Sing a Worried Song Page 3

  Arthur took the next witness: Marcel Fontaine, sixty-one, wan and cadaverous and appearing mightily hungover as he approached the stand. This unemployable alcoholic was the only person the police could find to provide background on Joyal Chumpy. He answered Arthur’s questions with a ragged voice as if from frayed vocal cords.

  Arthur brought out that Fontaine and Chumpy came from the same dying Quebec mining town. Both were from broken homes, neither with more than a grade-school education. Twelve years ago they began making their way across the continent, doing odd jobs, day labouring, begging, stealing, serving a little time here and there. The witness didn’t shy away from these admissions; Arthur had instructed him to be candid.

  “I understand you fellows spent some time working at country fairs.”

  “Yes, sir, one summer him and me got on with a travelling carnival for a few months. That’s where he got the idea of being a clown for a living.”

  Chumpy bought a clown outfit soon after they arrived in Vancouver, where for a couple of years the two men shared a flat, subsisting on social assistance, panhandling, or clowning for spare change. They parted ways when Fontaine found a place for himself.

  So far, a not-so-laudable history of Chumpy the Clown. Nothing villainous, few highlights. But Arthur wanted more. He cruised. At night, of course, when he was not in costume. He liked to be called Joy then, not Joe. Arthur’s traditional haircut had paid off. Bob the Barber’s insinuation that Skyler was a homophobic psychopath had the ring of truth.

  “Was Joe Chumpy ever married?”

  “Not him. I had a wife once, but it didn’t last.”

  “And you were close pals?”

  “Yeah, sort of. We didn’t know nobody else.”

  “Why did you move out of that shared apartment?”

  “Well, he had his thing going on, and it wasn’t my thing, and I … eventually I met a lady and moved in with her.”

  “What was his thing?”

  “Sometimes he’d have guests.”

  “What kind of guests?”

  “Young men. Mostly prostitutes, I guess, given he weren’t no prize-winning beauty. Once or twice a month, after work, if he had a good day, he’d say, ‘I’m taking a cruise,’ and he’d go out and, like, do that. He had his own room, but … we never talked about it much. Like I say, it was his thing.”

  “Did you ever warn him about doing that, cruising?”

  “I didn’t see it was my business.”

  Arthur was surprised that Pomeroy bothered to rise to cross-examine.

  “Tell me, Mr. Fontaine, was Chumpy bringing home a fair bit of cash from his street performances?”

  “Maybe on a good night, a weekend. Around Christmas he’d do pretty good. Coins mostly, some small bills. He always shared.”

  “He did pretty well in the summer too, right? Lots of action downtown. Tourist season.”

  “Summer was pretty good, yeah. Fifty, sixty bucks on a good weekend.”

  “And the day he died, August third, that was during a long weekend, after one of the busiest nights of summer, and the town was jammed for Expo 86, right?”

  “Maybe, I guess so, yeah.”

  “So he probably had a lot of money to pay for sex that night, and lots left over.”

  “Objection. Grossly speculative.”

  “No more questions.”

  Arthur’s useless, knee-jerk objection had, he feared, merely excited the jury’s interest in the scenario hinted at: a robbery gone awry. Chumpy picking up a tramp who’d grabbed his weekend take. A fight escalating to murder.

  THURSDAY, NOON

  When they broke for lunch, Arthur hurried to a witness room at the end of the hall. Boynton tagged along, fretting about Manfred Unger’s defection. “Who do you suppose is behind his little game? Perhaps our learned, sarcastic friend?”

  “Brian would hardly suborn perjury. Pick up a couple of sandwiches, would you, and meet me in the library. Evidence Act, Section 9, adverse witnesses. Look in Tremeear’s and pull the leading case — it’s Milgaard, 1971, I think — and anything more recent.”

  “What kind?”

  “What kind of what?”

  “Sandwich.”

  “Use your imagination.”

  “Shall I presume whole wheat?”

  “Yes. Just go.”

