How do I respond without seeming the sleazy lawyer? Truth, disagreeable truth. Does it play a part in the theatre of court? Saint Joan burned in the flames of truth and so, I fear, may Jonathan.
” ‘Liars when they speak the truth are not believed.’ Aristotle.”
“Don’t hide behind your dead philosophers. What is that other thing you always say? Truth does not blush. I mean, honesty is a kind of important concept, isn’t it? And if it means so much to your client, shouldn’t it be important to you?”
More important than winning? I shy from the topic with some ambiguity about life being a constant search for truth. I ask her if she has yet gone to see George Rimbold.
“I’ll do that tonight.”
I want to put her to the test. I want to whisper through trembling lips those daunting three little words. But I would barely survive rejection: the mumbled apology, the vague promise to “think” about it.
After we disconnect, I try to reach George. But after several hollow, distant rings, I hang up.
Probably starved, though I am unclear about that (for one in love, hunger seems a mere irritant) — I embark on a tramp through the dense West End, between high-rises that hide the murky sky, at twilight the colour of lead. Tomorrow, Thursday, the remaining witnesses will testify. Friday, final addresses. At day’s end the jury will go out to discuss reasonable doubt. By Saturday morning I will be on the Queen of Prince George. This will be so.
I make my way to Denman Street, near the beaches of English Bay, and when I arrive at Chez Forget I find Pierre fluttering over Augustina, Patricia, and Gundar, telling them what they will have as entrees. He waves me forward, scolds me. “Mr. Beauchamp, I do not forgive you. Two hours’ notice of a reservation for six. This is not some cheap joint where you can just walk in for a bowl of soup. As punishment you will have the tenderloin. It will cost you.”
Wally and his wife have not yet arrived. Gundar Sindelar is wrestling with a monstrous martini; the women share a bottle of pricey Bordeaux. Everyone knows that my generous client, the Faculty Association, will be picking up the tab tonight. Patricia will protest, for form, but the Attorney General doesn’t honour chits for fancy dinners.
I settle in beside Augustina, who looks quite alluring tonight, leggy in a brief skirt. I must find a quiet moment tonight to tell her of O’Donnell’s mad urge to testify.
“Excellent performance today, Arthur,” Patricia says. “But it ain’t over until the horizontally challenged woman sings.” She seems too buoyant for one whose vessel seems so close to foundering. “Kimberley’s bearing up pretty well, I’d say, and we’ve still got Mrs. McIntosh. Come on, Arthur, let me get rid of her; she’s nagging me.”
In a giving mood, I relent. It is uncaring of me to keep the good Mrs. McIntosh from her employer’s bedside, so tomorrow Patricia may call her as the first item of business. I am still unsure how I will deal with the screams from next door; I must think of something.
We consume escargots and pate until Walter and Melanie Sprogue finally arrive: both seem out of sorts, their clenched, false smiles giving evidence of a recent zealous exchange of words.
“Sorry, “Wally says. “Heavy traffic.” He has had a few preparatory drinks: I can smell his breath as he helps Melanie into a chair next to me. In her mid-forties, she is a tense woman who hides emotions behind heavy makeup.
“You sit beside the great one. I’ll join the ordinary mortals.” Wally squeezes in between his wife and Patricia. “Boy, girl, boy, girl. I think I’ll start off with one of those.” He points to Gundar’s power martini.
“Go easy, Walter,” Melanie warns. She turns to me. “He has already knocked back three scotches.”
I try to divert her with innocuous chit-chat, but she proves an inattentive audience, watching Wally like a nervous cat as he slavers at Augustina from across the table and slugs back a couple of martinis. After our food orders are taken, he holds forth: it’s the old Wally, pre-sensitized.
“You’re going to have to buttress your case, Patricia, or it’s going to be your word against Beauchamp’s. No question, that Kimberley is a bright young thing. Candid. Charming. But when O’Donnell takes the stand — well, he’s a man of prestige. Hard to picture him doing this terrible thing, tying someone up and reaming her from behind.”
“Darling,” says Melanie. “Your mouth.”
“He may have seduced her, but that’s short of a crime. And if that’s all he did, I guess in a way you can’t blame him. Hard for a guy to keep his belt buckled when a banquet like that is spread for him.”
“Please, Walter.”
A nervous silence as Wally reaches for the wine, slopping some as he tops up his glass.
“I think you’ve had enough, Walter.”
Now he refills Augustina’s glass, and boldly winks at her. His political correctness in full remission, he entertains with a racy joke that only Gundar laughs at. While he engages for a while with the prosecutors, I confer with Augustina, who looks alarmed when I relate my discussion with Jonathan.
“It’s that shrink he’s seeing. She has him all confused. I’ll straighten him out.”
Wally is studying the wine list. “How many for white and how many for red?”
As we feast into the night, Wally attains truly Chornickian heights: two massive martinis and much Bordeaux and cognac, and now he is insisting on, as he calls it, a Kimberley Martin: a dollop of Benedictine in his snifter.
“Hey, Arturo, I saw your divorce on the list the other day: coming up in a few weeks. Bet you can hardly wait — free again, eh? Thank God a’mighty.”
“Walter, shut up!”
“Hey, I’m jus’ having fun, why’s everyone so uptight?”
He navigates his way around the table, and bends, wobbling, between me and Augustina, supporting himself with an arm around my shoulders. “This guy’s a weenie. I jus’ love him. My pal, my ol’ pal. We had our little spats, eh, ol’ buddy? All forgotten. Hey, how’m I doing? Conshidering it’s my rookie trial.”
“You’re doing fine, Wally.”
“I try. I do my best.” A repulsive little tear glistens in one eye. I fear he is about to become maudlin.
Melanie rises. “Walter, we’re going home.”
“I wanna be fair. Justice mush not only be seen but done.”
Suddenly Augustina starts, then sits there frozen. It will seem obvious to a careful observer that Wally has reached up and touched someone.
Melanie is such a careful observer. “You can do your pig act when we get home, Walter.”
“Evening’s young. I got my Kimbly Martin coming.”
“Walter!”
A hush descends. Nearby patrons pretend to avert their eyes. Wally slowly straightens up, slightly losing his balance, taking his wife’s arm for support.
“Yesh. Yes. Time to go.”
Melanie marches the sobriety-deprived judge smartly out, and we wait until they are on the street before we all give in to the rudest of laughter. Such moments fire the coals of my resolve to maintain my lifetime pledge.
“Where did he get you?” Patricia asks.
“It was just a thigh shot. His aim was grossly impaired.”
More peals of laughter.
“Boy, girl, boy, girl,” mimics Patricia. “Les’ all have another Bimberly Martin. Hard for a guy to shay no when that cherry pie is spread on a platter.” She has his voice down pat. I applaud.
But it is also time for me to go. I must ready myself for tomorrow, for Kimberley, for Mrs. McIntosh and Dr. Sanchez, the screams and the bruises. I brush aside offers of rides. I bribe Pierre and his staff lavishly, hinting at my displeasure were I to read anything untoward in the gossip columns, and I walk out into the cold drizzle, suddenly tired. I wave down a taxi.
My message light is blinking, an urgent, rhythmic throb. Midnight. Who calls? Now I hear a recorded message from Margaret.
A deep unease wells up within me as I listen to her halting broken phrases. “Arthur, I don’t. . I don’t know how to tell you. .”