Sing a Worried Song Page 5

  Harrison then related to the jury Skyler’s problematic denials: he had never met the deceased and was never in his home. “I asked what he knew of this homicide. He said, ‘That’s awful, no, I don’t know anything about it.’”

  These proclamations of innocence had been a boon to the defence at the first trial, given the questionable fingerprint evidence and Mr. Gillies’s uncertainty at the lineup. But now, with the print evidence repaired, they could be condemned as patently false.

  Pomeroy rose to paint a picture of a cooperative but confused and apprehensive young man.

  “You told him he was a suspect in a grisly murder?”

  “Don’t know if I used those words. It was obvious why we were there.” Harrison tended to loosen up with defence counsel, enjoying the combat.

  “Two large men come by, rouse him from bed, start firing questions about a murder. He was obviously scared out of his skin.”

  “Well, I can’t say what the condition of his skin was.”

  “Not surprising, under those circumstances, that he’d say the first thing that came to mind?”

  “He said what he said, Mr. Pomeroy.”

  Brian sighed deeply for the jury, letting them know there was no point wasting more time with this obdurate fellow.

  The jury was then excused for a hearing to decide if Unger was a hostile witness and therefore subject to cross-examination by the Crown. Horowitz ruled he was indeed adverse to the Crown. The process took up the entire morning.

  FRIDAY AFTERNOON

  The jury settled in. The judge smiled benignly at counsel. Skyler hunched forward in the dock with an expression of innocent confusion, as if unsure how he’d got himself into this awkward pickle.

  Unger was rigid in the stand, staring fixedly at the Bible he was holding, as the clerk invited him to swear to tell nothing but the truth.

  “I swear.” He cleared his throat.

  “I didn’t hear that,” Arthur said from his seat.

  Unger looked up, saw Arthur glowering at him, then looked down again at the Good Book, and repeated, “I swear.”

  As Arthur rose, defence counsel shifted in their chairs to watch him, to better enjoy this. Arthur was still unsure how to handle Manfred. He’d given up on the notion of a three-day trial, or any prospect of making it to Tuesday’s office festivity, so he wasn’t going to rush it. He would have to play it by experience and instinct.

  He began by drawing from Unger some background — his Toronto roots, his friendship with Skyler through their high school years and beyond — seeking to portray him as overprotective, willing to alter his evidence out of old loyalty, mysteriously renewed.

  Unger didn’t look at Skyler once during that backgrounder. Nor did he look at his parents, who were seeming more distressed as the day wore on. His gaze was fixed on the opposite wall.

  “This was your first trip to Vancouver?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, let’s talk about how you spent your time here. You arrived Thursday afternoon. And then?”

  “We checked into the Holiday Inn. We took in a few sights, Stanley Park and English Bay. We spent Friday and Saturday at Expo.”

  “Please do the courtesy of looking at me.” Unger instead looked at the judge, got no reprieve, and finally turned his eyes to Arthur. “Let’s go back to Thursday night. According to your earlier evidence, you did a little bar-hopping.”

  “Yes, sir, we did.”

  “One of those bars was the Gandydancer?” A couple of customers had identified the two of them from photos.

  Unger stalled. “I don’t remember that name — Gandy …”

  “The Gandydancer on Hamilton Street. Remember how they were all staring at you?” One of the identifiers had referred to the two handsome young men as “dishes.”

  “We only had one drink, sir. It was a homosexual bar.”

  “A homo bar, isn’t that what Randy called it?”

  “He might have used that expression.”

  “And he used other expressions. Faggots, fairies, queers, freaks, right?”

  “I can’t remember.”

  “He often used such expressions. Come, now. Be straightforward with me.”

  “I wouldn’t say he’s particularly attracted to gays. I don’t think that’s a crime.”

  “Yes, but the crime we’re dealing with here is the likely homophobic murder of a gay man.”

  That was for the jury, but Arthur also wanted to see Skyler’s reaction: it was a look of hurt, as if offended. Arthur had hoped to bait Pomeroy to his feet, to object to such rhetoric, but he held his tongue, declining to drive home to the jury the Crown’s theory.

  Arthur moved Unger quickly through their two days and one evening on the Expo grounds, an unexceptional time. The witness couldn’t recall their engaging with anyone except two coeds from Texas whom they met at Science World and lost in the Great Hall of Ramses.

  “Let us move on to Saturday evening. Please relate your movements.”

  “We had something to eat in a pub, and wandered to the old section — the Gastown area. We didn’t do much but walk, stopped in at an Irish bar, had a beer. The Shamrock something.”

  The Shillelagh and Shamrock. It took Arthur a moment to get back on track — he’d been drunk and disorderly outside that place twenty days earlier. “In previous testimony, you said were looking for a striptease club. Tell us about that.”

  “Randolph wanted to go to a club he’d heard about, but we never found it, and …” A shrug. “I wasn’t that interested. We’d been on our feet for two days, and I was tired. I left Randolph to carry on and went back to our hotel.”

  “Directly? Did you stop anywhere, talk to anyone?”

  “No, sir, I went straight to my room. I read for a while and went to sleep.” That was about two a.m. He said he woke up at ten upon Skyler’s return.

