The Long-Shot Trial, page 22
I showed him a copy of his desk calendar reminder for Monday, May 30: “FCT here 2 p.m.,” and asked if that might jog his memory.
“Okay, that means Frederick C. Trudd had an appointment at my office for when he got back from Pouce Coupe.” Hogey frowned, the wheels of his brain cells churning. “Maybe I left the will with Fred to look over until after the weekend. That’s probably why I can’t find it.”
“You didn’t run off a copy for yourself?”
“My secretary, Sibyl, would normally do that.”
“Miss Frick never saw that document, did she? You didn’t want her to see it.”
I had gone too far, even for time-obsessed Wilbur Kroop. “Counsel, I’m giving you lots of leeway, but you can’t quarrel with your own witness, let alone pillory him. Let’s move it along.”
“I’ll pick up the pace, Milord. Mr. Johnson, is it fair to say that a serious rift developed between the deceased and his two sisters last May?”
Fucking bitches! Trudd yelled that to his phone as Marsha Bigelow stormed into his office. That afternoon, he went on a marathon bender before invading Angelina’s bathroom.
Hogey took too much time. “Answer it!” Kroop demanded.
“Sorry, Your Lordship, but I’m worried about the solicitor-client relation—”
“Your client is dead!”
“Excuse me, but I understood a lawyer has to keep his client’s disclosures even past the grave.”
Kroop went red, less in anger than embarrassment over his knee-jerk interruption — he knew Hogey was indisputably right. That fundamental rule would have been taught at Jim Delaire’s tutorial on wills.
His Lordship tried to recover, but lamely: “The rule doesn’t apply to conversations outside the solicitor-client bond. It doesn’t apply to talking about the weather or the price of tea in China or whether a rift developed between the deceased and his sisters. Just answer the question.”
“Okay, well, Fred had a . . . I guess you could call it a fit, over what Hortense and Donalda were up to . . . nothing illegal or wrong, they were perfectly in their rights.”
That was intended for their ears — he even gave them a nod of assurance. I was in no doubt that Hogey had cuddled up to them after Trudd’s death, anticipating future fat fees from these multi-millionaires-in-waiting — they would finance his retirement plan, his cottage under the palms.
“They were in their rights to do what?”
“To sell their stock in Trudd Enterprises.”
I fumbled from my briefcase a certified document that Hubbell had got from the corporate registry. It showed that Hortense and Donalda each held fifty shares in Trudd Enterprises Inc. Fred had the other nine hundred. I filed it as an exhibit, passed copies around.
“Their hundred shares represented a lot of money — a couple of million, right?”
“They were Class A, freely transferable, so yeah.”
I took a leap. “Who did they offer them to — MacMillan Bloedel?”
“Crown Zellerbach —” Hogey screeched to a halt. “I don’t know that. I was just told.”
“They were negotiating with that corporation behind their brother’s back, right?”
“Objection.” Ed Santorini finally remembered he had a role to play.
“Sustained. Mr. Beauchamp, I’d appreciate it if you followed the rules. You are not to cross-examine your own witness.”
“Sorry, Milord, I was doing so only to speed things along. I shall refrain.” To Hogey: “And has the sale of those shares been completed?”
“No, sir, because after Fred was gone Hortense and Donalda put a hold on it.”
“Because they expected to inherit all his shares.”
“Don’t answer that. Please, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Mr. Johnson, what was the issue you wanted to discuss with Fred Trudd on his return from Pouce Coupe?” Again I skirted close to the danger zone of lawyer-client privilege.
Hogey waited for an objection that never came. Finally: “His will. The new will.”
“I see. So did you actually read it? Did you open Mr. Delaire’s envelope and read it?”
“Young fella, you know I can’t disclose its contents. And I won’t. And neither did Jim Delaire in that affidavit of yours. Lawyers get disbarred for doing that.”
That assertion would backfire on Hogey. He was ill prepared for the stand, of course, but I’d had no moral duty to give him advance notice, let alone advise him to review forgotten notations on his desk calendar.
