Sing a Worried Song Read online

  He gathered up the several volumes of transcripts of the previous trial, and began making notes for a cross-examination that might never happen unless he could force Skyler into the witness box. The Crown hadn’t been able to do so last time.

  He would have to deal with the miscounted beer bottles — the bumbling over them in the first trial had enabled the defence to hang the jury. Arthur opened the last transcript to the summing-up by defence counsel Brian Pomeroy:

  “Okay, so we have one of the crime scene guys telling you he collected twelve empties from that room. And they found an empty twelve-pack. Then after they remove all the exhibits to the lab, they find a thirteenth beer. It’s half-empty, same brand, Coors, and it’s supposedly sitting on a window ledge behind a curtain. And when did they find it? Nobody could remember. It’s missing from their notes. Conveniently, it’s the only bottle that has not been wiped clean by the real murderer, and even more conveniently it’s got a partial print on it that they say matches the right thumb of the accused. Let’s call him the wrongly accused. Or more accurately, the falsely accused. Ask yourself, each of you: Are you willing to take a chance on convicting this young graduate student of this unspeakable crime over something that smells as bad as this?”

  Bravo, Brian.

  This gifted young counsel had cleverly wangled a mid-December date for Randolph Skyler’s first trial by agreeing to waive a preliminary hearing “so we can get him out for Christmas.” He knew jurors were at their most merciful just before holiday season.

  Pomeroy had done his utmost to discredit the Crown’s star witness — tonight’s late-arriving Manfred Unger — then gambled by electing to call no evidence. The case went to the jury after two days, and after three more they were unable to bring in a unanimous verdict.

  Arthur had shared several courtrooms with Brian Pomeroy and admired the young sharpshooter’s skills, although he found him somewhat neurotic — though not in any damaging way. An edgy, cynical chatterbox.

  Arthur looked out the window at the empty street. Annabelle would likely be late, but Deborah was usually home by now, nine-thirty.

  Back to his cross. Would Skyler come across as a spoiled brat? That was Arthur’s sense of him. How did an only child of well-to-do parents decide to kill a total stranger for no reason? A virile young man, attractive to women, according to police interviews, but faithless. There’d been a string of broken hearts and one broken engagement.

  It was nearing a quarter to ten, and Deborah’s lateness was making him lose focus. He finally relaxed when a familiar Dodge pickup pulled into the driveway, driven by Nels Jensen, her coach, a former pairs champion at some level or other. The engine was stilled and lights turned off, and his anxiety swelled as the minutes dragged past. Jensen was probably just offering her some final pointers on her inside edge spirals. The upper leg must be extended just so, he was saying. Running his hand up that leg. Stroking it … If she wasn’t out of that truck in two seconds …

  She jumped out, laughing. Arthur felt foolish; obviously Jensen had needed time to finish a joke or anecdote. Arthur hurried back to his club chair before Deborah could catch him at the window.

  “G’night, Dad,” she said at his doorway. “Don’t work too hard, it sets a bad example.”

  He took that to heart and unfolded a half-completed New York Times Sunday crossword.

  §

  At around midnight, Arthur woke to find himself slumped in his chair, still clutching pencil and puzzle. He rubbed his eyes and rose to go to bed. Without thinking, reacting from habit, he first opened the liquor cabinet, but of course it was bare.

  Their bed was empty, unrumpled, sans Annabelle, and he was unable to sleep for nearly two hours, until she returned. He lay still, his eyes closed, as she took a protracted shower. When she slipped between the sheets, he could smell soap and liquor. Maybe something else, something like spent heat. She didn’t try to arouse him. He fought for sleep and finally found it.

  THURSDAY MORNING

  It was Arthur’s almost inviolable tradition to drop into Bob’s Barber Shop on the morning of a major trial, a tradition that had morphed into near-superstition after an ineffectual attempted-murder defence that was not preceded by a shave and a cut.

  So that’s where he found himself at nine a.m., the sole customer in a Davie Street storefront a couple of blocks from the courthouse. It had a proper barber pole and catered to a clientele who, like Arthur, couldn’t abide salons that proclaimed themselves “unisex.”

