Sing a Worried Song Page 10

  “Dozens, more than that — how would I know, I don’t carve notches. I can’t remember all their names.”

  “I put it to you that you consistently had trouble rising to the occasion with these women.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “You know exactly what I mean. You are without sexual drive. You are undersexed, frigid.”

  With that provocation resonating about the room, Skyler mut­tered an apparent obscenity, inaudible to most, and rose a few inches from his seat as if about to spring upon his persecutor. Sheriffs on either side of him rose too, and all three held themselves for a few seconds like racers at a starting line, then sat simultaneously.

  “That’s a damn lie,” Skyler said through clenched teeth. He looked at his lawyers for support, but, to Arthur’s surprise, they restrained themselves from accusing him of baiting the witness, though that was his unvarnished intent. And the witness was rising to the bait.

  A softer tone: “Let’s talk about the book you gave Manfred last year, For the Fun of It.”

  “Who said I gave it to him?”

  “I think you’ll recognize it.” Arthur retrieved the copy from Unger’s bookshelf, held it up before Skyler in the manner of a priest brandishing his Bible at a sinner.

  This time it was Pomeroy who rose. “My friend doesn’t seem to have any compunction about hiding material evidence from the defence.”

  “The Crown can prove, if put to it — and that will involve flying in witnesses from his military college — that it was found among Manfred Unger’s effects only yesterday. I first saw it a little over an hour ago.”

  Pomeroy and Horowitz took turns with the book, the judge perusing the title page, the inscription: “Happy birthday, Manfred, from Randolph and Yours Truly!”

  “It might have been more promptly disclosed, Mr. Beauchamp. But you may proceed.”

  The book was marked as an exhibit and returned to the witness. Arthur showed him the inscription page.

  “Okay, I remember now, I bought this book as a birthday present for Manfred, signed by the author. He was a fan of the Inspector Grodgins series.”

  “Yes, Inspector Grodgins, with his perception problems. What is the disability called?”

  “Agnosia. Where you can’t recognize people’s faces.”

  “He’d had a brain injury in … what was the book just before that?”

  “The Revenge of Dr. Sartorius.”

  “Which you read, didn’t you?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “And you also read For the Fun of It cover to cover, yes? You read it before giving it to Manfred.”

  “All right, it’s coming back. His birthday wasn’t for a couple of months … I teased him and wouldn’t give it up until I read it.”

  “And you teased him by reading passages aloud.”

  “I guess, maybe.”

  “And I suggest it was you, Mr. Skyler, not Manfred Unger, who was engrossed in this book. It was you who talked incessantly about it, who read him passages while flying to Vancouver — isn’t that so?”

  “I already told you we discussed the book.”

  “Here’s one of the selections you regaled him with: ‘He could feel it mounting. He could feel it coming. Then, as he watched Tom the Poacher’s ruddy face turn blue, there came an accelerating procession of orgasmic jolts, more powerful than with Donny Millibun, more powerful than in his most intense fantasies. There followed an explosion of pure, rich, volcanic pleasure that coursed hotly through every gland and organ and muscle, and that thickened and hardened his phallus until it felt like a pulsing stretch of tempered steel, and that found such shuddering, ecstatic release through that orifice that he fought to stifle a roar of rapture.’ Good Lord. How lurid. The jury must forgive me, I didn’t have time to read this over.”

  Arthur’s sudden shift in tone to surprise and contrition after his rich, sonorous reading of the sizzling prose prompted laughter from the public seats, while the jury and Horowitz struggled to maintain straight faces. But Boynton was visibly squirming with embarrassment. Arthur glanced at Mandy, expecting her to be appalled, but she was smiling at him in an almost beguiling way.

  Arthur had trouble getting steam up again. To gather himself, he spent a few moments flipping the pages of the hardcover book.

  “You read that purple paragraph to Manfred, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t recall what I read to him.”

  “Let me show you. The entire paragraph is bracketed in red ink. Beside it, also in red ink, is written: ‘Ultra, man!’ Your handwriting, Mr. Skyler. You may deny it at your peril.”

