I anxiously await the passing of the storm, and when finally the wind abates, I feel more relaxed — the tree is holding. Skilledlumberjacks will be on the scene tomorrow. There is naught to do but to say a little prayer and go to bed.
Dear Mr. Brown,
Though I have been watching Professor O’Donnell daily, I have gained little information of use. To summarize, he follows regular routines. In the morning, he runs. In the afternoon, he works at the law school. He returns home in the evening and doesn’t go out after that. He does not seem to be drinking — except for tomato juice.
In talking to his fellow staff and teachers, I have learned he is held in high repute — almost no one thinks he is capable of this crime. (As cover for my visits at the university I have enrolled in an adult-education course in oriental religions. Very interesting.)
My search for someone who might tell tales out of class about Professor O’Donnell has occupied most of my time. Long hours at the university library have, however, finally produced a small nugget. It is in the form of Professor O’Donnell’s harsh review in a learned magazine of a book written by one Dr. Curtis Mallard, a professor in theUBCphilosophy department. He is the author ofA Dearth of Justice,a book accusing our court system of being unable to change with the times. Professor O’Donnell called it “pompous,”
“beyond infantile,” and “laden with musty Marxist dogma.”
I called Dr. Curtis Mallard. He told me he would enjoy talking about Professor O’Donnell. I will report to you after I have seen him.
By the way, I hope you will excuse me, but in your last note you suggested I pose as a policeman and “shakedown” some of the people you believe are protecting him. I think this is not a good idea because I could be charged with impersonating a policeman.
Yours faithfully,
Francisco (Frank) Sierra
A brisk breeze, the dregs of last night’s storm, is shredding the clouds, but is also causing the split alder to sway dangerously near my roof, so low that its branches caress the shingles. I have brought in the dangerous tree removal team.
“Piece of cake,” says Stoney. Dog nods his agreement. He is holding a chainsaw that is almost as long as he is tall.
“You fellows areabsolutelysure you know what you’re doing?” But Stoney, after all, did rescue the Phantom v from the ravages of mice, and returned it in speckless condition. I have tended to underestimate him.
“Dog here’s an ace,” Stoney says. “Half-human, half-chainsaw.” He drops two coils of thick rope at the base of the stricken tree. “It’s all a matter of levering it away. Question of simple geometry. Or physics, or whatever.”
I must assume that neither of these gentlemen carry liability insurance. What option is there but to trust my wobbly house to their overconfident hands? And if the house be damaged — why then I have ample excuse to build anew and defy the preservationists. At all events, I have turned off the power and water, and removed all combustibles from the house.
“How long will this take? I intend to be present, but I want to run up to the general store before it closes.” I am expecting word from an astute young lawyer by the name of Augustina Sage: I have asked her to junior me for the O’Donnell trial.
“We got at least an hour’s prep,” says Stoney. “I think we should tie a line to that beam on the garage, Dog.” His taciturn companion nods again. “Another line about a third the way up that cedar tree. Should go down smack in the middle of the driveway.”
He pauses to roll a cigarette from his packet of Player’s tobacco, then looks sideways at me.
“Now for this we gotta charge skilled-labour rates. But I been thinking, Mr. Beauchamp, remember that old pot case I was telling you about? I got busted last summer for a few plants? It’s coming up next week, and I figured maybe in return for this job, you could sorta defend me on legal aid.”
“I’m afraid I’m not doing pot cases any more, Stoney.”
“Gee, I thought we could do a little barter.”
“I will pay the going rate.”
I cannot watch. I leave them as they start uncoiling their ropes, and head off in my pickup to the general store for my mail. “Looks like your grandson caught a little bug over there in Venice,” says Mr. Makepeace, handing me a postcard from Deborah. “Feeling better now.”
Here is also a four-day-old letter from Augustina Sage (the mail service here is less than prompt), accepting my offer to assist in the O’Donnell defence — and advising she is arriving on a ferry that should have landed an hour ago. Accompanying her will be the students Charles Stubb and Paula Yi, who Augustina informs me have new and helpful information.
TheQueen of Prince Georgecannot always be depended upon to be late, but thankfully she has lost one of her engines today — so I am informed by Nelson Forbish after I park behind him at the drop-off-and-pick-up line.
“I hear you and Emily Lemay are an item.” A lecherous grin.
“She’s hot stuff, eh?”
I am about to instruct this master of the misquote as to the laws of libel, but he quickly says, “Don’t worry, Mr. Beauchamp, my paper doesn’t handle sex. Otherwise, I’d have to go ten extra pages withwhat goes on around this island. You should see the stories that don’t make the light of day.” A wink. “I have my sources. Don’t worry about Sam, Mr. Beauchamp. I explained you were a lawyer with Mafia connections. Anyway, he’s a chickenshit. So what’s up? What’s the hot scoop on that professor’s case?”
I sigh. “Well, Nelson, you’ll just have to come to court to satisfy this prurient interest of yours.”
“Wish I had the time.”
He returns to his car, and I watch as theQueen of Prince George,tilting to port, shudders into reverse. The boat banks hard against a rubber-tired buttress and crunches against a piling, sending its resting gulls aloft, fuming and wailing.
After the vessel finally comes to a full stop, Augustina Sage marches eagerly onto the dock, waving at me. I have borrowed her from the esteemed small firm of Pomeroy, Macarthur, Brovak and Sage, practitioners of criminal law. She is in her mid-thirties, a darkly attractive Metis woman, bright, energetic, single, though with, as I recall, a sorry history of romantic misadventures.
She drops her briefcase and reaches up to kiss me. “Arthur, you look like God in that beard.”
“I am often mistaken for Him. So good of you to find the time for this. Were you able to adjourn your other cases?”
“I’d have adjourned the rest of my life to do the O’Donnell trial with you.”
“You’ve read all the files?”
“Yes, I picked them up from your office.”
“Excellent.”
A young couple are standing by the ferry waiting room, the male bright-cheeked, bespectacled, with elephantine ears, the woman petite and sloe-eyed, subdued and pensive. Obviously Charles Stubb, the future prime minister, and his girlfriend, Paula Yi. Augustina makes the introductions.
“Mr. Beauchamp,” says Charles, “I’m tremendously honoured. I’veheard so much about you. Actually, I was at one of your trials — “
“We’ll have time later for the passing of compliments. You don’t mind hopping in the back?”
Charles and Paula look at the truck, look at me. They are deciding that I am eccentric. Perhaps I ought to have brought the Rolls.
Augustina climbs in beside me. “Love this truck. I love it. You’re looking great, Arthur. I thought you’d be a wreck. I mean, I heard. . about you and your wife. Sorry. What can I say?”
“I feel fine, Augustina.”
“Marriage is such a rotten institution anyway, I think. Never made it that far.” She sighs. “I never will. This case a winner, Arthur?”