Greasy. It was the lipstick all over me, I guess, I don’t know why he did that. I thought it was blood at first; I was terrified, I thought he’d. . he. . well, never mind.”
“All right, did you consent in any way to the sex or to being tied
up?”
“Are you being serious?”
“I’m asking you if you consented.”
“Of course not.”
“Very well. And so he left you alone for a while.” “He disappeared. I could hear water running, in the en suite bathroom, I guess. Sounded like a tub filling. I had this feeling — hewas going to drown me. And I was struggling to untie myself for, oh, I don’t know, it seemed like an eternity, but was probably only a few minutes, and I could hear the tub filling and filling, and I. . guess I just shot off the bed and ran out the door. And I still wasn’t connecting very well, still wasn’t sure where I was, but I found the stairs, and the front door, and I ran outside and to the house next door.”
“And can you remember what happened there?”
“All I know is I was screaming, and this older gentleman came to the door, and then a woman — I thought they were married, but he’s a retired minister and she’s his housekeeper — and I remember they were being very nice, and comforting me, and I was crying, and all I wanted was to have Remy with me, my fiance. So I phoned him, and he came over. I don’t remember very much after that until — well, he took me home, and later that morning a policeman came over.”
Patricia idly leafs through some notes, and I assume she is stalling a little, mulling over whether to leave matters as they sit or try to plug some of the leaky holes: How had she so easily freed herself? Why is it no neighbours heard the screams? How had her abdomen and her breasts been painted with lipstick as she lay prone on a bed? Why hadn’t she called the police immediately?
Then Patricia sits. “Those are all the questions I have.”
Gowan leans towards me. “You have no other choice now, Arthur. Go for the throat.”
I sit, musing, trying to work all of this through my mind. I tell myself: She must be lying. Surely she is the Cleopatrasplendide mendaxof whom Horace wrote — splendidly false. Yet a worm of doubt wiggles within the rational, cynical mind. But I am becoming soft. Too long on a placid island, too many weeks away from the courtroom.
“Mr. Beauchamp?” says the judge.
I scrape back my chair and rise, scanning the watchers in the gallery; eager, expectant faces. In the back a woman knits, and I think of Madame Defarge and the guillotine. I find myself agreeing withthe witness: the processes we are involved in seem wrong, obscene, a defilement.
Jonathan has his chin cupped in his hands, and he is staring at Kimberley Martin as if in a trance. What had Gowan told me last week? “O’Donnell says he doesn’t want me to touch her.” Why? The client seems oddly protective of his tormentor. But he has witnessed Cleaver’s rough handling of witnesses, and must feel a subtler touch is needed.
“Mr. Beauchamp, do you have any questions?”
I continue silently to study Kimberley, then sigh.
“No, I don’t have any questions,” I say.
“No questions?” Pickles is taken aback.
“Ah, well, perhaps just one. You have some examinations to write next week, Miss Martin?”
“Yes.”
“May I wish you the best of luck. Hopefully you will prove yourself as fine a lawyer as you are an actor.”
What I seek is there: a rosiness tints her cheeks — the product of shame? Truth does not blush, a wise ancient once said.
“Thank you,” she says, smiling, and pretends to all she has heard a compliment.
I sit. Patricia seems flustered, but recovers. “That’s the case for the Crown, your honour.”
I turn to Gowan Cleaver, who looks confused. Jonathan, if anything, seems quite relieved.
As Kimberley makes her way from the stand, she hesitates, looks once again at my client, and then tears begin to stream in torrents down her cheeks.
“Perfect,” says Gowan Cleaver. “A master stroke. Ask no questions and you don’t give the defence away. Save it all for the trial, brilliant.”
Earlier, Gowan had been broadly hinting I was derelict in notcross-examining the woman, that I was plotting a speedy escape to my island farm. But he has now become effusive as we wait in the prosecutor’s office. Patricia Blueman is elsewhere giving comfort to her charge.
“Complimenting her on her acting — just the right touch. I would have spent half the day banging away at her about her stage training and got one-tenth the impact. Christ, you’re smooth.”
Jonathan has been formally committed for trial by judge and jury upon a charge of sexual assault causing bodily harm. The proceedings of the day took no more than an hour. And truly there is no need for me to spend any more time in the city than politeness demands. Though in honesty that wasn’t my plan. Let Gowan believe I was saving my ammunition for the trial — but, in fact, I couldn’t bear the thought of going for Miss Martin’s unguarded throat. She seemed too vulnerable. (Or do I guilelessly misread a splendid job of acting?) Am I losing my touch, the so-called killer instinct? Or has my hiatus from the courts made me more humane? Either way, I am the poorer lawyer.
“She collapsed, Arthur, she fell apart, what more can I say?”
“Probably just a release of tension.”
“I doubt it. Guilt was written all over her.Sheshould be the accused. We should bloody charge her with perjury and public mischief.Pubicmischief is more like it.” He is grinning. “You want to grab a bite after?”
“Well, I think I shall be meeting Annabelle for lunch.”