  They were into the core of the case. The rest, Arthur expected, would be dental work, drilling and pulling.

  “And did your friend give an account of his doings that night?”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Well, what did he say?”

  “Something about getting someone in trouble.”

  The first bald fabrication. Arthur decided not to offer him any more open-ended questions. That one had been a lemon, alerting the jury to the third-man theme. He would have to do better; his withdrawal symptoms had made him lose his edge.

  “In your earlier statements, you have him saying, ‘I really did it this time.’”

  “I believe he said that. But I misinterpreted it.” Unger was again looking at the wall instead of Arthur, who moved closer to the witness stand.

  “He told you he stabbed Chumpy to death.”

  “That’s what I told the police, but on reconsideration, I realized I’d got the wrong impression.”

  “Wrong impression? After saying otherwise to the police, after testifying under oath at the earlier trial that the defendant admitted to a savage murder, now suddenly it’s the wrong impression?”

  As Arthur continued to advance, Unger drew back. But there was eye contact now, and Arthur read anxiety and falseness.

  “He mentioned a fight. I got the impression he was involved in … whatever happened.”

  Arthur opened a bookmarked transcript of the first trial, began quoting: “‘He wouldn’t die. I must have stabbed him ten times, and he wouldn’t die.’”

  “I realize now —”

  “Please just answer my question.”

  “My learned friend is cutting off his witness,” Pomeroy complained.

  “I think you ought to let him complete,” said Horowitz.

  Annoyed, Arthur listened to Unger relate what he was sure was an over-rehearsed fabrication about how he’d jumped to a wrong conclusion. He’d been awakened, was fuz
zy, honestly believed Randolph was referring to himself as the stabber, but later recalled Skyler’s mention of a third man in the room.

  “May I repeat: ‘He wouldn’t die. I must have stabbed him ten times. It took him forever to die. There was blood all over.’ I put it to you that those words were spoken to you by Randolph Skyler on the morning of August third.”

  “I … I’m not sure why I might have said that. I was reading a detective novel. That might have been in my mind. I was actually quite rattled.”

  There was a stirring of discomfort in the public seats; they weren’t buying this. The jurors were impassive, however. Florence Unger had a tissue to her eyes. Her husband’s expression alternated between despair and displeasure.

  “What book would that be?”

  “An Inspector Grodgins mystery … I can’t remember the title.”

  For the Fun of It, according to Nordquist, but Arthur didn’t press the issue.

  “That morning, the accused also told you he cleaned the murder weapon, the knife, so there would be no fingerprints on it.”

  “I’d read about the stabbing in a newspaper later, about a knife, so I expect I was confused by that when I talked to the police.”

  “I can assure you there was nothing in the papers about the knife having been cleaned. That information was withheld.”

  “Well, I … Obviously, I would have assumed that any knife that had been found had been cleaned, and there’d be no prints.”

  “And on that Sunday morning, you asked the accused why there was no blood on his clothes.”

  “I asked because I thought he’d been in a fight.”

  “But you told the police Randolph said he was naked at the time because he didn’t want to get blood on his clothes.”

  “Again, I don’t know why I would have said that. I didn’t see any blood on his clothes, so I must have imagined that could have happened.”

  Horowitz was regarding Unger with what seemed restrained incredulity. The jury was still giving nothing away. No shaking heads, no smirks of disbelief. Deadpan, maybe stunned.

  “You also told the police you saw tooth marks on the accused’s leg.”

  “I assumed they were tooth marks, sir. Randolph didn’t explain.”

  “Fresh teeth marks?”

  “So I assumed”

  “You saw them up close?”

  “Not really, no.”

  “Did you treat the wound?”

  “I got him some lotion, and we applied it.”

  “We? So you helped.”

  “I guess I … Yes.”

  “Then you did see the tooth marks up close.”

  “I must have.”

  “Let me acquaint you with Section 120 of the Criminal Code of Canada. ‘Everyone commits perjury who, being a witness in a judicial proceeding, with intent to mislead gives false evidence, knowing that his evidence is false.’ Section 121. ‘Everyone who commits perjury is guilty of an indictable offence and is liable to imprisonment for fourteen years.’ Do you have that firmly in mind?”

  A deep breath. “Yes, sir.”

  Arthur returned to the table to retrieve the witness reports. “On Sunday, August third, you checked out of the Holiday Inn and moved in with your sister, Susan. You told the police you did so because you were scared, did you not?”

  “I think I was more confused than scared. I was afraid Randolph might have done something terrible.”

  “You told Susan that Randolph had admitted killing someone.”

  “I said I was afraid he might have done that.”

  “You told her in no uncertain terms, and you repeated it to the police, quoting Randolph’s very words: ‘I must have stabbed him ten times, and he wouldn’t die,’ and you repeated it on the witness stand last December while on a solemn oath to tell the truth.” A booming challenge: “Will you admit you are lying now? Lying on the Bible?”

  Unger dropped his head. “I must have let my imagination take over. I wasn’t thinking.”