  “It was … I was being sardonic.”

  “Allow me to quote the justifications of the nameless killer: ‘No one would miss the alcoholic old courtesan. Her time was past. He was doing the world a service.’ Your red-inked notation: ‘One less loser.’ Don’t deny you wrote that.”

  Skyler had gone stiff, his neck muscles tight, his facial nerves throbbing. “One less loser … I believe I was trying to convey what the author was trying … or what his character was thinking.”

  “And then this character goes on to strangle another homeless drunk. Again he achieves impressive release. Your marginal note: ‘You’d think his hands would be tired! Nice!’”

  “I was having fun, I was teasing Manfred.”

  “You were fascinated by the premise of the book, that the taking of innocent life promised the ultimate sexual thrill.”

  “I told you already I dared him. I was kidding. He took it seriously. I never did.”

  “Murder was the only way you could achieve a sexual climax.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “Witness, in this book, Inspector Grodgins rightly accuses the perpetrator of being impotent.” Arthur began turning up the volume. “You found in this story a possible solution for your own impotence. You couldn’t find satisfaction in your relationships with women, yet you hungered for release, and you sought sexual fulfilment in the grisly murder of an innocent street entertainer —”

  Both defence counsel erupted, Mandy entreating the court, “Make him stop yelling, browbeating …” Brian talking over her, “Totally, utterly improper …”

  “Order.”

  “Did you enjoy yourself with Joe Chumpy, Skyler?”

  “Order!”

  “Did you enjoy your explosion of pure, rich, volcanic pleasure?”

  Horowitz cut him off by rising. “We’ll take the morning adjournment.”

  Arthur was so focussed, so zeroed in on Skyler, that he was barely aware of the commotion, the shouting, and was startled to look up and see Horowitz striding out in a temper and the jury being led away. He felt a tug at his gown, Boynton trying to break his fierce concentration.

  Skyler ignored his lawyers and made his way out with some urgency, maybe a bathroom break.

  Pomeroy waited until the room cleared, then accosted Arthur. “Man, I’ve seen prosecutors go hell-bent for conviction, but this is a new low. I ought to bring unprofessional conduct charges.” Boynton tried to get between them. “Yeah, and against you too, Boynton, for being his cloying sycophant.”

  Arthur left the room, strode outside for a breath of calming air among the blossoms of the tiered gardens of Robson Square. After a while, Mandy joined him, with a cigarette.

  “Your testosterone was working overtime in there, sweetie. I almost came.”

  TUESDAY MID-AFTERNOON

  Arthur returned bearing gifts of penitence and self-abasement for having got so egregiously carried away, but when he began offering them, Justice Horowitz waved him off wearily and told him to proceed.

  He retrenched a little, pecking away at inconsistencies and absurdities in Skyler’s version of what had happened on the Sunday morning. Skyler managed well enough, but he was subdued, shaken. No self-serving sp
eeches or excursions.

  Arthur had decided not to raise the issue of the library book detected in Skyler’s flat: On Stage: Tips and Techniques. Were the defence to catch a whiff of illegality, of Honcho’s illegal entry, the Crown’s case would be in peril.

  So he carried on with twenty minutes of non-threatening questions, until he felt Skyler had been lulled enough, and, maintaining the same tone and rhythm, asked, “The swarthy visitor, Chumpy’s boyfriend, did you get a good look at him?”

  “I was avoiding eye contact, I didn’t want to get … No, not me. Manfred said that. I’m just quoting Manfred.”

  “It is said a liar needs a good memory. Mendacem memorem esse oportet. The jealous lover — that was Plan A, wasn’t it? That’s the story you originally concocted for the jury.”

  “No, sir.”

  “But you knew that wouldn’t wash, and when you saw an opportunity to heap blame on a young man whose tongue was forever silenced, you changed course, you started paddling to a different shore.”

  “I’m not sure what you’re implying, I’m sorry.”

  “After Manfred testified against you at the first trial, how did you persuade him to change his mind?”