His disintegration was painful to watch. I showed him his note for Monday, May 23, with the name “Wyatt” and Donalda’s phone number in Kelowna. He couldn’t remember why he wrote that note. He had no reason to call Donalda Wyatt. She was not then his client.
He turned white as he stared at his scribbles for Wednesday, May 25: “Northways, arr. 1130,” and “AHM 4 pm, no drinks.” He had no idea what that meant, though he conceded that Northways was a charter service based in Prince George. “AHM” looked like somebody’s initials. Yes, it could have stood for Alaska Highway Motel, but he wasn’t sure. He could not remember showing up there at four p.m., or at any time, drunk or sober.
I asked the court officer to fetch Percy Edgursen from the witness room. When the bald, stocky retired policeman entered, I asked Hogey: “Do you recognize this gentleman?”
“Percy. Percy Edgursen.”
“Owner of the Alaska Highway Motel. Retired RCMP sergeant. You know him as a fellow Rotarian, right?”
Hogey nodded. Faintly: “Yes, of course. Real good fella.”
I had Edgursen produce the hotel register for May 25, showing unit nineteen taken by Hortense Trudd-Stephens, unit nine by “Mr. and Mrs. Connor Wyatt.” The courtroom was as silent as a graveyard on a still winter’s day as I read out those names and had two pages from the register marked as exhibits.
Those tasks done, I sent off Edgursen and returned to Hogey. “Were you aware that Mr. Edgursen was outside planting crocuses among his crabapple trees as you pulled in?”
“I’m having trouble bringing that back. It’s been six months . . . I’m not sure what I was doing there . . .”
“Let me refresh your memory. You parked your Mercury sedan behind a utility shed, and you slipped around to unit nine, and were greeted by Connor Wyatt at the door to room nine. He invited you in, remember that?”
Kroop sighed audibly, a signal he was frustrated with my continuing delinquency. But he didn’t box my ears, probably because he was exasperated with this witness, his faux-faulty memory, his prevarications.
I took his silence as permission to persist: “Donalda’s husband, Connor. A hometown boy, born and raised in Fort Tom. Conn Wyatt, well known to the law-abiding community here.”
The grunt of affirmation came not from Hogey but Rummy Wilcox, who caught the subtle allusion. He covered up by clearing his throat. Behind him, Ranjeet Singh valiantly tried to smother a smile.
“Connor’s a friend,” Hogey said. “He’s got a good business down there in Kelowna, a car dealership.” He took a deep breath and shifted course, a last chance at salvation: “Okay, it’s looking bad for me here, but I got to admit that around that time, the last week of May, I was drinking like a fish. Fred was giving me a ton of grief, and I was in a kind of fog. I think I kind of repressed my memory of driving out there, for some reason . . .” He trailed off.
“Was the plan to discuss the will Mr. Delaire drafted — does that ring a bell?”
Hogey literally scratched his head, as if to rouse his memory cells.
“The will that somehow disappeared — did you give it to Donalda and Hortense?”
“I wouldn’t’ve done that.”
“You shared it with them, Hogey.”
“I only remember sharing a bottle of Scotch whisky. The rest is still mighty cloudy.”
“Were you so drunk on that Wednesday afternoon that you let them read the unsigned will?” No answer. “Maybe Hortense and Donalda will remember when I call them up here.”
Hogey looked at them, frantic, then at Santorini, imploringly, as might a swimmer being swept away in a riptide while the lifeguard checked the baseball scores.
He finally spoke, in a trembling voice: “His sisters had been there for Fred in the old days, they’d been partners, enablers. They helped him amass his wealth, and he treated them like dirt. The least I could do was break it to them gently. Give them a heads-up so they could reach out to Fred, talk sense to him . . . I didn’t see harm in that. I didn’t . . .” He petered out.
“Twenty minutes ago, you said, ‘Lawyers get disbarred for that.’ You betrayed your oath as a solicitor, Hogey.”
