William Deverell - Trial of Passion

Orifice.

Yes. She must have thought I was trying to enter the, ah, wrong place. I wasn’t, honestly. My aim was impaired. But I guess I must have probed her there a little and, she, ah, she went absolutely berserk, totally unglued.

What was she saying during this?

She was screaming, pleading. “Please, don’t. Stop.” And she was crying. And she wasn’t laughing any more. And so I backed off, and I was a little worried now, because she suddenly had this wild, haggard expression. And I remember saying something to the effect, would she like to join me in a tub for two, and. . then I went to the bathroom again, took off the safe, disposed of it, began filling the tub. . I may have taken a whiz. Probably. Anyway, when I got back, no Kimberley. I ran through the house — no sign of her. I looked outside. She’d vanished. But the lights were on at the Hawthorne house. And that’s when I panicked. I bathed, I burned everything. I didn’t sleep that night.

Why did you feel such guilt?

I raped her, Jane. An unconscious woman cannot consent.

What are you going to do about it? What I have to do. I can’t keep running from lie to lie. There’s no end to that road. .

The stage has been set with new furniture: two padded armchairs purloined from the barristers’ lounge. They face each other, near the counsel tables. Kimberley Martin waits in the mezzanine to be called. The ground rules for our venture into the subconscious have been agreed upon in camera.

As he mounts the dais, Wally seems to be in grieving, possibly for himself. “Members of the jury, regrettably it has been brought to my attention that I said a very foolish thing this morning. Now, when I remarked that it was white of Mr. Beauchamp to convenience a witness, I want to impress on everyone that I meant that word, ‘white,’ in the sense of being virtuous, pure, and of course it had nothing to do with skin colour, though I can see how that meaning might be taken. Mr. Beauchamp could be black, brown, or green for that matter, and it frankly wouldn’t make any difference to me.”

Forewoman Jackson-Blyth looks skintily at the judge, unimpressed with these ill-prepared remarks. Augustina leans to me. “How deep a hole does he need to dig for himself?”

Wally shrugs away the awkward episode and turns to matters at hand. He tells the jury Dr. Kropinski will be called by the defence as a witness. After some preliminary evidence, he and Kimberley will assume the chairs provided and the lights will be dimmed to near darkness. “And anyone who feels they may have an urge to whisper or cough will absent themselves immediately or face my full wrath. Mr. Beauchamp?”

“I call Dr. Benjamin Kropinski.”

The psychiatrist nods politely to me, bows with old-country courtesy to the judge, and takes the stand. I draw from him his considerable qualifications: former professor at the University of Bern, member of many learned societies, author of several papers on hypnosis therapy.

I ask him if he has advised Kimberley about the process to be undertaken.

“Yes. She is prepared to do this.”

“It helps in that she is a good subject for hypnosis?”

“Exactly so.”

He testifies he has been treating Kimberley for six months, assisting her in dealing with a “recurring hysteria associated with dreams triggered by events blocked from memory.” He describes his therapeutic approach, summarizes his history of treatment, and tells of a session at his home one recent evening when Kimberley literally threw up and expelled a ghastly demon from her childhood.

I spend a few minutes with the doctor edifying the jury as to the various sources of amnesia — the most common of which is my old friend, substance intoxication: “which may have played a significant role here.” But the core factor was “emotional trauma memory loss syndrome” — more simply, traumatic amnesia.

“The mind does not wish to know. The victim blocks the pain, which is buried beneath memory’s surface.”

“And do you hold an opinion as to whether Miss Martin is amnesic about events related to this trial?”

“I hold that opinion.”

“Please take one of these chairs, doctor.” I turn to SheriffWillit. “Be so kind as to lower the lights and escort Miss Martin in.”

The lights slowly go down as Kimberley enters and cruises up the aisle, legs swishing beneath her tight vermilion sheathe: Diana the huntress, goddess of the moon, ghostlike in the growing gloom. An oblique peek in Jonathan’s direction, a tentative smile for me, and she claims her chair, crossing her legs, hitching down her skirt.

Dr. Kropinski turns to me. “We shall proceed, yes?”

“Please,” I say. The room is in near blackness now, but for the soft glow of lamps on Wally’s bench and the court reporter’s table.

“Kimberley, you are aware fully what we are trying to do,” Dr. Kropinski begins.

“Yes, I am,” she says in a soft, unwavering voice.

“You are in a courtroom with many people.”

“I understand that. I am only going to look at you.”

“You will hear only me?”

“Yes.”

“You are relaxed, comfortable?”

“Sure. Under the circumstances.”

After receiving a few more assurances of her preparedness, this gentle doctor of the mind commences a seductive, lulling mantra, a soft cloud of words that causes Kimberley’s body to go visibly slack and seems to make my own eyelids heavy. He tells his patient that at the count of ten she will fall asleep — yet a part of her will be awake, observant solely to his voice.

“… Nine. . ten.”

Silence.

“Kimberley?”

“Yes.” The word floats from her lips.

“You can open your eyes now.”

They seem to slide languorously open; a peculiar softness is in them.

“Where are we?”

“I believe we are in a courtroom. “The sluggish voice of one just aroused from slumber.

“Please only listen to my voice. Only talk to me.” “I am doing that.”

“In this trial, we are talking about something that happened last year, yes?”

“Yes.”

“After a dance.”

“Yes.”

“Let us go back to that time. Will you go there with me?”

“All right.”

“It is the night of November twenty-seventh. After the dance there is a party, and later you are at a house with some friends, yes?”.

“Professor O’Donnell’s house.”

“It is late at night, yes?”

“I don’t know what time it is.”

“Around three o’clock — ”

She interrupts. “Oh, my God, Remy will think I’m lying somewhere in an alley.” Her voice has abruptly altered in rhythm and tone, sprightly now, a slight slurring of consonants. “Gosh, I think I’m a little drunk. Woo, I don’t norm’lly drink this much.”

“You and the others have been reading from a play — ”

Again she cuts him off, spreading her arms theatrically, lamenting: ” ‘If only I could hear the larks in the sunshine, the blessed, blessed church bells that send my angels’ voices floating on the wind.’ Shaw’s such an ol’ curmudgeon, but he can be poetic when he wants. What happened to my glass? Glass? It’s like drinking from a vase. I have to sit down. I’m spinning. Shouldn’t’ve done that toot, Remy would not approve, the ol’ sourpuss. He’ll be fast asleep now. I should call him. Where’s the phone? Not in here. There was one by Jonathan’s bed. I wonder if this is his favourite brown suit. I’m afraid to ask him where he got the tie — in a joke shop? His father’s a scream, no wonder he hid that picture under his socks. Choking a pheasant!”

She is wandering aimlessly over the windswept moors, free-associating, clearly out of anyone’s control, including Dr. Kropinski’s. He seems a little confounded at having set free this talkative genie.