  A hearing to declare the witness hostile to the Crown would tack on at least two extra hours. Arthur’s addiction was acting up. He felt shaky for a few moments, then steadied himself.

  §

  Harrison and Nordquist were outside the witness room. “He’s totally clammed up now,” Honcho said.

  Arthur hoped Harrison hadn’t reverted to style and bullied Unger. “I’d like you fellows to find out if he’s been anywhere near Skyler, if he’s made any trips out to Vancouver. Have they talked long-distance, is there correspondence? Get the police in Ontario on it. His parents, girlfriend, teachers, pals, rugby teammates.”

  “His parents flew in last night,” Nordquist said. “Edmund and Florence Unger. He’s a full colonel, former sub-commandant at Canadian Forces College in Toronto, now serving at CFB Gagetown, New Brunswick. She’s active in the Presbyterian church there, runs the children’s program. They’re staying with their daughter, Susan, who’s in second year at Simon Fraser University.”

  “And Skyler’s parents?”

  Nordquist shrugged. “Came to the trial in December, haven’t shown up this time. Too busy, maybe. Not a lot of warmth there.”

  Arthur entered the room, closed the door. Unger was sitting back from the table with his arms folded, legs crossed, defensive. His light brown hair had a military cut. He was built like a footballer, wide in the shoulders. Round-faced, he lacked Skyler’s chiselled looks. A day pack beside him, a newspaper, a Sports Illustrated.

  “You’re feeling okay, Manfred? You’ve been treated all right?”

  “Please remind Detective Harrison he’s not my commanding officer.”

  Arthur smiled. “You’re in officer training yourself.”

  “I’ve been in officer training since I got out of diapers. But yes, I’m in the program at RMC, sir. Completing my bachelor of science. Examinations are a month away, so thank you for the subpoena.”

  “Regrettable. This will soon be over. Couple of days. Okay, you’ve had some chance to think this over.”

  “I’m not saying anything about the case, sir. I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” Arthur sat down near him.

  “I’ve been instructed that I don’t have to.”

  “By whom?”’

  “A military lawyer said I don’t have to talk to persons in authority.”

  “That’s only if you’re suspected of a crime.”

  “Detective Harrison thinks I’m guilty of obstructing justice. I’d like to leave it at that, sir.”

  “If you remain silent in court, you will be found guilty of contempt and probably jailed.”

  “I’ll deal with it then.”

  “One would think part of a young soldier’s training is to obey persons in legitimate authority.”

  “This is a civil matter. Civil rules apply.”

  “Your lawyer told you that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  This was no easy nut to crack. “From all accounts, you appear to be an upstanding young man. Good home. Sterling background. A fine military career ahead of you. Why would you want to throw all that away?”

  Unger looked past him at the wall. No sound emitted from his pursed lips.

  “I understand your parents are here.”

  “I asked them not to come.”

  “They’re obviously concerned about you.”

  Unger turned away, his face tight with the effort to stifle his emotions.

  “You don’t want to hurt them, do you, Manfred?
Something is obviously bothering you, and this is the time to tell me what it is. Once I begin to cross-examine you, it’s too late.”

  He stood abruptly.

  “Has Randy been in touch with you?” asked Arthur. No response. “Have you been promised something? Were you threatened?”

  Unger clenched his fists, but Arthur didn’t detect any anger, just frustration.

  “I’m going to leave you alone for a while. I want to you to consider the crime of perjury. Fourteen years.”

  In the corridor, Arthur told the officers to let him stew for a while. Then, finally, he vented his anger in a loud profanity.

  “Well put,” said Harrison.

  §

  Boynton’s imagination had produced a ham-and-tomato sandwich and a pickle. His research had yielded a list of mostly irrelevant authorities. The pertinent ones would have to be studied before Unger took the stand the next day. Which meant an evening in the office library.

  Arthur would be flying blind in cross-examining him, and could well be in for an unsafe landing. He felt at serious risk of losing this trial. But he must remain the unimpassioned prosecutor. If Skyler got off through lack of proof, that would be the system at work. Easy to say, but he knew, in his heart, it would be a bitter pill.

