William Deverell - Trial of Passion

Oh, what a worshipper of Bacchus was I. Until one night, nine years ago, locked out of my house, and vigorously seeking audience with a wife temporarily estranged, I fell through the skylight and onto her exercise bicycle. Promises were made at my hospital bedside. (I kept mine; she broke hers. She tried. I believe she tried.)

After a few days of doubtless pensive rumination, Stoney and Dog return to their tasks: sweaty, resolute work, pouring concrete pads, and nailing up supports for the new veranda. They patch the roof, too, though in a fashion they assure me is temporary, much plywood, and plastic sheeting. The house begins to look like something a hillbilly might inhabit, Ozarkian, ungainly. I suffer a temptation to have the place torn down and a new house built by a reputable city contractor. But I cannot bear the thought of having to confront my current crew with layoff notices. . and Mrs. Blake lurks down the lane.

On an afternoon as I watch my veranda rise Sistine-like from the rubble, I am visited by the local media, one Nelson Forbish representing the Island Echo. A man of impressive girth, he emerges awkwardly from his compact car, armed with notebook and camera. He is about thirty-five, his cherubic face sheltered by a felt porkpie hat, the brim turned down in front.

“Mr. Bochamp, I’ve been waiting till you settled in to call. Like to do an interview.” He has a high, whining voice, a nasal dentist’s drill.

“Beecham is how it’s pronounced. The name became corrupted after my ancestors raped and pillaged Anglo-Saxon England.”

Nelson Forbish seems to have some difficulty absorbing this concept. “Would a good time be now?”

“As you see, the house is in disarray, so shall we just sit outside here? It’s a splendid day. Would you care for a refreshment?”

“Something to eat, if you got.”

I bring out a bowl of fruit and some slightly burnt homemade biscuits, and lead Forbish to my dock, where I have set a table and a plastic chair. I have been fishing, offering fat worms from my newly spaded garden.

“Caught two very tasty perch the other day. Possibly that could be your headline, Mr. Forbish.”

The reporter peels a banana and lowers it down his throat as if into a food blender.

“I’ve been reading your newspaper, Mr. Forbish, and I was wondering — if it’s not subject to journalistic privilege — about Mr. George Rimbold, who tried to jump through a window at the local bar dressed as a frog.”

“That was at Halloween. He’s a bit of a tank.”

“Ah, I see.”

As he wolfs down a biscuit, he takes a photo of me, then produces some clippings from various Vancouver journals.

“Says here you’ve won fourteen straight murders in a row.”

I hear echoes of his idiosyncrasies of composition in the Island Echo. Fourteen straight in a row.

“I have had my losses.”

“This here magazine article says you left your office for a couple of years to work with bums on skid row.”

Two years dimly remembered, two years of bibulous fog when Annabelle had separated from me.

“It was an interesting time.”

“And the article goes on to say you’re really colourful in court.” He is on his second banana now, and eyeing an apple. “Much exaggerated.”

“You used to keep a pitcher of vodka on your table when you were on a trial. The judges all thought it was water.”

I ponder his odd interview technique — he has yet to ask a question. “An utter lie. It was a pitcher of Beefeater gin. Nor did the judges suspect it was anything else.”

“So there was also this time when apparently you were drunk in the middle of a trial, and you began reciting the Ruby. .” Nelson is studying an obscure word in the magazine article.

Was I also drunk when being interviewed for that piece of literary embarrassment? In vino veritas. No, it was later — newly admitted to the Trial Lawyers’ Chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous, I tended in those days to indulge in frenzies of truth and openness.

” The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam. ‘ Fill the cup that clears today of past regrets and future fears.’ I once sought escape in such a cup. I am an alcoholic, Nelson.”

“So what are you doing here on this island?”

“Making peace with God and nature. I am retired.”

“So, for our readers, why did you choose Garibaldi?”

“I’m not sure. I think my brain may have snapped.”

Nelson finally sees this as a joke and stops writing it down. He removes his hat, wipes his sweating brow. I note that my various comestibles have by now entirely disappeared down the man’s ravenous maw.

“So, that’s it? For your career? No more cases?”

“In fact, I just turned one down.”

“What sort of case?”

“Oh, a sexual assault — ”

“It isn’t that law professor’s case?”

I am sorry I have stumbled into this, but Nelson seems hugely titillated, his eyes bugging slightly. “I heard he kidnapped one of his students, took all her clothes off and chained her up, and took a bull-whip to her until she was bleeding.”

“I ought not to discuss it.”

“Then made love to her over and over until she couldn’t take it any more. Do you think he did it?” There seems something almost obsessive about his interest.

“Nelson, I judge not my fellow man. And one shouldn’t really discuss a matter that is before the courts.”

His only response is a burp. Oh, pompous Beauchamp. Making peace with God and nature. Judging not my fellow man. But how innocent in God’s eyes is our dashing acting dean of law? Does that matter? Do I care?

I am retired. That’s all the news that’s fit to print.

DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MS. BLUEMAN

Q

Your name and occupation for the record?

A

Sergeant Henry Chekoff, detective, West Vancouver Municipal Police.

Q

You’ve been a police officer for how many years?

A

Going on ten.

Q

Tell me what you did in connection with this case.

A

Well, your honour, I came on duty at nine o’clock on the morning of November twenty-eighth and there was a message on my desk to go to 141 Palmer Avenue, complaint of a sexual assault.

Q

This complaint had not been investigated earlier? During the night?

A

Well, I was told the allegations -

THE COURT:

Just what you saw and did, sergeant.

A

We’re pretty badly understaffed during the graveyard shift, so I guess I was the first officer to attend the, ah, alleged scene.

Q

Okay, so you went to 141 Palmer Avenue that morning?

A

Well, I did. Um, I attended at nine-twenty hours and there was a gentleman out front there raking some leaves.

Q

Do you see that person in court?

A

Yes, sitting beside Mr. Cleaver.

Q

Indicating the accused. Can you tell us about his demeanour?

A

Well, he seemed normal. He was clean-shaven. Casually dressed. He was surprised when I identified myself, but he wasn’t unpleasant.

MS. BLUEMAN:

Entering a voir dire, your honour.

MR. CLEAVER:

Not necessary. For the purposes of this preliminary hearing I agree the statements are voluntary.

THE COURT:

Very well.

Q

What conversation did you have with him?

A

Well, I said I was here to investigate a complaint about an incident that was supposed to have happened the night before. I asked him if he knew a Kimberley Martin. And he said, “Yes, she was here last night” And he said. . Can I look at my notes?

THE COURT:

Go ahead.

A

He said, um, “Has something happened to her? I was worried. She disappeared” I then related to him the substance of the complaint that he had confined her and assaulted her sexually, and he didn’t say anything at first, just looked kind of puzzled. And then he said, “Is this some kind of practical joke?” and I said, “No, not that I’m aware.” He went sort of white, and said, “I did no such thing.” I said, “Are you saying you didn’t touch her?” And he said, “Didn’t touch her? Of course I touched her. I took her to bed.”