  “Such lovely hair,” said Bob, fluffing it up for his scissors. “The lion of the courtroom. I think I prefer it longish for this one. We don’t want to look like a gendarme even though we are prosecuting.”

  Arthur felt less distressed that morning, despite having slept only five hours. Over morning coffee, Annabelle had explained what had held her up. One of her costumers was having “relationship problems,” and vented till all hours.

  “The prosecutorial look is what we must aim for. Distingué. Polished. But not vain or distant. He has the common touch. Shares the jury’s repulsion. A thrill killing, the papers say. Was this Randolph Skyler gay, do you think?”

  “Indications are very much otherwise.” Bob was gay himself, uncloseted, devotedly partnered. “Why? Do you think he might be?”

  “Joyal Chumpy was.”

  “Truly? That’s not widely known in the community.”

  “Oh, it’s quite well known in my community, Mr. Beauchamp. He cruised. At night, of course, when he was not in clown costume. He liked to be called Joy then, not Joe.”

  That wasn’t mentioned in the police reports. “I suppose cruising can be a dangerous sport.”

  “Indeed. One never knows when one might encounter a psychopath with a severe case of homophobia.”

  §

  The Crown had its own dressing room at the Law Courts, but Arthur preferred to use his firm’s locker in the gentlemen’s robing room. “Turncoat,” someone called as he entered from the barristers’ lounge. “Quisling,” another yelled, to laughter. Even Quentin Russell, the smooth, erudite mob lawyer, joined in, calling, “Collaborationist.”

  Arthur could handle it. His late, great hero, Cyrus Smythe-Baldwin, QC, had prosecuted once. Arthur was a professional, and he would proudly accept the retainer of any desperate client, even one as notorious as the Attorney-General, especially at five hundred dollars an hour.

  He was sliding into his striped trousers when Brian Pomeroy appeared, bright and perky, several lockers away. He called: “Arthur, if you think we’re going to finish this ring-dang-do in three days, you’d better ask your shrink for a reality check.”

  Arthur buttoned his vest, tied his dickie, slung his gown over his shoulder, and strolled over to join him. “I want you to have mercy on me, Brian. I haven’t had a drink since …” He lowered his voice. “Since we were tossed so ignominiously into the drunk tank.”

  “We, monsieur?” Pomeroy smoothed his thicket of a moustache.

  “Were you not apprehended with the rest of us?” Arthur glanced about to ensure no one was listening.

  “You must have been totalled, man. No, I wasn’t in the tank with you. I was on the fire escape smoking weed with Mandy Pearl, allegedly trying to put the make on her, or so she claimed. I was too wiped to remember. More likely she was coming on to me. Vamping unavailable men is her favourite leisure-time activity.”

  The party that night was to celebrate Augustina Sage’s joining Pomeroy, Marx, Macarthur, Brovak, and Arthur recalled seeing Mandy there. A small package of dimples, blond tresses, and bold breasts. What those of limited vocabulary called “hot.” Recently divorced. She and Augustina were tight friends.

  “Anyway, Mandy threatened to tell Caroline I had my hand down her pants if I didn’t hire her to junior me. I decided not to take a chance she was only kidding. She’ll add some glam to the proceedings. Heartfelt commisera
tions to you, though: you’re stuck with that toadying, anal-compulsive nitpicker …”

  He bit his tongue just in time, as Jack Boynton, Arthur’s junior, came around the far corner into their aisle, charging toward them, harried. A young man with a face creased by a constant frown and decorated with a neatly trimmed beard. “It’s four and a half minutes to ten, gentlemen. Had we not best bustle on up to Court 53?”

  “Jack, why do you always sound like a badly written line?” Pomeroy, doing up his vest, mocked: “Pray do not tarry, gentlemen. His Lordship awaits within.” To Arthur: “Selden Horowitz. Lucky draw.”

  They strolled out, Boynton waving the two laggards forward into the Grand Hall of the modern, cantilevered courthouse. Its oblique-angled glass roof was supported by spiderwebs of aluminum tubing, its several dozen courtrooms hidden behind vine-covered concrete railings. The three men ascended the sweeping curves of wide stairways.

