Sing a Worried Song Page 8

  §

  Arthur was expecting an in-chambers spanking — various judges had railed at him many times before, out of view of press and public — but Horowitz was more affable than censorious, and didn’t ask why the Crown wished to recall Unger to the stand. Nor did he inquire why Jack Boynton was not present for this discussion. Arthur wasn’t about to explain that he was squirrelling Wyacki away somewhere.

  Arthur’s plea was unadorned. He simply asked to be allowed to sit down with Unger before the Crown formally closed its case. “You saw the strain he was under, Selden. Surely he’s entitled to one last chance to set the record straight.”

  “Beyond that, do you have a further witness?”

  “No.” Arthur had firmed up his intention to keep Wyacki out of it.

  “So what’s the problem?” Pomeroy said. “We’re ready to go.”

  Horowitz asked, “You’re electing to call evidence, Brian?”

  “I can’t disappoint my friend by saying no.”

  The clerk opened the door to Boynton, who looked anxious.

  “It’s about eleven-thirty,” Horowitz said. “I expect everyone to be in place at precisely two p.m. But in the interim I can’t see how I can prohibit Crown counsel from talking to their witness.”

  “That might be a problem,” Boynton said. “We can’t seem to locate him.”

  MONDAY AFTERNOON

  Arthur didn’t bother changing into street clothes, choosing to eat lunch in the Law Courts restaurant, where he anxiously waited for Boynton to report in. Pomeroy and Mandy were at a table not far away, looking too smug. He was kicking himself now about hiding Wyacki from them, but he didn’t know how to backtrack and worried that he was digging himself a deeper hole.

  It was twelve-thirty, and Arthur was halfway through his ravioli when Boynton, looking frazzled, finally joined him, still in courtroom gear.

  “Arthur, we seem to be looking at a bit of a problem, I’m afraid.”

  “I know there’s a problem. Where’s Manfred? Where’s Laurence Wyacki?”

  “He’s having a sandwich in the Crown counsel interview room. I was a little curt with him, though obviously he’d meant no harm by wandering into court. Not to cast blame, but I don’t believe anyone warned him not to.”

  Arthur heard that as reproof, and bristled. It was Boynton’s role to tend to the witnesses, and he’d blown the simple task of keeping Wyacki away from view.

  “And Manfred?”

  Boynton glanced at Pomeroy, who blew him a mock kiss. Mandy merely offered a smile, but Boynton rejected it, frowning, averting his eyes. He lowered his voice. “Manfred … well, he’s disappeared.”

  Apparently into the dense thicket of West End apartment buildings. A sheriff’s officer was the last to see him, exiting the courts by the Nelson Street entrance and walking north. He had not since returned to his hotel room or checked out of it.

  “Colonel and Mrs. Unger are distraught. I tried to reassure them he’s likely gone off to enjoy a sunny day, believing his courtroom duties were done.”

  A waiter summoned Arthur to the phone. “A Mr. Harrison, sir.”

  “Take a deep breath,” Honcho said, “and grab a cab. Meet me on the Granville Bridge.”

  §

  Leaning over the concrete railing of the massive bridge, Arthur stared in a dumfounded daze at a metal-sheeted shed roof on Granville Island, a hundred feet below. Emergency vehicles were down there, their lights flashing. A ladder had been thrown up, and officers were bent over the broken, lifeless body of Manfred Unger.

  Boynton was sitting on the curb, breathing deeply. He’d taken one peek below and turned white.

  “Can we free up the lane, sir?” a traffic officer asked Harrison.

  “Soon.” The curb lane, southbound, was ribboned off, causing a traffic snarl on this major artery. Gawkers were gathering, whispering their speculations about death and the presence of two gowned men.

  “We figured he went walkabout for a while,” Harrison said, “getting up courage. Driver of a passing car saw him take flight at twelve-fifteen hours.”

  “Now what?” said Boynton.

  §

  Before court resumed, counsel met in an emergency session in Justice Horowitz’s chambers. The mood was sombre, respectful; there were no wisecracks from Pomeroy. Briskly, the two lead lawyers composed a brief joint statement about Unger’s death, and signed it.