  Arthur fingered through several pages of the transcripts from December. The next stage would involve confronting Unger with every one of his prior sworn statements. Horowitz guessed what was coming, and proposed they take a break. “Witness, while you remain under cross-examination you may not discuss this case with anyone, friends, family, the lawyers of either side. Do you understand that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Arthur stayed in his seat, watching the aisles empty. Edmund and Florence left quickly, stiff, expressionless. Their son hurried after them, passing the prisoner’s dock without a glance at Skyler, who didn’t seem happy with his friend’s clumsy equivocating.

  Jack Boynton said, “He prepared himself very well, I would say.”

  Arthur was taken aback. “You thought he did a good job?”

  “I meant that he has safeguarded himself from a charge of perjury.”

  Fair enough. The vagueness, the refurbished recollection, the wild imagination might effectively inoculate him from such a charge.

  “The jury will not believe a word he said, of course.” Boynton peeked over at Mandy, more particularly her buttocks, as she bent to pick up her briefcase. “But that leaves the field open for what I expect will be a very glib Mr. Skyler.”

  “I can hardly wait.”

  Mandy gave Arthur a helpless smile as Boynton hurried up the aisle after her.

  Left to himself, Arthur did a check on his current addiction levels. He’d been fairly comfortable while cross-examining. It was only in quieter moments that he felt the yearning, the gnawing. Twenty days. One day at a time. “Believe in yourself,” Bill Webb had said.

  §

  It took almost an hour to take Unger through all his inconsistent statements. Arthur would typically ask: “Why did you say that?” Unger would typically say he’d got a wrong impression. Or he’d assumed. Or may have read it in a book. But he was fading, slipping up in small but telling ways.

  “Why did you tell the police Randolph had stabbed and killed Chumpy?”

  “We were, uh, my sister and I, we’d smoked some marijuana — it’s not something I often do. I guess I was stoned. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”

  “Why did you agree to contact the police?”

  “I thought if Randolph had something to do with this, they should know.”

  Arthur took a moment to survey the public seats, spotted Colonel Unger, but not his wife. Susan was clutching her dad’s hand.

  “When was the last time you talked to Randolph Skyler?”

  Unger was slow to respond to the change of topic. “I haven’t talked to him. Not since his arrest.”

  “Not by phone?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Have you corresponded with him by letter?”

  “We haven’t had any communication.”

  “And for what it’s worth, you’ll swear to that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  A frown from the bench. Arthur had crossed the line — a fair-minded prosecutor doesn’t badger witnesses. But Pomeroy was the contented cat. Boynton had been right: this man’s testimony would be entirely disregarded by the jury. Skyler would blame a swarthy man in a toque. He would say he got out of Suite B just in time. That would open wide the gates to a reasonable doubt.

  “And this business of another man being involved, let’s be plain here. Randy said no such thing, did he? That’s something also dreamed up in your imagination, isn’t it?”

  “All I can say is when the clouds cleared, I remembered him saying that.”

  “Saying what exactly?”

  “That this big, dark guy came by and he got very upset seeing Randolph there.”

  “You say the accused described him as wearing a toque and windbreaker?”

  “As I best recall.”

  “On a sunny morning in earl
y August, he was wearing a toque?”

  “That’s what I heard.”

  “So what was this visitor supposed to have said?”

  “Randolph said they spoke French. I don’t think he knows much French.”

  “Mr. Beauchamp, it’s nearing the hour.”

  “Yes, M’lord. I shall wrap up with this witness on Monday morning.”

  Horowitz reminded Unger he was bound to silence. He was to report to the authorities any instance of anyone seeking to talk to him about the case. The judge then urged the jurors to enjoy the weekend as best they could. Many looked woebegone.

  Pomeroy stood. “With respect, My Lord, I see no reason why this jury can’t return home for the weekend. Surely these twelve honest citizens understand it’s their duty not to discuss the evidence even with their families.”

  Arthur had no choice but to heartily agree that jurors were entitled to the comfort of home during such a stressful case. But it was Pomeroy whom they favoured with smiles as they pretended to listen to the judge’s cautions not to talk about the evidence with friends, foes, or family. Brian was at the top of his game. Arthur was muddling through.

  As court recessed, Boynton told Arthur he’d arranged to “share a beverage” with their learned opponents. “I don’t suppose you’d care to join us.” Arthur took that as a non-invitation. Three was a crowd, four was a throng.

  While the junior prosecutor hurried after the two defenders, Lars Nordquist approached Arthur, offering a well-thumbed paperback book.

  “I really think you should read this.”

  For the Fun of It by Horace Widgeon. An Inspector Grodgins mystery.

  “The killer can’t get it up. Except when he’s killing people.”

  FRIDAY EVENING

  Arthur had time on his hands before his AA meeting, so he took a downtown stroll that included a shortcut across the terrace of the Queen Elizabeth Theatre. The box office was closed, but billboards promoted next week’s opening of Tristan and Isolde, starring Per Gustavson, a hairy gorilla in Nordic regalia, too flat-nosed to be handsome. Plump Bettina Schneiderhoffen got second billing as Isolde. Annabelle would be inside with her carpenters and decorators. He thought of dropping in to see her, but dismissed the idea. It felt a little like stalking.