  “I never talked to him once. Not in person, not on the phone.”

  “So you wish us to believe. But you’re not blind, Mr. Skyler, and you’re not stupid. You knew Manfred was homosexual. That was your hold on him.”

  Skyler glanced at his lawyers, as if seeking their intercession, but they were fixed on Arthur, almost hypnotically, as he pressed on.

  “He would lose everything were he forced to come out of the closet. Career, the respect of his parents, the love of a young woman. He’d be a laughingstock or worse among his former friends on the sports field. You knew that, and you threatened him with exposure unless he changed his testimony.”

  “That’s a lie!”

  “The jury will judge who is lying in this courtroom.”

  Only about half the jurors met Arthur’s eye. He was confident that all reticence, all doubt, would evaporate when Laurence Wyacki took the stand.

  “No more questions.”

  §

  Arthur sat back, trying not to look too smug, while Mandy Pearl took her client through redirect examination, applying Band-Aids to her client’s cuts. Arthur was content to wait her out, because soon he would announce, “I call Mr. Laurence Wyacki,” and the roof would fall in on her prevaricating client.

  Annoyingly, Mandy was doing a superb job of resurrection. The reason for Skyler’s inability to remain attached: he’d known love, was hurt when Martina Jacobs broke up with him, and was taking pains not to commit himself. As a result, there was a certain amount of disappointment, jealousy, and (“I hate to say it”) spitefulness on the part of some ex-lovers.

  With Mandy leading him outrageously, he agreed that the prosecution had “cherry-picked” a disgruntled few women. There were many others with whom he kept friendly contact.

  He was appalled and sickened by Mr. Beauchamp’s slanders. He had never had any issues with his emotional or sexual health, and had medical records to prove it. He’d never been in trouble with the law; there was never a complaint laid against him until the August long weekend last year.

  Moreover, he was a supporter of gay rights: everyone should be allowed to follow his own heart. His dentist was gay. A cousin was gay.

  “And what do you say about Mr. Beauchamp’s imputation that Manfred Unger was gay?”

  “Well, I thought that was pretty awful, coming just the day after he … he died.” Skyler was struggling with emotion, swallowing hard. Arthur had encountered too many artful deceivers in the courts to find this display remotely credible, but feared the jurors — those twelve unreadable faces — might not share his skepticism.

  “Would it make any difference to you if Manfred were homosexual?”

  “No way he was, I’d known him forever. But …”

  “Yes?”

  “Well, if he was that deep in the closet, I guess it’s possible that was why he had all those emotional problems. The drugs, the shrinks, the freaking out. The anger. Taking it out on poor old Chumpy that way, both of them naked.”

  Mandy seemed uncertain whether to continue that tricky line, then sat. “Thank you.”

  “We’ll take the afternoon break.”

  As the court cleared, Pomeroy strolled over to Arthur and asked if he planned any evidence in rebuttal. Arthur casually rendered up a copy of Laurence Wyacki’s statement. Brian glanced through it, and almost gagged.

  “What the fuck … Son of a bitch!” Sputtering. “When did you get this?”

  Boynton backed away from the spittle, hiding behind Mandy.

  Arthur calmly explained. Wyacki came out of the blue, late on Sunday. He’d decided against calling him — and then Skyler changed the script, crossing up even his lawyers, by glibly fingering his best buddy.

  Pomeroy stared at him dumbly, then at Boynton. “Did you countenance this? Never mind.” To the clerk: “Tell His Lordship I’ve got a mistrial application. Goddamnit!”

  §

  Pomeroy continued in high dudgeon in Horowitz’s chambers, while the court report transcribed everything, including one or two not-so-mild obscenities. “I can’t fucking believe … strike that, sorry, I’m frazzled. But they finally cough up this witness after sitting on him over the weekend and the whole of yesterday.”

  “Let’s all calm down here,” Horowitz said. “Mr. Clerk, I want the jury dismissed for the day while we hammer this out.”