Kroop seemed to have given up on me. He scowled at Ed Santorini: it was his job to object to my leading questions and rhetoric. But Eddie’s back was turned to him, as he reacted to a loud scuffling from the sisters. They worked their way to the aisle, then made like frantic, flightless chickens to the door, coats flapping, scarves trailing.
I’m not sure whether that flurried exodus caused me to snap, or my piercing headache prompted it, but I found myself thundering away: “You told them: Read it and weep, ladies, because you’re about to be disinherited! Your vindictive brother is coming back on Monday to sign on the dotted line, so what are you going to do about it?”
I was in such a temper that I never heard Kroop threaten to cite me for contempt and order me removed from the room. Suddenly, I was nearly jerked off my feet by the court officer, and marched out through the prisoners’ doorway.
Arthur — October 2022
I am sitting at my laptop in my Stoney-solar-powered writing cabin (once again I have underestimated that scoundrel), when I’m alerted to an email from Lisa Throckmorton. It begins: “Despite your having cut me off like I was the Queen of Spam, I continue to toil on your behalf. Because I believe in you. I believe in Defensiveness, it’s a great story, great characters, just needs a little, shall we say, lubrication. I can help you with that.”
I don’t want to encourage this impostor, so I haven’t been responding to her occasional messages, but I enjoy them. I suppose her playful title Defensiveness is a dig at me for shunning prurient prose.
The email continues: “Based on your incomplete mss, a major publishing house is offering a six-fig advance, including rights to film and stage. They plan to enter it for all the big literary awards, but in the fiction category. They say no one will believe your story is actually true (especially your allegedly sexless ‘affair’ with Clara Gracey, nee Moncrief). However, all bets are off if you don’t fabricate a happy ending.”
It concludes: “Happy Thanksgiving, you ingrate!”
The address and phone number of the Throckmorton Agency appear below her signature line. I presume they’re as phony as her name, but I tap in her number on my cellphone anyway. It rings a few times before a voice I recognize says, “If you’re a junk caller, hang up immediately or I will kill you.” I presume she then recognizes my number on her screen, because she finds her deep-throated false voice. “Sorry. Throckmorton Agency. How can I help you?”
“By not gloating over how you spoofed me. I should have known right from the start. Your search engine just chanced to land on IslandBleat.ca? I’m an idiot.” And with that, we’re both laughing helplessly.
I have to give Taba credit for pulling that off. I haven’t waned in my affection for her, even though she caused my marriage to nearly jump the track a few times. And I respect her for not trying to stick it out on our gossipy little island after Margaret made her getaway from Ottawa.
Taba and I carried on in our lighthearted, joshing way for half an hour, making up for lost ground. Her gallery opening was a “smash,” with a rave review from the West End Phoenix. Margaret Atwood dropped by! I regaled her with my locally infamous sauna adventure with Wholeness and Wellness. She reminisced about the party in my backwoods three years ago when locals sampled overproof rum from the still of pioneer bootlegger Jeremiah Blunder.
“And it got dark,” she recalled. “And you were wandering around in the blackness — you forgot your flashlight.”
“I was stuck. There was only a glow from the fire pit.”
“Tabatha Jones to the rescue. We were the only warm bodies left — those who hadn’t passed out had gone home. Including your lovely wife.”
I’m suddenly jittery about this turn in the conversation. I’d allowed Margaret to assume I’d packed a flashlight; there seemed little profit in confessing that Taba had led me to my front gate.
“After one of our stops, I realized I’d forgot to put my panties back on. I don’t suppose they were ever found. Red with white trim?”
I stammered: “You . . . what?”
“Kidding.”
1966 — The Cat Is Out of the Bag
“Visitor!” called the guard, as he led Santorini into the men’s wing of the RCMP lockup. I was in unit four, next to fat Arnie, who’d punched out the lights of his wife’s lover, then kicked her down a flight of stairs. The cell opposite housed a multiple offender who ran off with the Salvation Army donations pot. He wanted to retain me.