  At two p.m., it was read to the jury. Arthur then announced that the Crown had concluded its case. Horowitz said a few gentle words about the tragedy, and suggested the trial be recessed until Tuesday morning. Counsel concurred.

  Arthur observed that when the last juror left, Randy Skyler stopped looking anguished. He strode purposefully toward his lawyers, with an expression of some urgency, and brought them close. Not seeking advice, it looked like, but giving it.

  Colonel and Mrs. Unger were not present. They’d been at the morgue, where, Arthur learned, Florence Unger collapsed and was given medical treatment, and they were now on their way to the airport with their daughter. Susan would accompany them home, to await the arrival of their son’s body, and arrange his funeral.

  How tragic for them. How tragic for the doubtless pleasant and pious young woman he planned to marry.

  Arthur might have used the rest of the day to hone his attack on Skyler, but was in such a low mood that just thinking about the case, about its ghastly turn, caused a welling of nausea. It was a task for him to escape from the courthouse, from the media, from Jack Boynton and his hyperactive speculation about what impact the suicide would have on the jury.

  “Not to be macabre, but it helps us, doesn’t it? They’ll conclude Unger jumped because he couldn’t live with his false testimony, won’t they?” He’d dogged Arthur to the gowning room, to the stairs, and finally to the exit. “But now the defence can say anything about Unger without fear of contradiction. They could even say Manfred did it, couldn’t they?”

  Arthur had to remind him of Skyler’s thumbprint at the crime scene. The defence had invested too much time and energy on their swarthy nameless hulk to change course. Pomeroy had made no bones about the thrust of his case, even chiding the detectives after adjournment: “Why aren’t you guys out looking for the jealous lover?” Overly loud, within hearing of a few jurors waiting for an elevator.

  There was no point now in telling Pomeroy about Wyacki — the plan to confront Unger about his sleepover, to recall him to the stand, truthful, chastened, and begging forgiveness, had vaporized. There was little to gain by defaming the dead and exposing Wyacki to public embarrassment. Where was the harm in keeping the defence in the dark about him? How could the non-mention of a one-night stand in a second-rate hotel possibly cause the defence the least injustice?

  Arthur went straightaway to his office, where he kept casual clothing to change into. He was pulling on a rumpled pair of slacks as Hubbell Meyerson came in jauntily. “First recorded case of someone literally being murdered in cross-examination.”

  “Damn it, Hubbell, I’m feeling too wretched to find that humorous.”

  “Sorry, a bit callous, that. Main topic around the water cooler. Hey, the missus and the kids are back, and we’re expecting you and yours to come by for a little nosh-up this weekend.”

  “I’ll speak to Annabelle.” He laced up his walking shoes, resolved to walk around Stanley Park, the entire Seawall.

  “Done already. We’re on. Saturday.”

  Roy Bullingham paused in his rounds and stopped at the open door. “A suicide, I hear. No appeal from that, is there, Beauchamp? What can one say? Brilliant work, sad result, a witness driven to despair.”

  Arthur didn’t have the energy to set Bully straight. Unger had recovered well under Pomeroy’s gentle questioning. He’d be alive had Wyacki been warned to stay out of sight … That nausea again. It was Day Twenty-Three, the
need gnawing at him, the worst he’d felt for at least a week. Twenty-three. Unger’s age.

  Bully looked hard at Hubbell, then Arthur. “I suppose this delay puts finis to our little celebration tomorrow. It’s awkward, people made plans, the entire staff granted the freedom of the day. Several cases of champagne on order.”

  “Nonsense, Bully, you’re to go full steam ahead. I will be there in spirit if not spirits. Annabelle has promised to pop in to show the family flag, and Hubbell has agreed not to slander me too grievously while saying a few words on my behalf.”

  “I shall indulge only in fulsome praise,” said Hubble.

  “Pessimus inimicorum genus, laudantes.” Arthur put an arm around his friend, walked him from the room. “The worst kind of scoundrels, those who can praise.”

