“Mr. Prosecutor, are you just going to sit there? Have you nothing to say about this monstrous farrago of irrelevant hearsay and scandalous imputation?”
Buddy shakes Flynn off, rises. “Sorry, that caught us by surprise, it came out of nowhere.” He looks reproachfully at Arthur.
“Do fundamental rules of evidence no longer apply to this trial? Mr. Beauchamp, you are under suspicion. Surely you knew what she would say.”
“That Jasper Flynn threatened her? What’s wrong with the jury knowing that, milord?”
Kroop can’t get words out, his canker too painful. Forewoman Sueda shows matronly concern for the flailing jurist, a hand to her mouth. Finally, absurdly, Kroop sustains an objection never made.
“Then let us find another route,” says Arthur. “Ms. Hoover, when did you become aware Dr. Winters was planning to visit Bamfield?”
“Just before Christmas. A bunch of us were out carolling down by the government dock, and I stopped to talk to Mr. and Mrs. Cotter-”
“I’m putting up the hearsay warning.” Kroop is no longer relying on the prosecutor to do his job.
“As a result of that conversation, what were you led to believe?”
“You’re walking a thin line, Mr. Beauchamp.”
Arthur turns on the judge. “What she believed is not hearsay. With respect, milord, please let me do my work. This is a murder trial.” He gives Kroop no chance to recover, quickly returns to Hoover. “What was your understanding?”
“That Dr. Winters had reserved Cotters’ Cottage for the last week of March.”
“And did you relay that information to anyone?”
“To a few friends. Some never heard of her, I was surprised.”
“Would any of these persons happen to be in this courtroom?”
“Yeah, Jasper Flynn. He acted like he couldn’t care less who she was.”
No eruptions from counsel table or bench, though Kroop is twitching, holding himself back with wattle-trembling restraint. Flynn is writing furiously. In the test upcoming, Cyrano may find that Flynn remains the better dueller.
“When, where, and why did this conversation come about?”
“Early January. On the East Bam docks. One of his routine hassles. I jokingly said Doctor Eve was coming for a week to Brady Beach and he should take advantage, get a treatment for his compulsive need to bug me. He said, ‘Who’s she?’ As if he never read a newspaper. Then he asked me how I’m doing, am I getting much action. As I was trying to tear myself away, he said, oh, by the way, did I know the exact days Doctor Eve was coming. I said, ‘Why do you want to know?’ and he said, ‘Forget it,’ and walked off.”
Hoover is articulate when straight-anyone not knowing of her penchant for lying would lap this up. But she’ll be an easy target for Buddy, with her long history of evasion, her motive to lie, her anger at Flynn. That’s not important. The important thing is to goad Flynn back to the stand. Motion denied, Mr. Beauchamp, you’ve already had two kicks at the can.
“And was the subject raised again?”
“In April, when Jasper was threatening to lay an obstructing charge on me, I reminded him he’d seemed weirdly interested in knowing when Dr. Winters would be in town. First he said he didn’t remember the conversation, then he said I was lying. Used the word blackmail, I don’t remember the whole phrase because he was suddenly up real close, breathmint close, and he said, ‘Dumpling, you spread that garbage around town, you’re roadkill.’”
Martin Samples nods, pleased that this word has finally achieved status as a motif. Very European. Four stars.
Arthur sits. Buddy rises menacingly. “Okay, Madam Hoover, I’ve heard so many lies from you I’ve lost track, so let’s start making a list.”
As Buddy hunkers down to it, Arthur works his chair around, taking in the audience, Angella, Delvechio. What does Ms. Chow-Thomas think she’s doing here? Meanwhile, how is Brian getting on at RCMP front office? What’s keeping Lotis? Arthur needs information fast.
Meanwhile, Buddy seems to have got bogged down with Hoover, despite the leeway granted by Kroop, who is impatiently tapping his pen.
“When did you dream up this roadkill business?”
“I didn’t dream it up.”
“You had lots of chances to tell me earlier.”
“You were never alone. Jasper was always with you.”
The ever-helpful Jasper Flynn. Always there. Handling every little detail. Running the case for the Crown, spoon-feeding Buddy-but not telling him about an unknown profile in the DNA sample. One of his doodles, according to sharp-eyed Faloon, suggested fellatio. Arthur asked him if the depiction was not of a penis but a gun. Nick wasn’t sure.
It no longer seems so odd that Flynn never mentioned his wife during their breezy chats on the Law Courts terraces. A diamond in the rough who preferred Daisy to Desiree. And who preferred Eve to Jasper. How tense he looked when the name Daisy was dragged out of Ruth Delvechio. Dear Daisy, that’s all I saw. Daisy was very, totally married. Rough trade, Eve called him. A jerk.
The courtroom stirs with the panting, excited arrival of Lotis Rudnicki. She goes to his ear. “We found it, Flynn versus Flynn. The final decree is a month away.”
The family man. A hockey dad, two strapping boys. Troubles on the home front, said Lotis two months ago, in the law library, as they examined the text he’d been reading, Canadian Divorce Law. Yet one must not underestimate this wily veteran of the force. A fine job of backing and filling today with his gut feeling about an anti-abortion kook. His paradigm.
“You have your shirt hanging out, my dear.”
“I hate this medieval costumery.” She tucks it in. “I tracked down Daisy’s counsel. Grounds for the divorce are numerous bashings. Her address is embargoed on court documents-Jasper stalked her after she left him. She gave up the kids so he wouldn’t contest. The lawyer wouldn’t tell me any more until he talks to her.”
This intense tete-a-tete is causing distraction, Flynn and Ears looking their way, the Chief Justice staring at Lotis, who seems to confound him each time she makes a guest appearance. He clearly has no idea what to make of her, has never seen a dryad in action.
Hoover continues to defend her poor reputation as Buddy dances about the ring, poking and jabbing. She’s weathering it, returning an occasional barb. Buddy is shocked by her calumnies, her suggestion of sexual impropriety with the maligned officer. She shrugs. “I guess that’s why they call them Mounties.” A quick-witted woman, she should have chosen law. She crosses her legs again, putting Buddy in a stall.
Wilbur Kroop to the rescue: “I don’t see why you’re having all this difficulty, Mr. Svabo, it seems a simple matter to put the officer on the stand to refute her statement. Let the jury decide who is more reliable. I don’t imagine the effort will tax them.”
“Okay, I’m excusing the witness and calling Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn.”
Hoover wants to stay, to see this play out, but the room’s at capacity. A gentleman gives up his chair for her. She pats him on the cheek in thanks. Arthur sends Lotis out to try to connect with Brian, it’s urgent.
Flynn takes a moment, then drives himself up with a sigh. A pouting, put-upon look, he’s being defamed by a cheap hustler, a pathological liar. Standing tall in the stand, with the professional, detached style of an experienced police witness, he refutes all. “No, sir, that did not happen.” “No such conversation occurred.” “I don’t think it’s for me to speculate what her motives might be.”
Kroop greets that with, “Quite right. It’s time we put this shameful digression aside.”
“No more questions,” says Buddy.
Kroop thanks Flynn, who briskly heads back to his station. “Is your case finally in, Mr. Svabo? What about these Whalley Wanderers, shouldn’t they be called?” He winces, touches his lower jaw, but he’s toughing it out. He can abide weakness in himself no less than in others.