William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

Brian has known only one hero. A grizzled, grass-chewing farmer who raises goats on a snoozy island in the Salish Sea.

Bundled against the wind-whipped rain, slogging up a rutted road, briefcase in hand, Arthur Beauchamp recited loudly, con brio, to no ears but his own. “‘That time of year thou mayst in me behold, when yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hang upon those boughs which shake against the cold.’” He stalled, struggled with the next line. Something, something…then, “Where late the sweet birds sang.” A sonnet half-remembered but fitting for this bleak mid-December Monday.

As he climbed, the rain became a slushy snow. Mists obscured the valleys. Usually he could see his farm, Blunder Bay, from here where he’d begun this trek with his grandson. Nick lasted half a mile, then announced, “This is crazy,” and jumped into the first vehicle to stop. Arthur refused several more rides, defying the elements, keeping his vow, four miles a day.

He was in fine shape for sixty-nine, with all his healthy walks and farm chores. No recent messages from the heart. This tall, beak-nosed barrister was still an imposing figure, unbowed by the years, growing his annual winter beard-white with handsome streaks of brown.

He was content to be away from the house today, since it would be hosting the usual company of earthy feminists and aging hippies who made up Margaret’s campaign committee. This was her latest adventure: politics, that despicable art.

Arthur had fled the city eight years ago, seeking rural peace on Garibaldi Island, then had astonished himself by falling in love with Margaret Blake, neighbour, organic farmer, former island trustee, inveterate letter writer to the weekly Island Bleat . He hadn’t foreseen the consequences of marrying a relentless activist. Two years ago, she’d spent eighty days on a platform fifty feet up an old-growth fir, defying clearcutters and developers. Now, famed for her crusade to save Gwendolyn Valley, she was threatening to run for Parliament, refuge of the scheming, the slippery, the sly.

Puffing, he advanced toward the crown of Breadloaf Hill, his goal finally in sight, the community hall, which served as a courthouse on the occasional visits by the circuit judge. He hoped they had a warm fire going.

An RCMP van was parked at the back of the hall, and several smokers were on the steps in front of the wide doors, among them Cudworth Brown, whom Arthur was eager to avoid. He did so by steering a course for Robert Stonewell, locally known as Stoney, the self-proclaimed best mechanic on the island. It seemed he was always up on some misdemeanour, usually relating to the roadworthiness of his vehicles.

“I thought this was a democracy, eh,” Stoney said.

“What is it this time?”

“They want to take away my beauties.”

Arthur presumed he meant the broken-down vehicles that cluttered his one and a half acres on Centre Road. The bylaw enforcement officer must have ticketed him.

“I’m a collector. Some people collect stamps. I collect cars. It’s my hobby, man.”

“I don’t think that will wash, Stoney.”

“Don’t give him no advice.” This was Ida Shewfelt, who’d circulated a petition to get rid of the rusting, property-devaluing eyesores.

Stoney glared at her. “Madam, I cannibalize them cars for spare parts. I’m a mechanic, they’re trying to take away my home business…”

An imbroglio was brewing; Arthur should not have tarried here. And now Cud Brown was advancing with his smelly cigar.

“Arthur, padrone, give me half a second.”

Arthur pretended he hadn’t heard, ducked behind the RCMP van, mounted the stairs. He had nothing to say to Cud, he didn’t want to deal with the infamous fellow, with his bloated sense of self-regard. The island’s resident poet had competent counsel: Brian Pomeroy, who had done well to get him out on bail.

He escaped into the hall, an old frame building that impersonated a courthouse poorly-even Her Majesty hung lopsided, partly obscured by a fifteen-foot fir crowned with an angel and laden with lights and glitter. Christmas banners and balloons hung from the ceiling. To the side, on tables, were unsold leftovers from a weekend craft fair.

About forty Garibaldians were here, a few standing but most sitting in folding chairs. A few reporters from the city were present too, on a bench behind a press table, feeling crowded by Garibaldi Island’s resident news hawk, Nelson Forbish, editor of the Bleat , weighing in at three hundred pounds.

The offensively sweet smell in the room recalled to Arthur the time a skunk moved into his farmhouse’s crawl space. It was likely the superskunk from Hamish McCoy’s cannabis crop, in burlap sacks piled against the back wall: two hundred kilograms of a variety listed in Exhibit 5, the Grow-Your-Own Seed Catalogue , as “Orange Superskunk (Indica).” Standing guard was Constable Ernst Pound, not one of the brighter lights of the federal force, whose vacant look hinted he’d been in close contact with these exhibits for too long. He’d raided McCoy at harvest time, catching him bagging up his resin-laden pot in an underground grow room.

Arthur paused by the sacks, puzzled because he felt heat coming from them. They’d been stored in the rain, in the compound behind the RCMP detachment office, so it’s likely the superskunk had started to compost, a process now aided by the nearby wood-fired barrel stove. Among those who’d jockeyed their chairs close to the stove was gnomelike Hamish McCoy, bright eyes and stubby nose haloed by full white hair and beard. He was Arthur’s age, a mischievous rascal but a talented sculptor whose case had attracted the off-island press.

He was up for sentencing today. That is why Arthur was here, even though he’d sworn to Jupiter, Juno, and Apollo he would never return to a courtroom. McCoy had leaned on him hard. He would have no other counsel, he mistrusted other lawyers, and if Arthur wasn’t available, he would defend himself. Arthur caved in. His fee was to be The Fall of Icarus , a twelve-foot-high fusion of wings and tortured body of which Arthur had spoken admiringly. McCoy has promised to deliver it on a flatbed. Arthur had no idea what to do with it.

McCoy’s pieces were large and expensive, and sold only sporadically. For the last two years the art market had been depressed. Many locals knew how he was augmenting his income, but there was an island tradition of omerta ; it was considered dishonourable to rat on a neighbour.

Plump and amiable Mary something, a Sinhalese name Arthur couldn’t begin to pronounce, was here representing the state. Last month she’d listened to his proposal, then said, incredibly, with barely a shrug, “Sure, let’s do it.” McCoy pleaded guilty to a reduced charge of simple possession, and she dropped the trafficking charge.

Arthur didn’t believe she’d been afraid of going up against, as she put it, “the legendary Beauchamp.” Maybe she was a pothead. Maybe she had an eye for art. Arthur had shown her a catalogue of McCoy’s tall bronze figures, inspired by ancient legends, captured in exaggerated motion.

“Is that all the heat that stove’s capable of putting out?” The querulous tone of Provincial Court Judge Tim Wilkie, seated behind a wooden table. A former small-town practitioner, he did the island circuit, showing up here every other month with a court reporter and a clerk.

Everyone was looking at island trustee Kurt Zoller, uncomfortable in suit and tie under a life jacket-he always wore one, to be ready, he insisted, for any emergency. This one was a bright fluorescent yellow. He finally rose. “Your Worship, the community hall committee never got round to insulate the roof after the snow collapsed it last year.”