Buddy is still rankled at Arthur’s bold claim his case is falling apart, but he’s rarely able to maintain his grudges, and they are soon talking timetables. “Next up, I got two exhibit guys and then the brain-dead screws who let Faloon escape.”
“To save these fellows further humiliation I will admit their evidence. What about our disappearing friend Harvey Coolidge?”
“We’re kissing Harvey off, Internal Revenue wants him to stick around Kansas. Don’t pretend that doesn’t make you happy-you got his statement, he was nowhere near Brady Beach that night. Sure, make a case. Harvey’s running scared, Harvey’s got no alibi for April 1. Only one more element is needed-a miracle. Like maybe Harvey’s DNA is an exact match for Faloon’s.”
Arthur shrugs. Harvey doesn’t matter any more. Angella matters, only Angella.
She appears below, as if conjured, frilly blouse, pleated skirt, looking lost, stopping by a potted ficus in the Great Hall, staring up at the angled roof, the blue-tinted skylight. Her eyes settle for a moment on the hawk-nosed barrister above, then she walks toward the stairs in her little penguin gait, arms held out like vestigial wings.
“She’s a reluctant witness,” Buddy says, “doesn’t want to be dragged through this, you can’t blame her. Jasper’s trying to sell me on letting her go. My useless junior too. They say it’s overkill-so we prove Nick has a habit of attacking women, why gild the lily? Until a few days ago, I was thinking about scrubbing her. But now you’ve got the jury so confused with side issues, I can’t pull my punches.”
Arthur seeks a neutral subject. “What’s holding us up?”
“Problem with Gilbert, he’s balking at returning to court. How many witnesses are you calling, big guy? Put Faloon on the stand, let me at him.” He throws a one-two, perky again, a man who bounces back. “We sum up Thursday, maybe Friday, does that sound fairly ballpark?”
Arthur isn’t ready to make commitments. He is obliged to give notice of Dr. Munni Sidhoo’s evidence-her signed report is on its way by courier-but will wait until Angella is on the stand.
There is a stirring as Gilbert appears, stoop-shouldered and wan. With him is the Chief Registrar, who gives him a pat on the back, sends him into Court 67, and departs.
Kroop sits with his characteristic expression of stifled rage, his face made more fearsome by the mock cherubic smile he aims at his clerk. “Mr. Gilbert, do you have something you want to say to me?”
“Not really, sir.” The tone is sullen, a hint of rebellion.
“I’ve been waiting nineteen minutes, Mr. Gilbert.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“And what do you have to say about it?”
“Nothing, sir.”
Kroop looks stumped by the unexpected pluck, asks sardonically, “Was it union business, Mr. Gilbert?”
“As a matter of fact, sir, yes. With respect, I would prefer to discuss it in your chambers, not in public.” A transformation is happening, Gilbert standing taller, speaking firmly, drawing from the deepest wells of fortitude.
“Come, come, let’s hear your grievance.”
“It isn’t written in the rules that the clerk must fetch water for anyone, sir, including the presiding justice.”
During the frozen hush that follows, Gilbert begins to lose what little composure he’d mustered. Most jurors are ill at ease, but Martin Samples seems transfixed as he takes in this sadomasochistic standoff. Five stars.
Kroop’s face convulses, his wattles flapping, as he rises several inches from his seat, as if about to swoop down on his clerk. Gilbert looks wildly about, picks up a stapler, raises it defensively.
“Why, you snivelling, spineless moron-put that down!”
Gilbert stares at his poor weapon, lets it fall, and stumbles from his station, unfurling a handkerchief. Strangers from the audience join him, help him to the door. In his utter misery, in his bleakest moment, he has stirred the hearts of even hardened courtroom habitues.
Kroop roars, “Bring me another clerk!”
After a brief recess, a replacement is conscripted from the registry, an older woman, a veteran. As the room settles again, Arthur finds himself puzzling over why Holly Hoover, with her big hair and bruised eye, is back in the witness stand. He’d forgot about her in the recent excitement. When last seen, Holly was under a barrage, accused of being addled on uppers, arming herself with Rohypnol, marching off to Brady Beach to demand satisfaction for Eve’s rebuff.
“Mr. Beauchamp, we’ve already thrown away half the morning with utter nonsense. Can we not pick up the pace?”
Hoover is looking immeasurably sad. How cruel of Arthur to have bullied this young woman, to have accused her of the worst of crimes.
“I doubt if I shall have more questions, but I’d like her available.”
That causes murmurs and shuffling, disapproving looks from the press. Hoover shrugs, gives Jasper Flynn a cold stare. She tosses her curls and leaves without a look back.
“Good,” Kroop says, “we’re moving right along. Mr. Prosecutor?”
Buddy is confused by Arthur’s sudden lack of interest in a key player. “Excuse me?”
“Next witness, please.”
“Sorry, milord, I have to see who’s ready.” Buddy prods Ears to his feet, out to the witness room. Flynn follows.
“In my day, when I served Her Majesty in these courts, I had my witnesses primed and waiting. I don’t see Mr. Beauchamp being unready.”
This isn’t a good development, this clubby affection for Arthur-it’s liable to turn the jury against him. Few, except Samples, give any sign of liking the miserable fellow.
Ears brings in a young woman from the Ident Section who hand-delivered the semen swab to forensics, then to Dr. Sidhoo. No stranger had opportunity to contaminate it, that is the thrust of her testimony.
The final police witness, who dusted the fingerprints in Cotters’ Cottage, is laboriously taken through photographs showing their locations. Known Individual EW, lower right bathroom sink. Known Individual JF, upper refrigerator door. Arthur is restless, it’s not of interest, and his thoughts fly to Bungle Bay. There she is, in the laundry room. She’s found the discoloured tablecloth, a yellow stain he couldn’t get out. She’s fed the lemon pie to the goats without tasting it.
He refocuses as Adeline Angella is ushered in by Flynn. As she takes the oath, she looks defiantly at Faloon, then Arthur. She is stiff at first, shoulders back, breasts taut against the fabric of her frou-frou blouse. But she soon achieves a rapport with Buddy, becomes less wooden, more confident, garnishing her answers with the weary smile of one doing a distasteful but necessary duty.
Her testimony is almost an echo from ten years ago: different venue, different jury, same script. “I was researching an article about the fascinating world of the jewel thief.” “I realize now I was naive, but I invited him up so we could continue our conversation.”
Fearful of being crossed up by Arthur, this reluctant witness has laboured over the transcripts of ten years ago, when she stood up to him, brave and unbowed, winning the jury. Today, a little passion has been lost, as happens when a performer has lived with her lines too long. The jury seem confused about why they’re hearing about these old events.
As her tale reaches its climax (“Suddenly there was a knife to my throat”), a student-at-law from Tragger Inglis approaches Arthur tentatively, as if he’ll bite. He accepts her envelope: two copies of Munni Sidhoo’s validated analysis.
When Buddy runs out of questions, Kroop asks, “Would you like to start now or this afternoon, Mr. Beauchamp?” A few days ago, before Kroop deserted the prosecution, he would have ordered him not to waste minutes of precious time.
“A few initial questions, milord.” He will banish Angella to that state of judicial limbo known as being under cross-examination. “I understand, Ms. Angella, that you appear here reluctantly.”
“I would have preferred not to do this again.”
Arthur nods. “This is difficult for you?”