  “Hope you guys found a fix for the inexplicable late discovery of that unlucky thirteenth beer bottle.”

  “Having spent untold hours on that critical issue,” Boynton said, “all is well in hand.”

  Pomeroy took another shot at him: “Jack, why do your modifying clauses never agree with the subject?”

  Boynton, who to his credit had not been involved in the first trial, would lead the fingerprint evidence. Arthur had decided the job demanded an obsessive zeal for detail.

  On the fifth level, Pomeroy brought them to a halt. “Pray, let us forbear from befouling the minds of the jurors with frightful displays of photographs of the dearly departed.” He switched to plain English: “Don’t force me to take it up with Horowitz. I’ll admit cause of death. Loss of blood after multiple stab wounds.”

  “I believe,” Boynton said, “we have already responded to that with a firm negative.”

  Pomeroy ignored him. “And we don’t have to spend an hour with the pathologist giving a painstaking analysis of the seven cuts. I’ll admit his report.”

  “Let us think about it.” What Arthur was thinking about was getting this over in three days. He sighed on seeing Boynton’s mouth purse with reproach.

  Mandy Pearl was waiting for them at the door to Room 53. She didn’t wait for introductions and grabbed Arthur’s hand. “We almost met at Augustina’s call party.”

  “I thought of seeking acquaintance, Ms. Pearl, but couldn’t find a way to break through the barricade of men surrounding you.”

  She turned to Pomeroy. “He is a great lawyer.”

  She offered a milder greeting to Boynton, and all entered the room. It was more than half full and would be at capacity after a day or two. Its chroniclers were in the press box to the left. The jury box, to the right, was waiting to be filled from the panel of sixty citizens the sheriffs had summoned to court. The witness stand stood near the judge’s bench, but the prisoner’s dock, with its shield of bulletproof glass, was the room’s centrepiece.

  Pomeroy brought forward a young blond man and placed him there: Randolph Skyler in a dark suit, off-white shirt, conservative tie. As Arthur passed by, their eyes met and Skyler allowed a glimmer of a smile. Maybe he meant to be friendly, but Arthur sensed arrogance. Bold, alert, he was hiding whatever discomfort he felt.

  Brian had got him out on interim release after the mistrial, the conditions of which were that Skyler remain in Vancouver and sign in twice weekly at 312 Main Street, the police station. Skyler found a centrally located apartment for which his well-off parents — both working in finance — footed the bill.

  While counsel arrayed their papers at either end of a long table, the clerk ordered all to stand for the arrival of Justice Selden Horowitz, a robust man with a ruddy face and the crinkles of one who smiles easily. Arthur suspected he would prefer the English tradition of wearing wigs — he hadn’t much on top.

  He urged everyone to be seated, greeted counsel, praised the jury panel for performing its historic duty to democracy, then addressed Arthur.

  “Mr. Prosecutor, you have set this down for three days. Are you comfortable with that?”

  “I will do my utmost to speed it along, M’lord.”

  Horowitz turned to Pomeroy, who hedged cleverly: “We’re working out some admissions.”

  “Good. The jury will be able to plan accordingly.”

  Arthur would have to capitulate to Pomeroy by agreeing to those admissions, otherwise his chances of finishing on Monday would fizzle.

  Skyler stood, and the charge of murder in the first degree was read to him. “I am not guilty, sir.” Polite, emphatic.

  §

  Within an hour all jury seats but one were filled. Arthur watched as Pomeroy, down to his last challenge, pondered whether to accept a stern-looking male retiree or a comely store clerk. There was little doubt whom he would choose — the dapper young lawyer, with his woolly, roguish moustache, played to women jurors well.

  “Challenge,” said Pomeroy, and went on to consider the store clerk, as the two case detectives entered: Inspector Honcho Harrison, a barrel-chested old bull, and Lars Nordquist, known as Bones, thin and laconic. Sorely aggrieved after the first trial failed, they’d pressed the Attorney-General to retain a special prosecutor for the retrial. Arthur had been their first choice.

