“Were you living together?”
“Yes, for the most part. She also has her own apartment.” “And when did you get into Vancouver that night?” “Well, there was a long layover in Seattle so I had our executive aircraft come. . about one o’clock in the morning, another fifty minutes to my house.”
“And was Kimberley there?”
“No, and I knew the dance must be over. I called to her apartment and she wasn’t there. I decided she was just out having a good time. I was deathly tired. I tried to stay up, but I fell asleep.”
“And were you awakened during the night?” Patricia asks.
“Kimberley phoned some time around a quarter after five.”
Yet another unwelcome intrusion from the bench: “Now, you know you can’t repeat what Ms. Martin said to you. That’s hearsay.”
“What was her emotional condition?” Patricia asks.
“She was distraught. Hysterical. She wanted me to — ”
“There, that’s exactly it,” says Wally. “She told you something. That’s hearsay.”
I have had enough of this. It is time for the Commander to move Wally smartly into line. “M’lord, when I decide to object, you will hear it loud and clear. ‘Out of the arena and above the fray,’ as a wise man once said.”
The message is cryptic enough, but Wally looks as if he has been stabbed: I have affronted him before this vast audience. “I wanted to make the ground rules clear. Carry on, Ms. Blueman.”
Wally’s vanity has been pricked. His sour look says: Don’t expect me to do you any more favours, Beauchamp.
With no further flack coming from the bench, Patricia sweeps along at jet speed, taking Brown to the house of the Reverend Dr. Hawthorne, Jonathan’s neighbour, where he rescued his lipstick-slathered fiancee.
“When did you first observe these red markings on her?”
“She was wrapped in a blanket, but when we got to the house, she showed me. There were red smears all over the lower half of her body and circles painted around her nipples. Sort of like targets.”
“Anything else?”
“Some very prominent bruising on her wrists and her chest.”
Hedy Jackson-Blyth’s eyes narrow: This is beyond unwanted touching.
“Then what did you do?”
“I tried to settle her down — she was still pretty panicky — and we had some more conversation, and then I called the police. It seemed to take till doomsday to get someone I could talk to. I finally connected with Constable Peake, and he said he would come right over.”
“And what was Kimberley doing as you were on the phone?”
“Well, she disappeared upstairs into one of the washrooms, and she bathed and put on her nightgown and went to bed.”
Patricia is looking at the clock: almost noon. I think she wants to bring Brown’s evidence to a swift close, to avoid building his role as promotion manager for the complainant.
“Briefly, tell us what happened after Constable Peake arrived.”
“I had a detailed conversation with him, and then he interviewed Kimberley. He took us to the North Shore Hospital, where she was examined by the doctors. By this time, she had settled down quite a bit, but she was still very angry.”
Patricia is awarded a dramatic note upon which to adjourn for lunch. “At whom?” she says with a flourish.
“At him.” He points a six-gun at Jonathan, the thumb raised as the hammer.
Tactless and callous, the gesture backfires, and Patricia stalls, seeking to salvage the moment, then says, “No more questions.”
As we take the noon break, Jonathan says, “Don’t think I’d want to meet that man in a dark alley. Where did we get this judge, Arthur? Institute of Political Correctness?”
“He spent the summer getting his consciousness tuned up.”
“God spare us all.”
He offers to buy lunch, but I decline. Augustina eagerly accepts — I sense she has begun to enjoy his company too much.
I return to my hotel suite. I telephone Margaret. No answer. Preparing her pens? Grooming her animals? Or is she purposefully avoiding me, unable to deal with my adolescent crush, my stumbling attempts to pursue her? Will my beloved tree hugger continue to flee like Daphne from rude Apollo only to transform herself into the unbudging laurel tree of legend? Abate, fair fugitive, abate thy speed, dismiss thy fears, and turn thy beauteous head….
Before court resumes, Wally again calls us into his chambers. “Beau-champ, I don’t particularly enjoy being upbraided before the jury.” He is still smarting from this morning’s spanking, and has obviously been mulling over his bruises through the lunch break. “I intend to be an activist judge. I will interfere when I feel it’s necessary.”
“Not during my cross-examination, if you don’t mind, Wally.”
“When it’s necessary. I’m running the show here. Let’s get back to work.” Almost a snarl.
I have underestimated his pridefulness. If we tangle in open court, fine: I will work to a keener edge. Friction pumps me up, and I feel I am finally getting into this trial, freeing myself from the seductive pull of Garibaldi Island.
As court convenes, Brown sits down, checks his watch, then leans forward, ready, the promontory of his chin thrust out like a target he dares me to hit.
I begin with some risky target practice.
“Mr. Brown, you personally picked up the phone and called the police that morning.”
“Yes.”
“But you did not do so at Miss Martin’s behest.”
“I called them.”
“Miss Martin did not want the police brought in?” I don’t know this as a fact, but all indicators point that way.
“She was very confused.”
“She specifically told you she didn’t want the police involved.”
“Not after I explained to her. . Can I say that, my lord?”
“Mr. Beauchamp has opened it up,” Wally says. “I assume he knows what’s he’s doing.”
A juror smiles at me, the nurse, Mrs. Beiran. She can tell the judge is in a snit.
“We had a discussion. She didn’t want to be put through this whole rigmarole. . this show, what we’re going through right now.” His voice again takes on that false note of tenderness. “It has caused her a lot of pain.”
“Not to mention the pain it’s caused you.”
“She is the one who was raped, counsel.”
“But you are the true complainant. You are the one who insisted that charges be laid.”
From the bench, Wally makes a show of shaking his head, letting us all know this line of questioning doesn’t wash with him. Too many sexual assaults go unreported.
“I advised her, yes.”
“You persuaded her. In fact, there was a heated discussion.”
“I advised her.”
“I put it to you that you made your point quite firm and clear.”
“It’s not something about which I would give orders.”
“However much you’re used to giving them.”
“That’s uncalled for,” Patricia says.
“You don’t have to answer that,” says Wally.
“Were you upset when you arrived home and found Miss Martin wasn’t there?”
“Not particularly.”
“On the telephone that morning, you told her to enjoy the dance and you would wait up for her.”
“Yes.”
“You expected her, as instructed, to come home after the dance?”
“I wasn’t instructing her, counsel.”
Counsel. A form of address one might use to a peon in a board-room. “You’d been away for a week. You’d made plans to see her that Friday night. She didn’t show up. And you weren’t upset. Do I have all that correct?”
“She likes to enjoy her parties.”
“It wouldn’t have been the first time?”
“Not really. She is a very independent spirit.”
“Which I hazard is the cause of some friction between you?”
“Not at all. We never fight”
It seems a palpable lie from the mouth of this controlling person. Even Hedy Jackson-Blyth must see that — though she remains expressionless.
“Later on, after you fetched Miss Martin home, were you surprised when she went upstairs and. . did she have a shower or a bath?”