William Deverell - April Fool

“In my day, Ms. Rudnicki, lawyers became involved after the fact, not at the planning stage of a tort.” He says this with an intimidating smile, challenging her. This snip has been devising scenarios to get her environmental law group in the news. Arthur understands now why he’s so displeased with her-she is the agent of a broken home at Blunder Bay.

Her look is more scornful than hurt, and she fires back. “What do you think Garlinc’s lawyers were doing, playing with their dinks? They were at the planning stage of a fucking crime . The rape of a virgin forest, isn’t that how you put it, Mr. Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp?”

She stands, defiant, hands on hips. Rise Up! her bosom cries. An abrasively theatrical young woman, American accent, Californian in manner. Reverend Al shifts nervously, not daring to come between them.

“Have you done some scripting on the next scene as well, Ms. Rudnicki? It plays out in a courtroom.” He wants to know what she’s made of, this mouthpiece for the Save Gwendolyn Society who is young enough to be his granddaughter. But not as young as he first thought. Late twenties.

“We’ve thought about it.”

“Who’s we?”

“We are me and Selwyn Loo. Lead counsel for Sierra Legal.” Seeing his blank expression, she adds, “He turned down a Rhodes to work with Sierra. He’s a ranked chess player. He can take on half a dozen tables in a blindfold match.”

“This is not a game, Ms. Rudnicki. We are not contending for a trophy.”

She gives him a tired look. “I’m going to light a hump, anyone mind?”

Arthur isn’t sure if he minds. Then he realizes she means a Camel’s cigarette-she brings out a pack. The smoking environmentalist.

She takes a long pull, exhales. “Okay, I’m now ready to say something to you, Arthur Beauchamp. I don’t mind the hostility, I shed it like a duck sheds rain. But maybe you should get with the program. There’s your partner, a tough, beautiful, fantastic lady, putting herself on the line, holding off the barbarians at the Gap, while you, this great icon of the courtroom, are displaying a totally shallow attitude, complaining about losing a good cook. What is she, your employee ?”

That comes like a slap. Before Arthur can devise a face-saving response, Reverend Al does crisis counselling, signalling Rudnicki to rein herself in, putting an arm on Arthur’s shoulder. “You’re upset, old boy, and you have every reason to be. As I would be had Zoe’s name been pulled. You’re welcome any night to share our home and our table.”

They have exposed the great icon for what he is, selfish, concerned about his comforts and his stomach. He must stop feeling sorry for himself. Poor Margaret, three weeks of enduring the gross inanities of the local literary lion.

He can barely meet Rudnicki’s eye. “Sierra Legal is rendering its services pro bono, I presume-on a matter of grave importance to our island. I should not have been unwelcoming. I apologize, Ms. Rudnicki. Your first name is Lotus?”

“L-o-t-i-s. Lotis Morningstar Rudnicki.”

Counter-culture parents with a spelling disability? Or named after the nymph Lotis-who, to escape Priapus, god of fertility, turned herself into a flower? When Arthur feels awkward, he will often spout Latin, and does so now, pompously, a line from Terence that he hastily interprets: “Many a time have great friendships sprung from bad beginnings.”

Lotis smiles widely, amused by this Latin-rapping stuffed shirt. “Okay, sorry I cracked on you. Anyway, you’re right, Selwyn and I don’t have much courtroom experience. We’re hoping you’ll join us at counsel table.”

“I regret to say, Lotis, that I am retired. My role will be to applaud vigorously from the sidelines.”

She hesitates, as if considering a further appeal. “I heard you saw the eagles’ mating display. Will you sign an affidavit?”

“Of course, if it will serve a purpose.” He finds himself echoing a local refrain: “What is the law?”

“Section thirty-four of the Wildlife Act makes it an offence to take, injure, molest, or destroy the nest of an eagle, peregrine falcon, gyrfalcon, osprey, heron, or burrowing owl, or, for that matter-subsection c- any nest if it’s occupied by a bird or an egg.”

Recited from memory, it would seem. Arthur entertains a hope that a brain lurks beneath that horror-show hairdo. But he cannot remotely imagine her or this Loo fellow defending Margaret. He will hire a leading barrister, a battle-scarred labour lawyer at ease with injunctions.

Arthur calls to Slappy, but the dog returns to his station at the tree and lies down. Semper fidelis. Arthur must get back. There are arrangements to be made, chores to be done. Life will be lived differently for a while.

Nick Faloon is relieved to have wormed out of the main block to what they call Protective Custody, the wing for dangerous sexual offenders, the DSOs, as they call them, plus other unpopular people like gays and trannies and squealers doing a reduced bounce for co-operating with Her Majesty.

The deputy warden was not entirely convinced by the Owl’s exaggerations that a barbarian in the main wing threatened to cut his balls off, but the deputy didn’t want to take a chance on this prized catch, didn’t want to deliver him up to the courts without all his parts. Also helping Faloon’s cause was being a possible nutcase, though the deputy wasn’t buying that. Nor was the couch doctor who analyzed him a few days ago, a young guy, Dr. Dare, who was onto Faloon’s game, he brought a Dutch interpreter with him. Faloon didn’t try to come out as Gertrude, it would have blown up in his face. The shrinker spent fifteen minutes with him, asking a few questions that seemed innocuous but were probably loaded with double meaning, and walked out laughing.

Among the advantages to PC in addition to not getting castrated is that there’s a decent lounge for visitors, and some of the other guests are interesting and intelligent people. There’s a defrocked priest in here who has a problem with underage boys, and they talk about religion, Faloon playing along that he’s a Christian, and there’s a former jail guard waiting sentencing, looking to do both hands for manslaughter or, in his case, wifeslaughter. Faloon gets called Gertie by the gay guys.

Though he has a hope that DNA fingerprinting will clear him, he can see himself eating pressed turkey for all Christmases to come. He shouldn’t have panicked in Bamfield, should have brazened it out, now he’s dug a hole for himself with this Gertrude Heeredam act.

The only thing looking up is that he has a lawyer. Faloon asked Willy the Hook Houston to scratch around for one, but in the meantime out of nowhere Mr. Brian Pomeroy phoned, and he’s coming by this afternoon. He may not be in the league of Arthur Beauchamp, but comes highly recommended in the joint-though you have to look at the source of such endorsements, Mr. Pomeroy didn’t get them off. According to Willy, who is raising a defence fund, he’s a good talker, smart without being sleazy.

Claudette St. John hasn’t visited yet, but she sent a teary letter saying she knows he’s innocent. Faloon is buoyed by that, Claudie being so true-blue despite her suspicions about his night with Holly Hoover, the logging-camp tramp. He kicks himself for that mistake, Claudette’s a superior woman, he’s never known anyone with such an open heart.

He hasn’t been sleeping well, and a couple of nights ago he found himself sleepwalking again, banging into the cell door while unconsciously going out to the deck of the Nitinat Lodge to take a piss.

It is just after the morning count that his new mouth shows up, and the screws let them have an isolated table in the lounge. Pomeroy’s face is somehow familiar, maybe Faloon has seen him in court. He’s forty-five or so, looks a little depraved, maybe because of all the character lines in his face.