“Want anything?” Flynn, pulling out his wallet. “I’m getting an ice-cream bar.”
“One of those newspapers would be good, Officer Flynn.”
“Naw, it would only depress you.”
Flynn doesn’t want him to see beyond the headline. This is the confirmation Faloon wanted, this is a setup, this pit stop is staged. This is Flynn’s career case, he’s not going to let the perp walk, he wants him to run, his mauled body will be recovered in the high grass behind the Texaco station.
When Flynn flagrantly turns his back and walks to a convenience store for his ice-cream bar, Faloon doesn’t budge. When Flynn returns chomping on it, he’s unhappy to see that the Owl hadn’t taken advantage of his leniency, and slams the door shut, and they take off.
Dinner at the Clearbrook RCMP is a takeout double patty slid through the meal slot, which Faloon has almost polished off when a constable comes down the aisle for him, jingling keys. “Your lawyer’s here.”
Mr. Beauchamp’s voice comes like rolling thunder down the hall. Then it’s Flynn, his spiel about how he was hiding the Owl from the media. Then a thunderclap: “Don’t give me that blather! You had me chasing all over God’s kingdom!”
The Owl can’t remember the great one being so riled. He hopes it doesn’t have anything to do with his phone call to Garibaldi Island, after he finally got his rights under the Charter. Mr. Beauchamp’s wife answered, weary and wiped, like she just got home from work. She didn’t know where Mr. Beauchamp was. Sounded a little cheesed.
His counsellor is standing just outside the secure area, dressing down the Roadkill Warrior. “Why wasn’t I told? I ought to have you up on charges for kidnapping.”
“Sir, I can’t believe the dispatcher didn’t tell you. We move people all the time in high-profile cases, I got Buddy Svabo’s okay…”
“If you’ve destroyed my marriage, Flynn, I hope you roast in hell!”
Arthur stares out the window of 807 Elysian Tower at the lingering agony of the June sunset. Presumably this tangerine sky is glowing for Margaret too, at Blunder Bay or wherever she is. The potluck at the community hall must be long over. She’ll be relaxing by the beach, on a driftwood log, watching her first sunset in thirteen weeks. That’s why she’s not answering the phone, she’s enjoying herself. Maybe with friends, Al and Zoe.
Margaret will have a laugh when she finds her answering machine clogged, unable to absorb more of his alternating contrite and jocular apologies, his dreary twaddle about the mischievous designs of Sergeant Flynn, about how he missed the last ferry, how every air taxi service was booked.
The only human he reached was Lotis, and the connection was bad. She was on her way-by bicycle or bus, it was unclear-to the Wanderlust, Angella’s suburban waterhole. “I love to go a-wandering,” she sang, her words breaking up. Arthur persisted in the face of her lilting reassurances. Hey, boss, relax a little. Margaret came down safe, she’s looking great. The ceremony was a hoot, the Garibaldi Pipers played “My Bonnie Lassie.” The press loved it, it was beyond hokey.
He finally rouses Reverend Al. “She was having dreams of luxuriating in a bath and sleeping in a bed. Can’t blame her for not answering the phone, this is her first private moment, she’s probably enjoying being alone.” He retracts that too late. “Prefer to have you there, of course, but that wasn’t to be. Anyway, she sacked out half an hour ago.”
“Did you explain why I wasn’t there?”
“Told her you fled out of fear of the Highland Pipers.”
“That I avoided them was the only amazing, saving grace.”
“Arthur, please accept this from a friend. She’s a little depressed. It was an important time for her, and you weren’t there. She accepts that. She understands that this is a critical time for you too, for your trial. She wants you to concentrate on it. She doesn’t want you to think about her or worry about her.”
The warm, reassuring pastoral tone only makes Arthur more anxious.
30
Ruffled and sour after a restless night, Arthur arrives in court a minute before starting time. Faloon’s already in the dock, in natty suit and silk tie and rimless spectacles. Nicholas is not a thug, that is the statement, he’s a gentleman thief. (A successful one. “I got real lucky in France, Mr. Beauchamp.”)
The jurors goggle at the returned exile. Photographs hadn’t prepared them for his clerkish look, a small man dwarfed by the sheriffs. Forewoman Ellen Sueda frowns, as if struggling to see him as a killer. When Kroop shuffles in, he too spends a few moments contemplating this late arrival. Missing is Arthur’s junior, still on the trail of Angella’s alibi.
“For the record,” says Buddy, “the accused has been taken into custody and is present.”
“Do you confirm that, Mr. Beauchamp?”
“Indeed. Mr. Faloon invited arrest on becoming aware the Crown’s case was falling apart.”
That editorial has Buddy sputtering. Improper, low! Beyond the bounds! Sitting too close, Ears recoils from a light wet spray.
Kroop waits until Buddy peters out, then flourishes his water pitcher. “Mr. Gilbert, this is empty.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I assumed the sheriff’s staff…”
“Their role is to ensure order and security. Your tasks are less exalted, Mr. Clerk. While you set about getting the water I will see counsel in my chambers.” There’s a tautness to Gilbert-for a moment, Arthur has the impression he’s a rubber band about to snap. As court adjourns Gilbert walks determinedly from the room.
Kroop rarely invites barristers to his sanctum, and Arthur has never been so favoured. On the way in, he brushes by Jasper Flynn. “Really sorry about yesterday, Mr. Beauchamp. I’m going to find who screwed up.”
Arthur’s too miffed to respond. The unreachable Margaret Blake will be on his mind all day, a crucial day, this trial is about to take an unexpected shift. She doesn’t want you to think about her. (Means what? She wants you to forget about her?)
There’s a sense of the nineteenth century about the Chief Justice’s space-musty and murky, curtains closed to sunlight, a brass desk lamp. No computer. On the wall is a Gainsborough, a girl chasing a butterfly: unexpected lightness, therefore eerie. Framed nearby, a photo of a steely-eyed young man in a 1950s haircut on his call to the bar. No pictures of loved ones-Kroop married the law.
He motions them to chairs, then sits behind his desk and glowers at Buddy for a few moments, as if measuring his words.
“Mr. Svabo, I hesitated to interrupt in front of the jury, even as you were careering out of control. You have allowed Mr. Beauchamp to get under your skin. You may not be as used as I am to his grandstand gestures.” He waves the subject away. “Gentlemen, there’s no reason this should slow us up. The accused will be asked to confirm his plea of not guilty. Before we proceed with the rest of the case, I’ll want his consent to be tried on such evidence as was heard in his absence.”
Kroop wants to seal off any avenue to appeal. Arthur doesn’t blame him, and assents, subject to Faloon being allowed to read the evidence taken so far. He can do that in his cell overnight-Arthur doesn’t want this trial delayed.
“Excellent,” Kroop says. “From the outset, I’ve had misgivings about trying an accused in absentia. Rich fodder for the Appeal Court. But now he’s here, and fit to be tried. Himf, himf. Please don’t expect me to grant bail, Mr. Beauchamp.” A sweet, small smile.
During the break, Arthur waits on the vine-draped terrace, trying to keep his mind on the task ahead, the day’s remaining witnesses. He’s playing with his cellphone, and only realizes he’s dialling home when Buddy joins him. He switches off before it rings.