  Before returning to court, he checked in with Unger again. The sheriffs had fed him — on a tray was an empty salad container, McDonald’s wrappings, a milkshake. Arthur settled into a chair.

  “I’m going to save you for tomorrow, Manfred. I want you to have more time to think about this.”

  “Thank you, sir,” he said blandly. Rather than stewing, he seemed to have recovered his composure. “It’s not going to make any difference.”

  Arthur gave in to impatience. “If you refuse to answer my questions tomorrow, His Lordship will order you jailed until you make full amends. Whether you answer me or not, I intend to come after you without remorse — and maybe even some pleasure after suffering through this feckless mute act of yours. It will backfire. The jury will see it as an obvious setup between two clever college boys.”

  Unger looked straight back at him, calmly. The tough talk wasn’t working. Arthur spoke softly: “Manfred, it’s not going to help Randy.”

  “Randolph. He hates ‘Randy.’”

  “Why?”

  He finished his milkshake, sat back with a grimace, as if regretting he’d opened his mouth and now felt compelled to continue. “It has a connotation he dislikes.”

  Arthur glanced through Unger’s interviews from last year. “Ah, yes, you told the investigators that the girls teased him in high school. ‘Randy, randy Randolph.’ He scored with the beauty queens, you said. I guess that made all the other fluttering hearts a bit jealous.”

  “He was popular. You can’t fault him for that.”

  “Well, you’re a good-looking fellow too; you obviously don’t lack for girlfriends.” Arthur scanned the earlier interview. “You’re still seeing Ms. Andrews?”

  “Janet. We’re engaged.”

  “Good for you. Congratulations. Set a date?”

  “We’re waiting till we graduate.”

  “Janet … she’s in college?”

  “Trinity Christian. Health sciences.”

  “Your dad’s a colonel in the army. You must be proud of him.”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “I expect you also want him to be proud of you.”

  Unger’s smile clicked off. After a few moments of silence, Arthur patted him on the shoulder and promised he’d be back.

  To the detectives waiting outside, he said, “Make sure Colonel and Mrs. Unger have ringside seats.”

  THURSDAY AFTERNOON

  From the fifth-floor railing, Arthur saw Susan Unger coming up the stairs with her parents. The tall, heavy-set colonel was in a suit, and his spindly wife in a dress that one might wear to a church social, ruffles below the neck. He was wincing, holding his back; she was evidently recovering from distress: there were smudges of makeup around her teary eyes.

  Arthur corralled them, introduced himself, asked about their trip, and expressed the hope that Susan’s student apartment wasn’t too cramped. Observing Edmund Unger’s grimace, he added, “I’m sure the Attorney-General would be happy to have you as his guest — in the same hotel as your son, if you’d like.”

  “Bless you,” said Florence. “I think a firm bed might be the thing for it, dear.”

  “Go for it, Dad.”

  “Thank you, I will. Wrenched it grappling with a suitcase.”

  “I’ll contact Witness Services. But I have to pass on some awkward news. Your son is declining to cooperate with us, I’m afraid. That could have serious consequences for him.” The Ungers exchanged surprised, anxious looks.

  A sheriff interrupted, calling from the courtroom door. “We’ll have time to talk about it later,” Arthur said. “Meantime, we’ll find seats for you in court. Susan, I regret, must stay outside until she testifies.”

  The Ungers’ seats were not ringside, but in the third row, not far from the dock. Skyler was already in it, and as the jury filed in, he made a show of standing and waving to the Ungers, who looked embarrassed, acknowledging him only with nods. The jury, of course, would assume these were his parents. Arthur found it curious that his real parents had skipped the opening of the trial.

  Skyler sat down and reassumed his serious, attentive look. The kind of demeanour to be expected of someone who knew his one-time best friend planned to blow a hole in the Crown’s case. Scored with the beauty queens. Arthur found himself, with his own challenged libido, resenting him for the largesse of his love life.

