William Deverell - Trial of Passion

“Please, I can’t. .”

Dr. Kropinski’s tone is flat and insistent. “What does Jonathan do to you, Kimberley?”

“Fly away, fly away,” she whispers.

“Kimberley, please — ”

Plaintively, “I can’t remember!”

A shocked stillness. Then a voice from behind me, Jonathan’s, rasping and choked. “I kiss you, Kimberley. I kiss your lips.”

The courtroom, silent until this moment, shuffles with whisper and movement.

Kimberley’s eyes grow wide in astonishment. “Yes. Yes. Jonathan. .” Her eyes close again, tight. “You kiss me. . yes, a kiss, and a kiss again, and now our night can never end, we have it forever. Jonathan, kiss me, kiss me.” She hugs her arms to her chest. “God, I want you, I want you. Oh, damn, I want you.”

Augustina whispers, “Timber.” Finally I dare a glance at the jury. They are riveted, their mouths gaping. Wally, too, is welded to his chair.

“Touch me, touch me. . Stop. No, don’t stop. Oh, God. Stop. Don’t. Not yet.” Now a playful tone: “Bad timing, Jonathan. The end of November is the middle of the month.” She giggles — then a sudden hot peal of laughter as she mimes undressing. “This stupid suit. Where did you get this tie anyway? I’m not going to make it up those stairs, I can hardly walk. Oh, kiss me first.” Huskier: “Oh, that feels

If Dr. Kropinski can’t stem the flow of this erotic haemorrhag-ing, he will vault beyond it. “Kimberley, you are upstairs in the bedroom now. You have had sex, yes? Next, what is happening?”

She jumps ahead and pours forth a gallimaufry of naked revelry and Shavian theatre: “You said you wouldn’t torture me! You said. . Oh, God, Jonathan, I think this is almost too weird. No, do it. Tie me to the stake. ‘Light your fire: do you think I dread it as much as the life of a rat in a hole?’ Light my fire. Your line, and pass the wine. ‘Perpetual imprisonment! Am I not to be set free?’ Ouch, Jonathan, there’s something scraping. . Softer, softer, that’s better. Oh, God, Jonathan, what are you. . Oh, God, don’t. Not with the mouth. That’s not fair, I can’t move, I can’t I can’t

The psychiatrist attempts to interrupt, but Kimberley’s torrid stream of consciousness will not be dammed. “Jonathan, I can’t hold on. Come inside me. Yes, you can. Oh, please, don’t. Oh, my God! Stop! Oh, Jonathan!”

“You must return to the courtroom, Kimberley.”

Perhaps she doesn’t hear him, so lost in bliss is she, writhing, her hips moving with sensuous rhythm, her legs splayed apart. Dr. Kropinski rises hurriedly from his chair and moves to her.

“Kimberley. .”

“Oh, please help me, God! Yes, yes, there, there! Oh, yes. Right there! Oh, God, yes! ” An exuberant scream of fulfilment.

“Kimberley, please.” He is gently shaking her by the shoulder.

She sighs deeply. “Wow.”

“You’re back in the courtroom with me. Do you understand?”

“Sure.” She giggles. “He looked so funny, Dr. Kropinski. He had lipstick all over his face. I laughed and laughed. And you know what? He turned me around on my tummy and spanked me.” She emits another gay peal; then, as if disappointed that her merriment has been met with silence, frowns and shrugs. “I guess you had to be there.”

“You will awake. At the count of three you will awake.”

She sighs. “Will I remember?”

“You will remember.”

“Oh, dear.”

“One, two, three.”

When she comes to, she is clearly puzzled for a moment. Then her face expands in surprise, eyes enlarging, mouth opened in a silent gasp, and she brings both hands to her mouth, covering it, then her entire face. Fingers part, and she peeks between them, at Patricia.

“Gag me,” she says.

She flashes a quick look at Jonathan as a muted shade of Shameless red continues to rise up her throat and cheeks.

The lights go on. Wally Sprogue, flushed, too, a sheen of sweat upon his forehead, adjourns court breathlessly. Most of the jurors seem shell-shocked as they retreat from their bunker, but the doughty Hedy Jackson-Blyth casts an accusing look at me, as if I have pulled off some unworthy stunt, destroying a young woman for the sake of a mere acquittal.

Kimberley is now being led out by Dr. Kropinski, a protective arm around her shoulders. One of her hands is still clasped over her eyes, but with the other she pulls from an open handbag a large blue handkerchief — her gift from Jonathan — and veils her face with it. Jonathan is looking at her with immense solemnity and awe.

The audience files out, stupefied, silent. Beside me, Augustina is trying to hide a secret smile as she studies Jonathan, who is still dazedly staring at the emptying court.

Patricia shakes my hand. “Win some, lose some. You were brilliant, of course, you son of a bitch.”

“Nonsense. You were much the sharper of us. Managed to fumble my way through it, that’s all.”

“I’ll enter a stay.”

“If you’d be so kind, may we have a formal verdict from the jury?”

“You’re entitled to that. Help me drown my sorrows in the El Beau Room?”

“I’m sorry, I may have to run for the ferry.”

All but a few of the audience have left — a young man remains, eyes closed, head lolling, an accidental victim of Dr. Kropinski. We watch as SheriffWillit shakes him awake.

Jonathan hugs Jane Dix, then offers his hand to me.

“Arthur, I can’t tell you. . ” He is lost for words. “I’ll talk to you later, I’m numb. “What is this curious, distant glitter in his eyes? Not relief, not joy. . something more potent. He blinks damply, parts hurriedly from me, and races from court, deserting Jane, who looks bewildered at this sudden retreat. Too much manly pride to permit a show of tears?

“Judge would like to see counsel,” says the clerk.

The courtroom door opens again, and here comes a beaming Gowan Cleaver, hand outstretched.

“I’ll meet you in chambers,” says Augustina, and she beats a hasty retreat, leaving me to deal with the miscreant. Gowan heartily grasps my hand.

“So I hear O’Donnell gives great head. Everyone in the building is talking about it. Fantastic coup, Arthur.”

“Finished your argument, Gowan?”

“Just.”

“Then do me a favour.”

“Yours is but to ask.”

“I’d like you to run down to the nearest florist and buy five dozen roses for Augustina Sage.”

“Arthur, that’s asking a bit much. Christ, we can get one of the students. .”

I scribble a note on the back of a business card, and hand it to him. “We’ll be in Wally’s chambers. You may leave them with his clerk.”

“Look, I’m sorry about that screw-up “

I walk off. This minor chore seems an insufficient purgatory, but Gowan has found me in a generous mood.

A boisterous Wally brings a bottle of single malt from his bar, offers rounds to the non-teetotallers, a more-than-generous dollop for himself.

“Your chap likes to spice it up with a little kink, I gather. A spanking good time, eh? Yes, I figured it out almost from the beginning. Obvious as a billboard that she never really blacked out on that couch. No, she fell asleep later, on the bed, during a pause in their games. Freaked out when she was jumped from behind, brought the whole childhood trauma back. Of course Beauchamp had to make a big production of it. Overdid things a bit, I thought; I might have handled it another way, but what the hell.”

Comfortable, slouched in a chair, I refuse to be baited by Wally in his effort to sand the gloss from my victory. “I’ve underestimated you, Wally. You saw through our little scheme.”

Augustina shrugs helplessly in agreement.