“Did you have a search warrant?” the prosecutor asks. She seems too young to have had much experience.
“I was in possession of same based on information received. On proceeding to the front door, I knocked, and upon obtaining no response, I walked around to the side of the house, where I observed a garden hose attached to an outdoor faucet on the wall. I followed this hose to where water was running through it into a shallow ditch in which twenty-three items were growing which I recognized as being marijuana.”
Stoney’s plaintive voice: “How does he know, your honour? They coulda been tomato plants — is he an expert?”
“I tender as exhibits twenty-three certificates of analysis from the botanical laboratory,” says the prosecutor.
From my chair at the side of the hall, I can see Stoney in profile. He has a hangdog look. He is confused by the courtroom, lost in a sea of forensic mystery. Now he turns to look at me, reproachfully: I have refused to help him in his time of need.
I am retired, why cannot anyone understand this? True, I have been manipulated into making one exception: but Jonathan O’Donnell didn’t fall an alder tree on my Rolls-Royce. I shall remain unbending.
The gallery of half a dozen locals becomes restless during the interminable marking of exhibits. Turning, I see Margaret Blake take a seat at the back. How smartly dressed is this feisty woman: her best city clothes and — can it be? Are those slender firm legs wrapped in hose? How elegant she looks, willowy, and svelte. To my surprise she smiles at me. I am too flustered to smile back, and turn away to hide my blushing face.
She is laughing at me. She is evoking visions of Emily Lemay’s body entangled with mine in sweaty embrace.
“Okay, constable, continue,” says the prosecutor.
“I subsequently encountered Mr. Stonewell hiding beneath one of the vehicles — “
“I was installing a rebuilt transmission,” Stoney says.
“Mr. Stonewell,” says Judge Wilkie, “you will give evidence later.”
“I didn’t observe him to have any oil or grease on his clothes. I subsequently in his presence proceeded to seize the evidence, and as I was pulling out the plants, he said, if I can quote from my notes, ‘That was going to get me through the winter, man.’ “
“No more questions,” says the prosecutor.
“Mr. Stonewell, now you can ask the officer anything you want.” Judge Wilkie seems distracted, unaware that prosecutorial blunders have been committed here.
“Naw, I don’t have any questions.”
“Well, do you want to give evidence?”
“Not much point. I’m dead.”
“Do you have any submissions?”
“Well, except only half those plants was female; the others I woulda just turfed out.”
“Okay, well, unfortunately for you. .”
Can it be Wilkie is about to convict? On this paltry evidence? I find myself propelled to my feet as if by an external force. “If I may be so bold, your honour. .”
“Yes, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“May I speak asamicus curiae?”
“Amicus?. .”
“As a friend of the court.”
“Well, okay, go ahead.”
“I’ll be short. There is absolutely no evidence connecting this accused to the plants that were seized. He was simply under a car. Not a scrap of testimony that he owned that car. Or that property. Or that he even lived there. And the statement made to the officer is clearly inadmissible as not having being proved voluntary.”
The judge calls upon the prosecutor for help.
“He was hiding under a car, that’s evidence of a guilty mind.”
“I can’t see how that’s enough. Not enough for me, anyway. I think I have to dismiss this one.” He looks at me with an expression that says he does not forgive my disruption of the flow of justice in his court. “I would have done that anyway, but thank you.”
Somewhat red of face, Constable Pound gives me close inspection as he walks from the courtroom. He may be one of those many prideful members of the force who tend to take their losses as personal humiliations.
Stoney just sits in his chair wearing a big smile as the morning carries on: an agenda of the typical detritus of a country court — setting dates, adjournments, a couple of guilty pleas to driving offences.
“I’m really thirsty,” says Judge Wilkie. “Why isn’t there any water in this place? I want to take a break, and I’d like someone to get me some water. We’ll do the small claims cases after.”
I wander out with Stoney for a smoke. He is in a merry mood. “This year my grow ain’t on the property. They’ll never find it. For this, a whole new paint job on the Rolls and I’m gonna build you a garage that’s like a palace. I wanna stay and watch you in action. Hey, man, if there’s any way I can help you in this thing with Mrs. Blake’s pig, you tell me, eh?”
Like all readers of theIsland Echo,Stoney is familiar with the pertinent details of the case. The betting on the island is that I will win hands down. Though Margaret Blake is popular — despite her occasional bite — her wandering animals are not. Friends have parted with her on this issue. So the pressure is on me to win this test case, to make a stand against the Garibaldi Island obstacle course.
I puff my pipe and ponder my dilemma. By winning, I will do terminal damage to any hopes of closing the rift with Mrs. Blake. But no, I will not play dead for her. My current win streak stands at fourteen: it shall not be broken in Garibaldi Small Claims Court.
But I see I am facing no unworthy foe. Mrs. Blake is truckling to the judge, pouring him ice water from a Thermos. She can’t be faulted — it is a clever act of generosity, but now I must work from a slight disadvantage. To boot, I am in poor mental condition. I still havel’affaire Lemayon my mind: It is not concentrated.
But that will change. When the case is called I shall become another person. I will doff the garb ofWalter Mitty and don the cape and tights of the man of steel.
Judge Wilkie wipes his lips and effusively expresses his thanks to Mrs. Blake, and we follow him back into the building.
“Blake versus Beauchamp,” the clerk announces.
I hear Margaret Blake coming forward, her heels tapping on the wooden floor. I cannot meet her eyes. I feel oafish, clumsy.
Mrs. Blake is forceful in her description of that fateful night whenthe defendant came to her door to confess. She speaks caringly of Betsy, and attempts to justify her outrageous claim for a hundred dollars on every basis but the relevant one: current market value of a pig.
“Do you have any questions, Mr. Beauchamp?”
I rise, pulling on my braces then snapping them, a habit of mine when commencing cross-examination. “Mrs. Blake, I shall go right to the point. You have received dozens of complaints about your animals being loose and wandering onto the road.”
She speaks without a tremor. “I have free-range chickens, Mr. Beauchamp. I can’t pen them up. I run a farm. I have animals on this farm. People have to be careful. Most peopleknowthey have to be careful.”
“The animal that struck my car was not a free-range chicken.”
“Betsy must have tunnelled out from her pen. I don’t know what speed you were going, though I suppose you will say you were under the limit — ”
“Quite so. I was.”
Here Judge Wilkie interrupts, in a fashion I consider unkindly. “Was there any indication the defendant had been drinking?”
“He was quite sober. He had all his senses. He should have seen my pig at the side of the road, and he didn’t. Or couldn’t.”
“I could see perfectly well, Mrs. Blake. Had the pig been in front of me, I would have braked. I assume the animal darted from the side of the road.”
“From your right-hand side.”
“Yes.”
“You knew my animals sometimes strayed.”