William Deverell - April Fool

Flynn doesn’t even try to get a word in, he keeps looking at the judge, waiting for cues to respond. But the old chief has turned sideways, arms folded like he’s disgusted with Mr. Beauchamp, Mr. Svabo, the whole trial. The jury’s got to be wondering why the prosecutor isn’t tearing his hair out. It’s as if he knows something.

Mr. Beauchamp bends to his assistant, who says something nice to him, and he pats her hand. She shuffles through some transcripts.

“I’m going to put a narrative to you, sergeant, and ask you to comment when I’m done. Doctor Eve returned to Cotters’ Cottage about midnight, still embarrassed by the romantic faux pas with Holly Hoover. She went to the fridge, she needed a drink after that. She made a fire, had a shower, wrapped herself in a towel, poured another glass, and settled down to the little writing table by the fireplace. She pulled out her letter to Daisy, many pages long by now, to add another postscript, about her evening’s doings, dinner at the Breakers, a chance meeting with a woman of the night.”

Not only does Mr. Beauchamp have the whole joint mesmerized, he looks a little mesmerized himself, it’s as if he’s forgotten he’s in a courtroom and is talking to himself. Sort of like the Owl talking in his sleep. He’s squinting into space, jiggling a pencil like a baton.

“Why has she begun writing to Daisy again, after a long lull? Because events have changed. The affair had been furtive, difficult, and finally had to be abandoned. But ephemeral Desiree has since split from her husband, so why were they apart? Yes, this letter to Daisy was a work in progress, begun during the hike. She would have carried on about her disastrous affair with Ruth. And of course this is the same letter Ruth sneaked a peek at.”

This provokes a nod from the assistant prosecutor, who for obvious reasons is called Ears by the other lawyers. He’s stopped eating his pencil, he’s being swung over by the honey-tongued lawyer.

“No doubt Eve added a note to Daisy about the quarrel, to tell her she was free of Ruth.” He nods to himself, still flicking that pencil. “This is the letter, of course, that mysteriously disappeared from the cottage. Along with a little grey address book with Daisy’s address.”

Miss Rudnicki is looking surprised, as if it’s the first time she’s seen her boss kick it into high gear. The Owl’s seen it many times. He did a foolish thing last night with this rookie throat, told her where the Topeka money was hidden. Did he trust her? Not a hell of a lot. She’s a lawyer with no fixed address. But in the end he drew her a map of where the cedar-root hollow is. If Flynn hasn’t already filched his hard-earned thirty-one grand, Miss Rudnicki can have it.

“Eve doesn’t finish her final postscript. The fire, the wine, the lateness of the night have conspired to make her suddenly quite woozy. She stands, wobbly, makes her way to the bedroom, falls onto the bed. She doesn’t know what’s going on, she wonders if she’s ill.”

For no reason that Faloon can figure, Mr. Beauchamp is now beamed onto Ears. But it’s like he’s still talking to himself, like he doesn’t really see Ears, who is just a leaning post for his eyes, a vacant spot in the room.

“She hears the stairs creaking as the intruder steps heavily down from the loft, she struggles to her feet as she sees him, a bear of a man, making his way swiftly to her. A quick, expert blow to the solar plexus.” Mr. Beauchamp’s fist darts forward, and Ears jerks back.

Mr. Beauchamp looks around, it’s like he has just returned to the living and is startled to see everyone here. But maybe it was an act, that talking-to-himself stuff. “Wasn’t it about a week ago, Mr. Stubb, as the pathologist was on the stand, that you were conscripted to play the role of helpless victim?”

“That’s right,” Ears says nervously.

“And do you remember Jasper Flynn coaching Mr. Svabo?” Ears nods. The scene is kind of eerie or surreal, the judge and prosecutor taking the day off work, it’s like they’ve given up, surrendered the courtroom.

Faloon turns to see Mr. Pomeroy at the door, bringing an extra chair. But not for him, it’s for a lady with him, thin, snow-white skin, real good-looking for middle age. Faloon thinks he’s seen her on television…Mr. Beauchamp’s wife, that’s it.

Pomeroy sets her up at the back, then takes one of the reserved seats for lawyers.

The great defenceman doesn’t notice any of this because he’s reading the croaker’s testimony aloud, about the victim’s lower abdomen being bruised, and how a hard shot could’ve incapacitated her.

“I won’t ask Mr. Svabo to repeat his graphic performance of straddling the victim and kneeling on her wrists, but that’s exactly how it happened, isn’t it? The prosecutor put it dramatically enough…” Another line from the transcript. “‘And her horrible nightmare ends when he stuffs the panties down her throat.’ Is that how you remember it, sergeant?”

“I wasn’t there.” Sounding like he has to honk something out of his throat. “You don’t have it right, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“Yes, pardon me, I have missed something. Your firearm. Your service revolver, I presume. What is it, a Smith 9 mm, I believe.”

Flynn clams up again, combs his fingernails through his mighty ’stache.

“Eve Winters chipped a front tooth.” Mr. Beauchamp raises his voice so loud you can almost hear the fixtures rattle. “Because she bit on the gun barrel! Because you used it to ram her panties down her throat!”

Flynn suddenly tenses and cranes forward, like he’s going to bolt out of here. But no, he’s looking to his left, the door of the judge’s chambers, it’s opening, someone’s coming through it. It’s that sad sack, the humiliated clerk, Gilbert.

Faloon jerks upright. Emergency. Red alert. Gilbert’s got a heater and he’s pointing it at the Chief Justice with two shaking hands. Flynn jumps up, roaring. “Everyone down !”

Gilbert takes a step back, swings the piece around, it’s a snub, a belly gun, and as Flynn lunges at him, crack , he fires. Flynn’s big body jerks as the bullet hits, but his momentum knocks Gilbert down, who disappears under him, only his hands and feet showing.

Is Faloon hallucinating? Did he just see Jasper Flynn get one in the chest? All the people yelling and shrieking and running for the exit tell him he’s not in some sleepwalk nightmare, this bedlam is real.

Mr. Svabo has picked up the snub, and a couple of sheriffs are clawing Flynn off Gilbert. The jury is being hustled out, but one of them doesn’t want to go, he’s protesting, he doesn’t want to be dragged away from this action movie. Though it looks like the last reel for Flynn, the way he’s so still.

The top half of the judge’s head can be seen from behind his desk, like Kilroy, just his eyes and nose. Emerging from under the counsel table come Mr. Pomeroy and Ears. But Miss Rudnicki is standing on a chair so she can see better. Sad to say, because it doesn’t look very heroic, Mr. Beauchamp is suddenly making a late break for the exit, scrambling off to the back, gown flapping, climbing over a row of seats, shouldering his way through the spectators.

Cops come rushing in from a trial down the hall. Sheriffs are trying to clear the courtroom, but nobody cares a hoot about the Owl, the forgotten but totally innocent outlaw. Former outlaw, because the Owl has been inspired to make a resolution. He is going to go straight after this traumatic event. No, wait, the resolution will kick in after he digs up his fortune.

He closes his eyes, tries to replay the scene slower. He can see, on rerun, how Gilbert acted almost instinctively, like you’d do if you’re jumped by a bear. But he can also see how the copper may have wanted a bullet. The cross-examination that kills. He hopes Mr. Beauchamp doesn’t see it that way, it could give him bad dreams.