I open with a blunt and dangerous question, but I carry insurance on it. “Miss Martin, will you agree you were physically attracted to Professor O’Donnell?”
Obviously she is not expecting such a bold thrust, and she hedges: “When?”
“In the weeks and days prior to the dance.”
“Was I physically attracted to him?”
“Yes, that was my question.”
There occurs one of those empty silences that are often more telling than answers. The witness is in a bind: She knows she lied to the lie detector. She opts — boldly, though too late — to be candid. “Yes, I was.”
“Physically.”
“Yes. That doesn’t mean I wanted to jump in bed with him.”
“But you had reveries about that, didn’t you?”
“What I dream about is personal.” But the brightness that taints her cheeks is mute proof. The jurors and I follow her eyes as she looks for help to Patricia, who knows better than to jump in, to overprotect, to prolong this. But predictably, Kimberley’s self-appointed guardian rides to the rescue from the bench, six-shooters blazing.
“Surely her dreams aren’t relevant here, Mr. Beauchamp.”
I give in to my irritation with this judge, speak with a sharpness that gives Wally fair warning that my fuse is short. “With respect, m’lord, you are in error. Her dreams are at the very crux of this case.”
Wally remains silent for a while, then repents. “Well, I suppose. . Okay, let’s hear how this develops.”
“You had daydreams about Professor O’Donnell, did you not?”
“I hardly think I was the only one. Most of the women in the class thought he was interesting. There was lots of talk about him, some, you know, speculation. Single man with a brain, unusual background.”
“Son of a British viscount, Rhodes Scholar, widely published author and critic.”
“Yes, all of that.”
“Were these dreams of yours erotic?”
Again she reddens. “Yes. But I mean …” She sighs. “Yes. “A helpless shrug. “Dreams are dreams; life is different.”
She says that rather sadly. Life is different; life is Remy.
“Yet you were engaged to be married.”
“You make it sound … I was in love, Mr. Beauchamp. I am in love.”
She has lost some poise. She looks down at her hands, at the diamond on her finger, furtively glances at Jonathan, then me. Those shifting eyes speak to me not of love but of some smaller, second-rate passion.
“In the course of the months Professor O’Donnell was teaching you, he made no physical advances?”
“Not really”
“Not really or not at all?”
“I wasn’t aware of any.”
Why do I sense she might have been disappointed by that? “No improper suggestions?”
“No.”
“His conduct was gentlemanly throughout?”
“I don’t deny that. Until the end.”
This prompts a soft snigger from some coarse soul in the gallery.
“I think you once described him as a fantastic teacher.”
“He was very good.”
“And you felt he paid you extra attention, beyond the common lot of students — did you mind that?”
“No.”
“He helped you after classes with your work?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s what a fantastic teacher might do.”
“Okay. Yes.”
“Yes. You were not a straight-A student.”
“No, I wasn’t exactly at the top of the class.”
“And the course he taught in property law was especially difficult.”
“I was having trouble with it.”
“So you were grateful for this extra attention.”
“Well, he wasn’t giving it to all the other students.”
“But he did to those who needed it, yes?”
“Maybe. Okay.”
We now have a gentle rhythm working here. No doubt Patricia Blueman — who has taken on a crabbed, anxious look — has instructed her not to joust with me, to be forthright. A chastened Wally is giving me free rein for the time being. The courtroom is as still as a graveyard.
“And, to be fair, you often approached him on your own after class.”
“A couple of times.”
“It worked both ways, yes? A student-tutor friendship developed, is that fair to say?”
“A sort of friendship.”
“It didn’t shock you that he would join you for coffee from time to time.”
“Not really.”
“In fact you were quite encouraging to him.”
“I don’t know if that’s how he read it.”
“But is that how you wrote it?”
Kimberley can still her tongue no longer. “Mr. Beauchamp, I know what’s in your mind, but I definitely wasn’t pursuing him. I clearly let him know I was engaged. I suppose we flirted, it’s something the opposite sexes do, but, you know, there’s a line you agree not to cross, and. . well, that’s how it was.”
“Fair enough, you flirted with him.”
She sighs. “It wasn’t one-sided. There weren’t, you know, any expectations.”
But were there base motives? The jury may find it unworthy of me to suggest she sought to charm her way to a passing grade. Jurors are neither dull-witted nor forgiving to counsel who belabour the obvious.
“You told us about visiting his office for some career counselling?”
“That’s right.”
“How did that come about?”
“I’d told him I was interested in family law. He asked me to come up and see him. He talked of everything but my career: my general interests outside law; what I did in my spare time.”
“A professional adviser ought to know your interests outside law?”
“I thought he was being a little personal. Questions like was I going to have a family, and was I worried about conflict between marriage and career. As a Catholic, did I believe in birth control, that was another thing he asked.”
I wait until this non-responsive speech peters out. “Miss Martin, do they still teach the rules of cross-examination in law school?”
“Yes.”
“Please remember them. Kindly refrain from answering questions I haven’t asked.”
“I’m sorry.”
Wally leans towards her, smiling. “I’m afraid Mr. Beauchamp’s being a little persnickety about the rules, Ms. Martin. But just do your best. Would you like a break?
“No, I’m fine, thank you.”
This dainty palaver allows me a moment to inspect my jury, and I earn some eye contact, a smile or two. I think the Commander has their respect.
“You told us Professor O’Donnell was on your list to be invited to the dance.”
“Yes. We had tickets to sell.”
“Who prepared that list?”
“The social committee.”
“And who was chairperson of that committee?”
She responds to my slightly mocking tone with a grin; she is recovering. “I was. But I also asked three other professors.”
“And you found a moment to be alone with him?”
“Yes.”
“And you asked him to save a dance for you?”
“There was nothing sinister about that. It was just friendly talk.”
“Did you ask the other three professors to save you a dance?”
“They were all women, Mr. Beauchamp.”
I turn to the jury, chuckling with them, accepting my lumps. Patricia grins broadly, too, but no one is enjoying this more than my former friend, the judge.
“Miss Martin, did you tell my client that you’d be coming to the dance unescorted?”
“I. . well, not like that. I mentioned Remy was in South America.”
“He wasn’t due back until the night of the dance?”
“That’s right. A late flight.”
“How long had he been gone?”
“A week.”
“So you must have been pining for him.”
She searches my expression for a sardonic tilt of eyebrow, but finds it deadpan.
“Yes, I was missing him. I had lots of things to occupy me, though. The dance. My play.”
“Ah, yes. For several weeks you had been rehearsing for a student production of Saint Joan”