  From the other end of the table, Mandy rewarded him with another sultry look. He was twenty-five years her senior; surely he wasn’t being vamped. Maybe the come-hither was meant for Boynton, because he returned a little finger-wave. Her response was to roll her eyes, still smiling, and turn away.

  Boynton whispered: “Do you think it’s possible Mandy could have a little crush on me?”

  “I can’t see why not, Jack.” Arthur stood. “The Crown calls Jimmy Gillies.”

  A Nova Scotian, retired and a widower, this spindly, grizzled senior occupied Suite A of the house on Powell Street, which shared a wall with Chumpy’s Suite B. Gillies had been a handful for Arthur to prepare, an old coot, a nosy neighbour. Pomeroy had had good rounds with him at the first trial, when Gillies had come across as too eager to help the prosecution.

  Arthur brought out that he and his neighbour’s relationship was amicable but not close, not much more than an occasional front-stoop sharing of a beer or a coffee. “He’d play his mouth organ, he was pretty good at that. Everybody in the neighbourhood liked him, but he didn’t have no real friends. I’d have to say he was kind of ugly. I hope that don’t sound cruel.”

  Chumpy’s irregular routine was to don his clown suit “whenever he got up, usually around three,” then head off downtown, sometimes returning after four or five hours, sometimes later, “after the movie pictures let out.” Occasionally, he would leave again, in the late hours, uncostumed.

  Arthur had him point out their common wall on a floor plan. “What kind of wall is that, Mr. Gillies? Describe it.”

  “Real thin partition, you can punch a nail right through and the hammer would go with it, and believe me that almost happened. And we had bathrooms back to back, and there’s a hole in the wall there. If you stoop you can look through. Not that I ever done it.”

  “Can you hear sounds from within Suite B?”

  “Sometimes more than you want to. You can’t hear all the words all the time, unless they’re loud, but you can always tell if it’s different voices. I can always tell, anyway. Yep.”

  “Okay. Let me take you to the morning of Sunday, August third, 1986. Tell us what you did and heard.”

  “Well, I got up, and I
was making some oatmeal, and that was just after the nine o’clock news — that’s when Rafe Mair comes on CKNW. And anyways, that’s when I heard something. It was Chumpy. He said, ‘Holy mother, save me, I done wrong.’ And he repeated, ‘Don’t do it, don’t do it,’ and then there was some, like, sounds, muffled sounds, but no more voices, and then I heard the tap in the bathroom come on, and after a while I heard the door close real quiet.”

  Real quiet. Arthur didn’t like real quiet. Even with an ear to the wall, Gillies was unlikely to be sure what he heard. “Which door?”

  “The building’s front door, I think. Maybe I heard both doors.”

  “And did you see something?”

  “From the window, I seen a man walking away from the house. I only seen him from the back and the side because the angle’s not so good, and he was walking away. He had a denim jacket, jeans, and I remember he had cowboy boots. Sandy hair, pretty well built, I’d say. Young. And I remember he had black gloves on, which I thought was strange on a nice summer day. That’s what I remember. Yep.”

  “Do you see that man in the courtroom?”

  “I would say that’s there’s the man.” Pointing at Skyler. “Yep.”

  I would say. That, Arthur knew, was as good as it was going to get. The jurors seemed to be enjoying this witness, though they likely felt he was overreaching. There was a skeptical look or two.

  “Now, I understand you checked on Suite B later that day.”

  “Yes, sir. Around four. Hadn’t heard a peep from in there the whole day. You expect to hear some shuffling, or a toilet flush, or the TV, but it was dead silent. So I decided I should knock on the door, and that’s what I did, yep. And there was no answer, and I was surprised because it wasn’t locked, so I just went in, and there he was, Joe Chumpy, all naked, lying half on the bed, dead, blood everywhere.”

  Arthur’s throat was dry. He looked balefully at the water pitcher on his table, poured himself a glass. He used to dose his courtroom water with gin in the old days. It still seemed unnatural to take his water straight. He looked to the third row, to make sure the Ungers were still there. Solid citizens, loving parents, they’d be the ones to make that young man see reason. “Your witness.”