  §

  Arthur skirted the Stanley Park Zoo and its sulking, pacing prisoners, taking a path past the totems, Brockton Oval, Lumberman’s Arch, the eastern side of the dense forest that protects the bustling seaport from the ocean. The Seawall was busy with fellow walkers, joggers, cyclists, the sky clear but for clouds gathering to the west. Rain tomorrow, a system poised to invade. Tomorrow, when he would be locked in combat with a glib liar.

  In your warped mind, you realized you’d finally found a sexually satisfying form of congress with another.

  You’re dead wrong, you rotter!

  Maybe dead right. Ontario police had tracked down a couple of his conquests. “It was like he was making love to himself,” said a one-time girlfriend. “I got bored,” said another.

  Jack Boynton had insisted on delivering a sheaf of those and similar interviews to Pomeroy’s office. Arthur had balked at giving such disclosure, a forewarning of his cross-examination strategy. But again he reminded himself not to give in to the impulse to win at any cost. That was expected from defenders but unacceptable, even dishonourable, for the Crown.

  He continued to stew over the growing possibility that Skyler would cockwalk from the courthouse, smiling his victory smile for the press. No one remained alive who could counter his version; no honest jury could be satisfied to a moral certainty that Chumpy the Clown hadn’t been offed by a swarthy, toque-topped man. Arthur felt hollow, hopeless, with victory slipping away, his proofs of guilt feeling more flabby by the minute, all of them controvertible.

  It was pleasanter to think of Annabelle, who last night had so magnanimously and proficiently and shockingly fellated him in a reprise of that lovely, lascivious practice after a lapse of many years. And there’d been closeness beyond that, remembrances of happy times, whisperings of love. Fresh evidence to dismiss a lingering unreasonable doubt about her fidelity, strong circumstantial proof that she had come back to him. He was glad he wouldn’t be tormenting her tonight with his sour mood — she had a full dress rehearsal.

  She had freed up tomorrow afternoon, though, and would be at the office do, vivacious and perky, teasing the senior partners, getting their pulse rates up, feeding their fantasies. Hubbell had promised Arthur he’d be her loyal guard dog.

  The other woman in his life had figure skating after school. Arthur didn’t want to be alone, so he would try to find a meeting somewhere; a group gathered Mondays at St. James Anglican in West Point Grey.

  He paused at the lookout at Prospect Point, with its view of Lions Gate and its sweeping, graceful bridge. Then he headed south, only a couple of miles to go, soaking in the rays at the shank of day. He stuck to the seaward rim, by the stone palisade, to let the speed walkers and joggers huff by.

  He took a pass on visiting the Hollow Tree and was just coming upon the crescent of golden sand known as Third Beach when a familiar form rushed past him — not jogging, almost sprinting. Randy Skyler. Who turned and ran backwards for a moment, while he shot a penetrating, venomous look at the man who’d caused his devoted sidekick to take his own life. Then he swivelled and sped away.

  TUESDAY MORNING

  Half an hour into his testimony, Skyler remained composed and deliberate, polite, earnest, forthcoming. Overdoing it, Arthur felt, given the tragedy of the previous day. Still, the jury was attentive, evidently withholding judgement. He worried they were warming to Skyler, unable to penetrate his mask of normalcy.

  Mandy Pearl was finally doing her star turn, slowly and somewhat stiffly leading the witness through his upbringing, his education, his aspirations, his social life — while Pomeroy sat, nodding, occasionally acknowledging dimpled smiles from Juror Twelve. He’d waived his opening to the jury, saving his gunpowder for his summing-up.

  The junior defence counsel was not the brazen, confident woman Arthur had come to know. She appeared hesitant, nervous: Unger’s death had clearly affected her. A pall had settled on the entire room, and it seemed intensified by the foul weather buffeting the city, a rare lightning storm at dawn, umbrella-tugging winds, slantwise rain. Harrison and Nordquist had just arrived, dripping.

  On the first mention of Manfred Unger, Skyler reacted with constricted throat and quivering lip. The jury learned that Unger had been among the closest of his many friends, they’d known each other since grade nine, and had been constant companions, both of them avid sportsmen, deer hunters. They saw each other less regularly after Unger enrolled at RMC. “To be honest, our friendship had become a little too one-sided, and I was trying to back off.”

