And I so fear the shame of failure if I try.
Margaret grips my wrist as the aircraft groans from the water. I thrill at the fierceness of her touch. I tell the pilot to circle Garibaldi, and I enjoy Margaret’s enjoyment, drink deeply of her experience, her eagle’s view of her farm, our rustic island, the evil Evergreen Estates. Then the inlets, other islands, the cold green waters of Georgia Strait, the approaching city spires.
She turns from the window and blesses me with a smile that causes my inner core to melt.
I remember our first encounter, on the ferry: Margaret thrusting a petition at me, expecting a rebuff. I don’t suppose you’d care to sign this. I recall the scorn on her face as she sized me up for precisely what I was — a rube from the city, still reeking of it, a transgressor upon the fair soil of Garibaldi Island. I found her somewhat attractive — lissome and lean, peppy, intense of eye — but she has been transformed in my mesmerized mind into a person of measureless beauty: handsomely wrinkled by the sun, dirt often under the fingernails, hands toughened by honest work, no false eyelashes, no painted toes, no false heart — earthy and elegant, and real.
A tragic dilemma arises from my state of rapture; one of its prongs is of course my own peculiar fear of flying — performance anxiety is how George Rimbold put it. The other problem is that Margaret is also in love. To her honour and my chagrin, she remains bound to the memory of her husband, a man about whom she incessantly speaks. I am playing second fiddle to a ghost.
So, sadly — but perhaps for the better — it appears obvious that Margaret does not return my feelings. I expect she sees me as an avuncular figure, an older friendly adviser with whom she can freely talk of past love and flush her system of pent-up sorrow.
My mind awash with these thoughts, I suddenly realize we are enshrouded within the city’s walls. We dip between two container ships, plough across the turbid waters of Burrard Inlet, and taxi to the dock.
I extend a hand to help Margaret from the plane, and again at her touch feel a wilting sensation. Our eyes meet: Can she read the horrible truth in my adoring puppy eyes? Or does she just regard me as that friendly old fellow Arthur Beauchamp, her pal, her neighbour, her sharer of fences and secrets?
How do I win her from her husband?
Our taxi takes us first to the downtown shopping complexes, where Margaret alights — she will spend the morning buying household goods. I remind her that we are to meet for lunch at Chez Forget before attending the matinee performance of Switch.
“I’ll be there.” She takes a deep breath, blows me a kiss, and melts into the crowds.
Switch. How crass of me to invite her to a bawdy farce. But George Rimbold eventually teased me into asking her. “You wouldn’t be interested, would you?” I said. “Well, I might be,” she replied.
My taxi drops me off at the Nelson Street entrance of the law courts. Here in this building — more greenhouse than courthouse, a vast atrium with potted trees and a roof of glass — will unfold the final chapter of the Queen versus Jonathan Shaun O’Donnell. Only two weeks to the start of the triaclass="underline" How well prepared am I? My powers of concentration seem decimated. I must focus on this trial or, befuddled by my emotions, I may end up sacrificing a client. I must will myself to keep my thoughts from the woman who lives next door.
In the lobby, court staff stare at me in puzzlement, as persons might who aren’t quite sure they know this old fellow, this rumpled, bearded beatnik. Friends wave from a distance, but avoid coming closer, perhaps fearful I will ask for spare change.
In the barristers’ lounge, Augustina Sage is having coffee with Patricia Blueman, who looks me over as I sit beside her.
“You here for the farmers’ convention, Arthur?”
“My suits are at the cleaners. Wally won’t mind, I’m sure”
“Patricia has some new witnesses,” says Augustina, looking a little dour. She passes me a photocopied statement.
Patricia explains, “Dominique Lander is a former UBC art instructor who had an affair with your client. She’s a bondage freak. It’s evidence of previous consistent behaviour. Proves he has a history of tying up his partners.”
I quickly glance through the brief handwritten statement of this Dominique Lander. I try to hide both my surprise and my dismay. A line draws my attention: Pain is after all just another aspect of love. I recall the dream of a few nights ago, the bound wrists, the risen phallus.
“And when did Dominique Lander crawl from the woodwork?”
But then I notice the signature of the witness to her statement: Francisco Sierra, a person known to me, a private detective with a reputation for artfulness.
“Who hired Mr. Sierra?”
“We didn’t.”
“Who, then?”
“Mr. Sierra refuses to say.”
The possibilities do not seem limitless. I catch Augustina’s eye and can tell she shares my thought: One senses the heavy hand of the wealthy fiance at work. Would he stoop to buying a witness?
“We will want to interview Miss Lander, of course.”
“Yes, I’ll set it up.”
“And what are the other late additions to the cast?”
“Paula Yi. Whom you’ve talked to, so you don’t need her statement.”
“You’ll be calling her, I presume, to say Kimberley was severely intoxicated on cocaine?”
“I’ll be ready for it.” There is a firm edge to her voice. “And we also have Dr. Hawthorne’s housekeeper — the police really did a raggedy-ass job, they didn’t interview everyone they should have. Mrs. McIntosh called to tell me she heard screams from the adjoining house.”
Augustina glances at me, and I can tell she shares my vexation: these important items of disclosure are being sprung at us very late. “Anything else forthcoming at this eleventh hour?”
“We’re adding counts of confinement and kidnapping.”
“Oh, come on,” says Augustina.
“Ah, yes, the scatter-gun approach. Throw enough excrement in the hope that some of it will stick.” I am furious and rise abruptly. “Let us see Mr. Justice Sprogue.”
En route to his chambers, Augustina gives me a playful nudge. “That nice Mrs. Blake — is she getting you all fired up?”
Walter Sprogue is a young fifty, a gentleman of both robust girth and temperament, with a vanity to match. But he is jolly and expansive. He peeks for a moment at Augustina’s ankles as we sink into overstuffed chairs in his chambers.
“Jeans and sandals, Beauchamp? Ah, the retired life. You poor bugger, I hear they pulled you from your life of ease for this.”
“Not at all, Wally. I jumped at the chance. Desperately wanted to see your first criminal trial.”
“You wanted to see if I would gum it up. Very likely I will. The first thing they teach you is to stay out of the arena and above the fray. Very hard when you’re an old hand at the counsel table.”
“Ah, yes, they’re sending the new judges to school, aren’t they?”
“Six weeks of my summer. Sensitivity training is a big part of it. We had some intense sessions. Worked with two counsellors, very bright young ladies. . ah, women. Not ashamed to admit I had my consciousness raised a bit. You don’t know what garbage is sitting around inside you when you start out. Rigid, traditionalist notions.”
Wally has an oddly placid look about him, as of one recently brainwashed. But he has probably benefited from his gender-sensitivity training. Though married, he has a reputation as a rascal with women, and I recall him once being roundly slapped at a cocktail party.
“Anyway, to matters at hand, let us have some time estimates.”
“Roughly four or five days for the Crown’s case,” says Patricia Blueman. “Depending on how long Mr. Beauchamp takes with my witnesses. I don’t know anything about the defence case. I presume Mr. O’Donnell will be on the stand for some time.”