  That was when Arthur realized he was heading for a crash landing. Pomeroy’s complaint was one that would normally be argued in open court, with the press present, but the judge clearly felt issues of reputation were at play, in particular the reputation of an eminent barrister.

  He implied as much during a wrangle that extended through the day’s waning hours. Arthur was dismayed that the judge was lending a sympathetic ear to Pomeroy’s denunciations, to his claims that the prosecution had set a diabolic trap, that the defence was being denied the right to a fair answer. In any event, Pomeroy said, Wyacki’s testimony was not proper rebuttal evidence, and therefore inadmissible.

  Arthur tried to gain Horowitz’s sympathy by recounting how a young law student of impeccable background came forward — a mere two days ago — bravely prepared to endure great public embarrassment in order that justice might be done. He’d initially decided the young man’s testimony wasn’t vital to the Crown’s case, but it became so when the jury heard Skyler’s wholly unanticipated alibi.

  It was rock-solid evidence in any event, complete with corroborating hotel records and Unger’s scribbled note to Wyacki with his phone number. The Crown, he argued, was under no obligation to disclose to the defence evidence that had seemed of speculative value.

  Justice Horowitz took half an hour to prepare a written judgement that he read in open court, the jury absent, the gallery almost empty, only a few reporters present.

  “The Crown may call evidence in rebuttal only if the defence has raised some new matter which the Crown could not have reasonably anticipated. Rebuttal is not permitted for matters which the Crown could have raised before the defence was entered upon. I find that the Crown ought reasonably to have anticipated the alibi relied on by the accused. The testimony of Mr. Beauchamp’s too-well-hidden witness will not be heard.”

  The trial was put over until the morning, for final speeches and judge’s instructions. The matter would then go to the jury.

  Arthur strode out fuming.

  TUESDAY EVENING

  Arthur spent a long while outside, shaky, desperate for a shot of strong alcohol, puffing at his feeble substitute, his Peterson bent. He couldn’t bear the thought of Pomeroy descending on him again, this time solicitous, masking triumph with ill-meant words of consolation.

  The L
aw Courts had closed for business by the time he returned to the robing room. He was stepping from his striped pants as Boynton dashed in, panting, extending the heavy briefcase with the papers that his boss had abandoned in court.

  “Don’t disappear like that! What do we do now? He’s handed it to them on a platter. You have to ask for a mistrial. We can’t go with what we’ve got.”

  “We’ll go with what we’ve got.” Arthur had to adjust the elastic of his shorts — he was so angry that his testicles hurt. He knew he would soon descend into depression and self-reproach, but for the time being he needed anger, he needed its strength. Strength to fight the tantalizing but dreaded short-term solution to his unhappiness. But how bracing a properly made martini would be right now.

  Boynton continued to natter away about their plight, but to give him credit he did not cast blame or utter an I-told-you-so.

  Suspenders, suit jacket, loosely knotted tie, and Arthur was off.

  “Your file,” Boynton called. “Your transcripts. Your summing-up notes for tomorrow.” Arthur kept walking.

  §

  The rain had dwindled to drizzle as the afternoon waned. It was rush hour: crawling cars, hurrying pedestrians, long lines for the buses. Arthur hadn’t brought his Rolls that day, and thought of taking a taxi to some isolated spot where he would not have to see people. The Mountain View Cemetery. The CPR Pier, easy to jump off.

  But habit took him downtown toward the bank towers, toward Tragger, Inglis. He arrived as a tide of weary, happy humankind poured from his building, heading for tavern or home. His office on the forty-second floor offered the privacy he needed. He would lock himself inside and get it out of his system. He would rant to the shelves of Criminal Reports and Western Weeklies until he was exhausted.

  He arrived on his floor to the sounds of revelry, weary and hoarse, the denouement of an office saturnalia that had spilled into the reception area from the lounge. It came to him only then, as he listened to a mutilated chorus of “You Are My Sunshine” from a circle of lawyers holding each other up, that this was the tail end of the party honouring the two new partners. It had been crowded from his mind.