  Honcho came up the aisle, looking distressed. “Something is afoot,” Boynton said, rising to meet him. Arthur got up too. Randy Skyler was watching with his worry-free expression.

  Harrison talked low: “Manfred Unger has been gotten to.” Unger had flown in at midnight, exhausted, not saying much to Nordquist. He was now in a courthouse witness room.

  Arthur was startled. “Gotten to? How?” The young officer cadet had been back East since the previous trial. A student at the Royal Military College in Kingston, he got only middling grades, but he starred on the intercollegiate rugby team.

  “Suddenly, he’s suffering terminal memory deficit. You’re going to have to sit down with him and talk some serious shit.”

  The store clerk returned Pomeroy’s smile. “Content,” he said. “I’m very content, M’lord, with these twelve fine citizens of Greater Vancouver.”

  While this grandstanding was going on, Arthur was aching to have a drink to help him grapple with the prospect of a reluctant witness sinking the Crown’s case.

  §

  A sheriff led the jurors in — seven women, five men, a few of middle age, most younger. They seemed relaxed enough, resigned to their fate: sequestration in a fine hotel. Horowitz had ordered they be kept in sterile surroundings — limited TV, no newspapers — because of the wide media attention.

  “Mr. Beauchamp, you may open to the jury.”

  Arthur rose, feeling unready, his confidence on the wane. He had spent a few minutes with Manfred Unger while the jurors put their affairs in order for the next several days. Unger was composed, polite but stubbornly uncooperative.

  “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my task now to summarize the Crown’s evidence so you may have a sense of what is to come.”

  That, he realized, sounded lecturish. This relatively young jury would better respond to an avuncular approach. Get close to them. Lighten up. “I feel I ought to tell you I’ve never done this before, prosecute. Handled a few defences, so I know my way about, but otherwise I’m going to bumble along as best I can.” That got a few grins — they would have seen the photo in the Sun: leading counsel A.R. Beauchamp, QC, snapping his suspenders.

  He heard the sound of two hands clapping, and turned to see Pomeroy grinning too, applauding Arthur’s humble act. That prompted laughter from the public, the jury box, and even the bench. The brazen defence counsel had neatly turned the tables, exposing Arthur as a folksy snake oil salesman.

  Arthur felt a flush rising, but carried on doughtily. “Before Mr. Pomeroy’s diverting interruption, I was about to offer a reason why I may seem to be having difficulties as we go along. Those of you
who read a recent newspaper will know I had an alcohol problem. This is my eighteenth day without a drop.” There came a scatter of applause from the public seats.

  Arthur had stooped low with that one, but he was desperate to get the jury onside. The sympathetic looks from the jurors told him it had worked. So did the pained grin from Pomeroy. Mandy Pearl gave him a laudatory wink.

  Arthur segued from his own drinking problem to Chumpy’s, briefly recreating the lonely, liquor-crippled life of a street clown, describing the dreadful scene in his suite, reviewing the police evidence, the fingerprints, the forensics, the arrest of the accused, and concluded with some words about the jury’s role and his own as an unimpassioned presenter of evidence who, though he shouldered the burden of proving guilt beyond a reasonable doubt, sought only that justice be done. Arthur was determined to be a model prosecutor, not one of those belligerent conviction-seekers who infested the Attorney-General’s department.

  He let Boynton lead the first few witnesses. The photos that had so distressed the defence were pared down; the pathologist’s report was admitted as truth, as was the blood analyst’s. Net gain of time, maybe three hours.

  Boynton meticulously led the crime scene team leader on a tour of Chumpy’s apartment — one of three small suites in a 1930s-vintage house on Powell Street, all sharing a front door. Chumpy’s was Suite B, comprising a bedroom, kitchenette, washroom, and a closet full of clothes and clown gear.

  His body had been found on the afternoon of Sunday, August 3, only slightly warm. Among the exhibits entered was a thin, sharp paring knife, found on a kitchen counter. When analysed, the knife showed traces of human blood, although it appeared to have been washed.

  The jurors didn’t blanch much on looking at the crime scene photos. The forewoman even lingered over them, maybe out of professional interest — she was an interior decorator. Skyler had on a serious face throughout and occasionally made notes.