“Welcome to La Cage aux Fools, Eddie. I kind of blew it.”
“You’re gonna have to suck cock, and you better hope you can bring him off. We’re on lunch break, so you got time to rehearse.” He sat on the cot beside me. “Way to go, Beauchamp, you hustled that poor fucker’s secretary until she was creaming her pants. She gave you everything, right? Told you about Hogey’s sneaky little meeting with those two dumb broads.”
“Did they get to the airport okay?”
“They took the first flight out. Milk run through the Peace River to Edmonton. Didn’t even pack their suitcases.” A pause. “Who else have you got left? The motel guy. I’m not going to touch him, he’s another fucking local everybody loves. But your Virgin Mary — I’m gonna be on her like the Normandy invasion, I’m itching to strip away that false front of pious sweetness.”
“Yeah, that should impress the jury: attack an innocent rape victim who gives up her free days helping elders and feeding the poor. Enough with the bravado, Eddie. Why are you here? Are those Grey Cup tickets burning a hole in your pocket?”
A sound that was more of a groan than a sigh. “C’mon, let’s call it a wrap and blow this burg. I’ll take manslaughter with a fifteen-year maximum, and let you chisel me down to twelve.”
“Kroop hates me too much to rubber-stamp a plea deal. He’ll give her life just to teach me a lesson.”
“He’s all in, pal.”
“Who says?”
“He says. Bumped into him in the law library.” He mimicked Kroop’s cautious overture: “‘Surely, Ed, you must have entertained some thoughts about how we might, ah, let us say, abbreviate proceedings.’”
“He can stick it up his tight ass.”
* * *
Kroop watched me like a rattlesnake poised to strike as I abased myself. I was stressed out after a sleepless night. Frustrated with an evasive witness, I snapped, lost control, went off the rails. I could honestly not show cause why I should not be cited for contempt — because I had indeed misbehaved, cross-examined my witness, denounced him for dishonouring our profession.
The benches hadn’t been cleared for this event, though the twelve chairs in the jury box were empty. Charles Loobie was writing vigorously, chronicling my humiliation. Clara could barely suppress a skeptical smile, convinced I was posturing, auditioning for the role of Hamlet.
“I shall not hold you in contempt,” Kroop announced. “Because incarcerating you for several days — that was my initial impulse — would cause delay that would grossly inconvenience jury, counsel, court staff, and public. I will, however, ensure that your misbehaviour is reported to the discipline committee of the Law Society, so that they might consider suspending your right to practise. However . . .” A deep breath. “I may relent should counsel cooperate to ensure the case goes to the jury before the weekend, preferably by noon on Friday.”
I was stunned by this extortionate proposal. I wasn’t going to rush Angelina to the stand and whisk her off it without her full story being told. I had anticipated that she would be a full day, including Santorini’s cross. And then there would be counsels’ jury addresses. And Kroop’s directions to the jury. Objections to those instructions. It would be impossible to sandwich all that into an afternoon and the next morning.
“I’ll do my best,” I said.
In trooped the jury. In came Hogey Johnson from the witness room, looking frazzled. I got a whiff of spirits as he passed by — it struck me then, though I should have recognized it at first meeting, that he was a full-bore alcoholic. I vowed not to end up that way, a fog-brained sot with a law degree. Yes, I would take a holiday from drink. A full month before Christmas break.
Kroop reminded Hogey he was still under oath and warned that “counsel may have a few more questions,” with emphasis on few.
I rose. “Milord, it’s my respectful submission that the witness, by revealing to others the contents of Mr. Trudd’s unsigned will, has broken the bond of solicitor-client privilege. So I propose to ask Mr. Johnson, subject to your ruling, to reveal the key terms of that document.”
This new, deferential version of counsel for the accused seemed to amuse Kroop, whose lips wiggled into a smile of triumph. “In the interests of justice, Mr. Johnson, I must direct you to answer counsel’s question. You have already, by your admission, let the cat out of the bag.”
