William Deverell - Kill All the Judges

Arthur might have expected that, a dilettantish litterateur, more interested in being between book covers than bed covers. For this, a burden others shared, forgiveness was owed.

“Did you play any role in preparing for this dinner?”

“Not really. When I first looked at the guest list I thought it would be tedious. Until I learned Cudworth Brown had been pencilled in.”

“Why did that make a difference?”

“I’d heard him on Co-op Radio a few months earlier. I was out for a drive, surfing the FM band, and this poet was being interviewed and giving readings. I actually pulled over to listen. I was getting a kind of high from him, he had this totally radical attitude, he wasn’t delivering the usual crap.”

Kroop’s eyes widened but he didn’t chastise. Arthur was astonished not so much by the loose language but by the drift of her evidence, the way she bulled ahead, unstoppable. “I had a sense of liberation from him, he was where I wanted to be. The whole thing felt kind of life-changing. And I went out and bought his books and his CD. They spoke to me of freedom, of living a life without regret.”

A nice turn of phrase, but life-changing? Arthur had never quite seen Cud in that light, Christ-like, with powers to transform and heal. He resisted the urge to glance back and see how he was taking this. Soon it would be time for Felicity to march out again.

“Tell us how you spent Saturday, October 13.”

“I just tried to keep out of everybody’s way. We had staff buzzing about, caterers all afternoon, and Raffy was totally involved, directing the show. I spent some time in the exercise room, took a drive, did some shopping, got back maybe an hour before the guests so I had time to change.” Pausing to catch her breath. Arthur listened, rapt.

“Cudworth was the first to arrive, and when I came down, Rafael had already seen him in. He went out to greet more guests…oh, before that, he told me to change the seating cards, he didn’t want to be near Cudworth. That was fine with me; I put him on my right. Then I saw Cudworth out on the deck, having a smoke, and I joined him.”

“And what transpired?”

“Well, I was ready for him. I had his two books. I let him know how meaningful I found his work, and was about to ask him to sign the books when I thought it would be better to ask him to wait. He didn’t really know me yet.” A fair paraphrasing of Cud’s version. So far, a credible witness with far more to say than anyone expected.

Abigail took her through the dinner talk, Cud in top form, playing up the hard, lonely life of the under-recognized poet. If Florenza recognized the pitch for what it was, a fundraiser for Cuddlybear, she didn’t say. “He told me about growing up in a mining town, being taunted for his literary ambitions, learning to fight by standing up to bullies. He’d hitched across Canada, worked on high steel, sent all his money home to his impoverished parents. He’d had a terrible accident with his back, and found his way to his lonely little island, destitute. Only the poetry saved him from suicide. I was riveted, he’d lived a life of pain but a life without compromise.”

This was Cud at his bullshitting best, he’d used the thoughts-of-suicide line to seduce a score of Garibaldi maidens. The lazy libertine wasn’t capable of suicide. Flo continued to impress as credible, if naive, but Arthur had picked up unnatural intrusions in her relaxed, idiomatic speech, the clever phrases, a life without regret…without compromise . Was Silent Shawn also a wannabe author, a writer of scripts?

“Tell us about your end of the conversation.”

“There wasn’t much. He asked if I was happy. I told him I could be happier. No, that’s not what I said, I told him I was living a lie. I told him his poetry had awakened something in me.”

“During this, was anything else going on between you?”

“I’m not going to downplay it. I couldn’t keep my hands off him.”

It started with a nudging of knees, a touching of hands. There was audible heavy breathing in court as those hands grew bolder, he going under her dress, her fingers finding their way slowly, unerringly, to Cud’s so-called private parts. The intimate details repelled Arthur.

The adventure with the opal ring provided comic relief, a release of erotic tension that helped pacify the several jurors shifting in discomfort.

“I wanted him. That’s all I can say. When I think about it now, I feel badly. I’d had too much to drink…But that’s not it. With Raffy it wasn’t…it wasn’t happening, Cud seemed so different, so opposite, so alive, a beautiful, lustful savage. He was worried Raphael would notice we were playing around, but I’d reached the point I didn’t care. I was going to have this man. I’m sorry if that seems abrupt and immature. I was horny and infatuated and a little loaded, and I wasn’t thinking about consequences.”

She looked at Cud. Arthur swivelled around, saw his puzzled face. Cud’s attitude toward their antics had been cynical, he’d believed she’d merely wanted a sex slave for the night. Now he was hearing about infatuation. Felicity looked frozen.

Florenza didn’t say much about her exchanges with Cud on the patio, didn’t mention asking him to sign the two poetry books. Never regret. New love blooms as the old lies dying. The jury could well have read something ominous in those inscriptions.

As to his reading of “Up Your Little Red Rosie,” Flo thought it hilarious. “I got it, but I don’t think anyone else did, the way he was sticking it to all the stuffed shirts. I remember him smiling at me, like it was our secret joke.” She looked at Cud again, who engineered a wan grin.

It was nearing morning break, but no one asked for a break, certainly not Abigail, whose allegedly reluctant witness was sailing along. Arthur was getting antsy, this was definitely liable to spill over to the afternoon.

The other guests gone, the caterers looked after, Flo went upstairs to her husband, already in bed, exhausted from his day and with a slight heartburn. A glass of warm milk and a swig of stomach medicine settled him down, and by the time Flo had removed her makeup he was asleep. Again, this fairly accorded with Cud’s version, though in his she’d sounded sinister: I gave him something to help him sleep. She bypassed a salient line: We’ll just have to find some way to get rid of him. Which the jury might have presumed was in jest. Maybe not.

She and Cud met by the pool as planned, took a diversion into the steam room. After a few moments of play, they abandoned the last vestiges of civilized reserve-that’s how Arthur saw it. His sense of morals was offended by this hormonally unbalanced pair.

Her account was expurgated but raw enough. They’d been near climax when a cool gust signalled Raffy’s presence. He sorrowfully reminded Flo of the time, just after one. Urged her to come to bed. Made complaint about her wantonness, ever so timidly, then left.

“And what did you and Mr. Brown do then?”

“We showered and gathered our clothes.”

“Did you and he have anything to say at that point?”

“Not that I can remember.”

“Morning break,” Kroop said. “Ten minutes.”

Wentworth tried to rise, he needed to walk off the erotic tension, but the boss gripped his elbow with his big farm-toughened hand and pulled him down hard. “What do you make of her?”

Wentworth thought of saying, “Hot stuff,” but that didn’t seem analytical enough. “She’s pretty direct. Mostly telling the truth, except I didn’t hear ‘Help me escape.’”

“What should we deduce from that?”