“I’ll get Jonathan,” says Augustina.
Court 55 has now been opened to the public, and is quickly filling. I make my way in, issuing loud good mornings, and banter a few moments with some of the court staff while I look over the prospective jurors. Canadian lawyers do not enjoy the American luxury of acquainting themselves with jurors through long, friendly cross-examinations; we know only names, addresses, and occupations. A barrister must have his senses tuned to the silent nuances: the smiles and frowns, the bold or timid stances, the presence or lack of eye contact.
Which one is Hedy Jackson-Blyth, the feminist union leader? Gowan Cleaver has scrawled a big “No” against her name.
Patricia Blueman plumps a heavy bookbag on her table. “Ready, Arthur?”
“Fiat justitia, ruat caelum.” “
“Means what?”
“Let justice be done though the heavens fall.”
Augustina leads in Jonathan O’Donnell, who seems inert, depressed. He is startled by my smile, my words of cheerful welcome, the vigour of my handshake. (These gestures are heartfelt: His spirits must be buoyed; but there is a cynical side to this — jurors watch lawyers for signs of caring, a belief in innocence.)
I lead Jonathan to the prisoner’s dock behind the counsel tables. “Stand tall when you make your plea. Keep your voice firm.”
Jonathan vents one deep sigh, then steps into the box.
“I’ll fetch the judge,” says the court clerk.
The fetching is quick — Wally Sprogue has been waiting in the wings for his grand entrance. He swaggers out, chest swelling under the red-sashed robe that denotes his recently elevated station: a showy display of inflated ego. Feet shuffle and limbs creak as the audience rises then settles back onto benches and chairs.
Sheriff Willit barks the words that for long centuries of the English common law have heralded the beginning of a criminal jury assize, the trial of citizen by citizens: ” Oyez, oyez, oyez. All persons having business in this Court of Officer and Terminer and General Gaol Delivery draw near and give your attention and answer to your names when called.”
Ah, history, ah, theatre. We are in the very womb of English law, the time of that hapless ruler Henry III. “Oyez!” calls out the court crier to the citizens attending this grave commission into treasons and felonies committed in this county against His Majesty. Oyer et terminer, to hear and determine. In this age of speed and cybernetics, there is comforting tradition in the ancient discipline of law.
Jonathan does stand tall as charges are read and pleas taken to counts of sexual assault, confining, and kidnapping. He is not afraid to look at the jury panel — that is good.
“Not guilty,” he says each time, and I am pleased that his voice does not crack.
I rise. “May the defendant be allowed to join me at counsel table?”
Patricia objects: “Accused persons usually remain in the dock.”
“I fear she’s right, Mr. Beauchamp,” Wally says. “Be he pauper or professor, I can’t grant special privileges.” Should I have expected else from this born-again advocate of equal access? “Are we ready to pick the jury? Let’s start with fifteen names, Mr. Sheriff.”
Sheriff Willit shakes a wooden box containing cards with names of the panel members, then begins the draw, and ultimately fifteen persons are lined up beside the bench.
The first twelve seem quite an acceptable bunch — an equal mix of the sexes and several youthful faces: youth being preferred in morals cases. All twelve have been vetted by Gowan Cleaver, and have passed scrutiny. But the thirteenth person brought forward is the risky Hedy Jackson-Blyth, who looks bright though stern and distrusting, a woman of about forty, barren of any jewellery, liberated from the curse of female makeup. If any of the first twelve jurors is excused by the judge, she will be the next one sworn. Dare I take a chance that will not happen?
“A moment, m’lord.” I attend at the prosecution table. “We can spend a couple of hours at this, Patricia, or we can take the first twelve.”
She looks over her copy of the list — a big exclamation mark is beside the name of Jackson-Blyth.
“The first twelve. Okay.”
Her assent is too quick, and I have a sense she knows something I don’t. And, of course, that is so: when the judge asks if anyone has a legitimate reason to be excused, panellist number three says his mother has just died. “My condolences,” says Wally, and he lets him go.
Patricia rises. “With that exception, counsel are agreed to take the first twelve.”
Five men, seven women. I have several friendly faces, and I can only hope Hedy Jackson-Blyth will not be all that adverse to the defence.
When the jurors are comfortable in their seats, Wally recites the boilerplate about their solemn duties: They may return to their homes in the evenings, but must not discuss the evidence outside the jury room. Innocence is presumed. The defence need prove nothing. The Crown must establish guilt beyond a reasonable doubt.
“I expect this trial will go two weeks, but we have legal matters to deal with, so I’m going to let you select your foreperson, and then go back home for — how long? Did we agree on two days?”
I am missing Margaret already. Do we really need two days of opening arguments? Cannot we finish this trial in five days?
I rise. “I hope we can shorten things a bit, m’lord. That’s important to the complainant, whose university classes start tomorrow. I also understand her fiance has a business crisis to attend to — some kind of cyanide spill in a river. If Miss Blueman can agree with me on some minor matters, we might all get out of here by Friday to enjoy a stress-free long weekend.” I can see Patricia looking sourly at me while I play the fairy godfather.
“Anything you can do to save time,” Wally says, and he orders a brief recess. Patricia and I arrange for a confabulation of counsel in the barristers’ lounge. I tell Jonathan to stay put and not to worry.
“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I think I’ve been sweating over this more than I’ve let out. Suffered a morale collapse yesterday, so I had a long session with my therapist. I’m going to have her talk to you, Arthur. She can say some things I can’t. I’ve been a shitty client; I’ll try to make it up to you.” And he adds, “I’ve sorted a few things out.”
“What might those be?”
“I just have a clearer picture. I know what I have to do.”
“What is that?”
“Be honest with myself.”
I’m not sure what he means — I would much prefer he be honest with me- but I pat him on the shoulder. “I will do my best for you, Jonathan.”
“I know that.”
Will my best be good enough? If I entertain doubts as to his innocence, how do I convince a jury they should not? His earlier dishonest evasions, the screams heard by the housekeeper, the bizarre rites of sexual arousal with Dominique Lander: These do not inflame a righteous indignation that an innocent soul is entangled in the law’s tentacles. Somehow I must resolve my ambiguous feelings about this man.
In the mezzanine, I see Patricia talking with Kimberley Martin, who is still downcast. Is she unwell? Beside her, Clarence de Remy Brown is on his cellular phone. Patricia parts from them and follows me to the lounge.
There, she and her associate, Gundar Sindelar, listen politely to my pitch to jettison Miss Lander. “We’ll save a day of argument. An argument you will lose.” I feign utter confidence.
“Oh, no, I have previous acts of bondage,” Patricia says. “I have all that body-painting she did with O’Donnell.”
“Ah, but, Patricia, the judge won’t like the chicanery. Clarence de Remy Brown hired a private investigator to track Miss Lander down. Frank Sierra posed as a hireling of the defence to obtain her statement. Walter Sprogue will be furious.”
For some reason, this argument seems to be playing to attentive ears. I have a sense that Patricia, who looks contemplative, is — surprisingly — about to bite. She looks at Gundar, but he stubbornly shakes his head.