Don Gutteridge - Minor Corruption

“Seamus Baldwin and Miss Mcall were found in flagrante delicto in a bed in the McCall household?”

“That’s what I was told, yes.”

“A sixty-year-old man with aseventeen-year-old innocent girl?”

Dr. Baldwin merely nodded, but Cambridgewasn’t interested in the exact nature of his response.

“And her father threatened to have the law onhim, as he had every right to because Seamus Baldwin was guilty ofstatutory rape and the corruption of a minor, am I right?”

“Yes,” Dr. Baldwin said, his face full ofmisery.

“No more questions, Milord.”

No more were needed, Marc thought.

It was a gloomy post-mortem in Robert’s chambers.The trial had been scheduled to continue on Thursday morning, whenMarc was expected to begin his defense. But there was no defense.No character witness could be produced who could undo the damagedone by the afternoon’s testimony. Marc had placed all his eggs inone basket: impeaching the Crown’s testimony and developingalternative accounts of the crime – and those eggs had beensmashed, along with the basket. Worse still was the unthinkablethought that refused to stay put in his subconscious where itbelonged: what if the old gent really did do it? What if hisplausible explanations were just that – mere plausibilities? Marcwas grateful that there were no recriminations, but it was coldcomfort. He ached for the Baldwins, all of them.

Finally it was decided that they would haveto move directly to closing arguments. Marc was sent home tocompose the best speech he could devise under the circumstances. Itwas a dispirited advocate who made his way back to Briar cottage.Beth was waiting for him.

“You did what you could,” she saidsympathetically. “And you had no way of knowin’ what was tocome.”

“The only inkling I had, love, was the oddreaction of Dr. Baldwin back when I first suggested he appear as acharacter witness. He must have been torn up inside.”

“He knew, of course, what his brother’d beenup to back in Ireland.”

“Well, that sordid episode does help toexplain the old gent’s depression and his inordinate attraction toEdie and Betsy, doesn’t it?”

“He was lookin’ to replace a hole in hisheart, I’d say. But that still don’t make him a corruptor ofminors. He was good to those girls. Still, it looks awful fer him,doesn’t’ it? So the best thing I can do is get the kids out of yourway so you can sit down and write the greatest speech of yerlife.”

But the best and most loving thing she didwas not raise the question of Uncle Seamus’s possible guilt, for hehonestly did not know how he might answer her. He realized, toolate, that he really knew very little, first-hand, about UncleSeamus. He had spent a mere twenty minutes with him. He should havereturned and questioned the man more closely, got some idea of hisown what made the fellow tick. But he had been too much in lovewith the image of Doubtful Dick Dougherty, who had never lost acapital case. His mind was in a turmoil as he went into his study -alone.

Small wonder, then, that he was on his thirdversion of the opening paragraph when, about eight o’clock, therecame a knock at the front door. He tossed his pen aside and decidedto answer it for himself. He went to the vestibule and opened thedoor.

It was Cobb – with news.

Everyone was taken by surprise on Thursday morningwhen the defense – widely expected to move to closing arguments -asked Justice Powell for permission to call an unscheduled witness.The judge, recalling the Crown’s manoeuvre yesterday afternoon withDr. Baldwin, glanced over at a puzzled Neville Cambridge and said,“Granted, Mr. Edwards. And if Mr. Cambridge requires time toprepare a cross-examination, he will be allowed it.”

All eyes now turned to the door of thewitness-room where a strange woman was being ushered in. She was ofmedium height and walked awkwardly, not quite with a limp buttenderly, as if her feet might have wished they did not have totouch the floor. Her dull auburn tresses were bound up behind herin a tidy bun. She wore a freshly washed, plain black dress. Herboots were scuffed and unpolished. When she stood in thewitness-box and turned her face to the benches and the galleries,there was from the latter a sharp cry. Mrs. Auleen Thurgood hadcried out and then fainted in her husband’s arms. He himself satstaring at the witness, open-mouthed, incredulous, barely consciousof his wife’s collapse.

The woman, who was in reality onlytwenty-six, looked fifty. Her face was pallid, tubercular, haunted.As she accepted the oath, her voice was fragile, as if, oncebroken, it would be irreparable. She stated her name as LorettaThurgood. From the galleries there was as much puzzlement ascuriosity.

Marc began, fully aware of the focussedintensity around him. “Miss Thurgood, you are the elder daughter ofBurton and Auleen Thurgood and sister to the deceased, BetsyThurgood.”

“I am.” Lottie Thurgood sat perfectly stilland looked straight ahead. Not once did she glance to her leftwhere her parents were sitting – mesmerized, as if watching aghost.

“And you have come here voluntarily to tellus your story, a story that has great pertinence to the case beforeus?”

“I have.”

“Tell us where you have been living since youleft home nine years ago.”

“Mostly in Montreal.”

“What were you doing there to earn yourliving?”

“I worked in a brothel. I was a whore.”Lottie did not change her tone or raise or lower the volume of hervoice when making a declaration that drew gasps of surprise anddisapproval from the spectators.

“And how have you managed to return to theToronto area?”

Marc glanced at Neville Cambridge, but helooked more baffled than concerned.

“My brother Timothy came and got me a monthago. I used to write him letters sometimes and send them to theToronto post office.”

“Not addressed to your parents’ home up bythe mill?”

“No, sir. Never.”

“You didn’t want your parents to know whathad become of you since your leaving?”

“I did want my mother to know I was alive.Tim and I were always close. I knew I could trust him. When he lefthome to get married, he came and took me away from Montreal.”

“So it was your father whom you wanted tokeep in the dark about your whereabouts?”

“Yes.”

“Where do you live now?”

“With my brother and his wife nearThornhill.”

“Under what assumed name does your brotherlive?”

“Milord, this testimony is goingnowhere.”

“I agree, Mr. Cambridge. Counsellor, get tothe point – quickly.”

“Tell the court, Miss Thurgood, why you livedapart and estranged from your parents for nine years and why yourbrother has taken another name.”

Lottie hung her head briefly, then looked upand directly across at Marc. It seemed as if she were summoning upthe last of her meagre strength. “My father abused me . . . fromthe time I was twelve till I left home when I was seventeen.”

There was a stirring in the side-gallery tothe left. Burton Thurgood had leaned forward threateningly in hisseat and was refrained from moving further by a large man on hisright. He scowled across at his living daughter, but she was notlooking his way. His mouth hung open to protest, but no wordscame.

“You mean sexually abused, do you not?”

“Yes. I had my own room. Betsy and Tim hadthe other one. Father came to me almost every night. I didn’t knowwhat to do.”

“Until you ran away?”

“Yes.”

“To your knowledge, did your father sexuallyabuse your sister?”

“She was only six when I left. But Tim, whowas twelve, said he would protect her.”

“So Tim knew what your father was doing?”

“He only found out when I told him – before Ilit out fer Montreal.”