  “I know this is difficult for you given the awful event of yesterday, but did he ever show any emotional problems?”

  “He had what I’d call extreme bouts of wild imagination. There were definite mental issues. He’d been seen by psychiatrists in high school, he told me, and was often on medication.”

  This unexpected pronouncement prompted a gratuitous excla­mation point from Boynton, by means of a sharp elbow. Arthur glanced behind, at row three: then remembered the Ungers had gone home. They were not available to counter such calumnies.

  “I really felt sorry for him, and I hate to say it, but that was the basis of our friendship, his emotional problems. I was trying to help him. He was always calling up, coming by, sticking to me like glue, but … he needed a friend. He didn’t have many others, and he pretty well dumped everything on … I’m sorry, that sounds harsh. He confided in me.”

  As Mandy prodded, he heaped it on. Unger suffered from disorders that seemed pulled from a psychology textbook: feelings of insecurity, delusions of grandeur, voices, mystic experiences. It got so bad, said Skyler, that he cancelled their hunting trip two years ago, and took away and hid his friend’s rifle.

  “He was at his worst when he was drinking, or doing drugs. I don’t pretend I didn’t share them occasionally — marijuana mostly — but he got me to try LSD once, and it was frankly pretty freaky — he was going on about death and orgasms, weird stuff …”

  Mandy had a quick tête-à-tête with her senior. Again, Arthur got a strong sense of her discomfort. Muffled sounds of disagreement between her and Skyler had been overheard from behind the closed door of a witness room. Pomeroy had been elsewhere; he seemed to have placed his client entirely in Mandy’s care.

  Skyler carried on unaided. “I should add that as we were preparing for our trip here, Manfred was engrossed in a crime novel called For the Fun of It. He talked incessantly about it, even read me passages during our flight. It was about a serial killer who got a sexual thrill by choosing victims at random and then murdering them in cold blood.”

  It was a palpable effort to explain how Unger might have confused fact with fiction during their exchange on Sunday morning. Mandy seemed content not to pursue it further, but Arthur had the niggling sense Skyler was about to take a few steps too far. He saw in him a potentially rogue witness, prone to ill-advised detours.

  Mandy finally got Skyler to Vancouver. “Please give us an account of your stay here, from your arrival.”

  He began a travelogue: “Beautiful city … great beaches … friendly bars, friendly people … really beat
s Toronto.” An upbeat tone, his feelings of bereavement apparently mastered. “There was an evening concert by, I think they called themselves Doug and the Slugs, and we were too exhausted to do anything that night, and we went back to Expo the next morning, that would be the Saturday, and I remember we did the gondola and Skytrain, and whatever we could … The Scream Machine, that was pretty scary.”

  To Arthur, that rang hollow, but it brought a smile to a few jurors, who may have ridden that twisty roller coaster.

  “Okay, let’s take you to Saturday evening, after you returned from the fair. Please trace your movements for us. I understand you and Manfred went somewhere to eat.”

  Again, Skyler digressed. “I forgot to mention that just before that, back in the hotel, Manfred was still into his novel, and he insisted on talking about it. He kept saying things like, ‘Do you think it could be like that? Could you get an orgasm killing someone?’ He actually said ‘get your rocks off,’ but I got his meaning.” Skyler shrugged and held his hands apart in a gesture of dismay.

  From Mandy’s reaction — she looked like she’d been side-swiped — Arthur deduced that Skyler had gone off script. Pomeroy went still as stone.

  Unchecked, Skyler continued, turning to the jury, talking excitedly: “I didn’t take him seriously, I honestly didn’t. I was kidding when I made him a dare. It was something offhand, like ‘I bet you can’t,’ or, pardon my French, ‘You don’t have the balls.’”

  Arthur caught Harrison’s unblinking eye. Bones was equally deadpan. Boynton, with his small fixed smile, seemed unsure what was transpiring — it was as if he were struggling to enjoy a badly crafted play.

  Mandy huddled again with Pomeroy, intensely this time. Arthur was sure from their strained expressions that their decoy of a jealous, toqued lover was being edited out. Unger was being written in as Chumpy’s killer. Skyler was arrogant enough to believe he could outsmart his lawyers.