“Both. Yes, I didn’t want her to. But as I say, you can’t tell Kimberley what to do.”
“Did you have an argument with her about that?”
“I told her. . I suggested she shouldn’t destroy evidence.”
“And you had quite a tiff with her?”
“I never touched her. I’ve never laid a hand on Kimberley.”
A firm denial of an unmade accusation. Was there a tussle? Would that explain some of her bruises?
“She asked you not to call the police. You insisted. You told her not to bathe. She insisted. This was not a calm discussion, was it, Mr. Brown?”
“You have to understand, counsel, the state she was in. She had been to hell and back. She was crying, hardly able to — ”
“Answer the question!” The Commander’s blared order rebounds from wall to wall within this hushed courtroom.
Brown seems taken aback; he is not used to being dictated to. “We had some words.”
“Despite the horrible ordeal she claimed to have suffered, you and she had a fight?”
“I was trying to get her to act rationally, counsel. She was all over the place, confused.”
“Understandably. She was drunk, was she not?”
“I didn’t think so.”
“Oh, come. She was intoxicated, and you know that to be a fact.”
“She’d been drinking, but I’d say she was in a state of shock. She managed to explain quite coherently what had happened to her.”
“While Constable Peake waited to meet with her, you were up in the bedroom helping her with her story.”
“It wasn’t a story.”
“The jury may feel differently.”
“You’re bullying the witness, Mr. Beauchamp,” Wally says.
I ignore him. “Mr. Brown, is it fair to say you felt the police were lax in handling this case?”
“Lazy and lax.”
“The accused not visited until several hours later. No arrest made until the afternoon. The complainant poorly interviewed. That bothered you, didn’t it?”
“I will definitely agree with you there.”
“That’s why you hired a private detective to try to dig up some dirt about Professor O’Donnell, isn’t it?”
The witness seems about to take offence at this, but surely he must know his footprints are all over the scene. Patricia is in motion, a swirl of black gown: “Objection!”
“What’s the basis?” Wally asks.
“It’s irrelevant, it’s prejudicial, it’s. . Excuse me.”
She marches quickly up to me and hotly whispers, “This is out of bounds. You gave an undertaking.”
“Read the undertaking,” I whisper back. “It says nothing about my not raising this issue.”
She realizes that is so. “I agreed not to call Dominique Lander as part of my case. You’re taking advantage of that.”
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s unfair.”
“Tell it to the judge.”
Exasperated, she returns to her table. “This is entirely irrelevant, what the witness did afterwards, whom he hired. Mr. Brown is not on trial.”
“Perhaps he ought to be,” I say. “Counselling a false report of a crime.”
Wally is severe. “That’s enough, Mr. Beauchamp, you’re taking too much liberty. I don’t want to be warning you again.”
“Lapsus linguae, m’lord.” Formerly, I was naughty. Now, I am being warned of possible contempt proceedings. I sense Wally would love to uphold Patricia’s objection, if only out of revenge, to prove he is the boss. But he knows he risks facing the wrath of the much-dreaded Court of Appeal.
Lamely, he says, “Let’s see where this goes.”
“Do you remember the question?” I ask the witness.
Brown has had some time to compose his thoughts, and knows better than to lie. “Did I hire a licensed investigator? Yes, I did. For the very reason I told you. The police weren’t doing much of a job.”
“And you had him follow my client.”
“I believe he did so.”
“Everywhere. Home, office, strolls in the park.”
“I can’t say where he went. You’ll have to ask the investigator.”
“And you instructed him to find a witness you could use against the accused.”
“Whatever he could find.”
“And he finally came up with somebody called Dominique Lander?”
The trail I follow is leading me directly across a frozen pond. How thin is the ice? Will I take Jonathan to the bottom with me? But instinct tells me the risk is well taken: There could be treasure on the far shore.
“That was the name he gave me.”
“And you instructed him to offer her some money to come here and testify, didn’t you?”
Brown shifts, frowns, a witness in trouble, unsure whether I know or am guessing. “Just her expenses.”
“How much?” This is the question the avaricious Dominique Lander refused to answer when asked by Augustina. It is one with which Brown is now grappling. He fears I may have proof.
“Five thousand dollars.”
“Plus hotels and meals?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“Did you consider that a bargain? Hard to buy a witness for less than that these days, isn’t it?” And I look Hedy Jackson-Blyth hard in the eyes. “I assume that’s more than you’re used to paying your strikebreakers.”
Patricia is demanding retribution;Wally is warning me one more time. I flee the raging storm and take my chair. “No more questions,” I say.
“We’ll take the mid-afternoon break,” says Wally grumpily.
Augustina grins at me like a monkey. “And I was afraid you’d lost it. You are a son of a bitch.”
“Thank you, my dear.”
As the jury files out, they observe Brown tramp disgusted from the room.
“That is a relationship doomed to hell,” says Jonathan. “Poor Kimberley.”
I find it odd he feels such consideration for his nemesis. “Stay put, out of his sight.”
As Augustina and I head off to the great outdoors for a smoke, we observe evidence of Jonathan’s dire prediction: Brown is in animated conference with Kimberley — who is beyond incensed, livid, in fact. She storms off.
“What could that have been about?”
“God knows,” says Augustina. “It looks like he’s deserting the ship.”
Attended by an aide, Brown follows us out the courthouse door, shrugging into a coat for this cool and gloomy day. He marches down the steps, busy on his cellphone, marshalling his corporate empire, damage control in Guyana. He pauses at a waiting Cadillac, turns to us, shakes his head with an air of disgust, and departs.
“Sensitive, understanding guy,” says Augustina. “And generous with the expenses. That’s why Patricia wasn’t too keen on calling Dominique.”
On our return to the mezzanine, Patricia parts from a stillsimmering Kimberley Martin and beckons me to join her in a quiet corner.
“Arthur, I’d like to recess for the rest of the day.”
“Kimberley’s not ready? Ah, but she had a little spat with her gentleman friend.”
“The silly, bloated bastard. He hadn’t told her about hiring Frank Sierra.”
“And she fired him as stage prompter, did she?”
“She’s furious at the deception.”
“Are none of your other witnesses available? We have over an hour of this day to while away.” I feel sympathy for Kimberley — she is having a difficult time — but I cannot bear to see precious moments wasted.
“Okay, I’ve had to excuse Dr. Hawthorne; he’s not well. A touch of flu. He’s on in years, so we’ll make do with his housekeeper. We can read in his evidence from the prelim, if you like.”
“Please.” He spoke no ill of Jonathan. But I would rather have him here.
“And Mrs. McIntosh is subpoenaed for tomorrow along with the pathologist, Dr. Sanchez, and Sergeant Chekoff. And we’ll have the serologist, if you need him.”
As she explains this, Kimberley edges closer. For a moment she stands uncertainly just out of range of our voices, then barges in.
“Mr. Beauchamp, we haven’t been introduced.” She offers her hand: a tight, tense grip. “I’ve heard wonderful things about you. Mostly from Patricia.”