William Deverell - Trial of Passion

“I know you only too well, Beauchamp. So what’s the right way to end this?”

“May I suggest you direct the jury to acquit.”

“Fair enough.”

A directed acquittal — the remedy de rigueur when the case blows up in Her Majesty’s face — will be bloodless and quick. No speeches, no laborious lectures on the law, no deliberation, no choice, no delay. I have a five o’clock ferry.

After we work out the mechanics of this, Patricia gulps down her whisky. “I’m going to tend to Kimberley.”

Gundar joins in the escape, but Wally seems in no hurry to dismiss Augustina and me and tops up her glass. “Must be distracting, Beauchamp, having such an attractive young woman at your side all week. I’d find it damn hard to keep my mind on business. Not that appearance makes a difference, of course. Inappropriate to judge people by their looks. Kimberley Martin, for instance, a bit of a fluff-head, don’t you think? Her boyfriend’s a handsome chap, but essentially a prick. I’d tell your client to take a long holiday, Beau-champ. Remy doesn’t seem the forgiving type.”

I rise. “Time presses, Wally. I must get ready to go. “The Queen of Prince George leaves in an hour and a half. I doubt that I will find a charter on a long weekend.

“Returning to your alternative lifestyle, eh, Beauchamp? My guess is we’ll see you back here when the novelty wanes.”

When Augustina also seeks to take her leave, Wally waves her over to her seat. “Stay, stay. Don’t fly away. I was going to take you out for a drink, Beauchamp, but I guess I’ll just have to make do with your junior.”

Augustina tries to wiggle out of this. “Gee, Wally, I’d like to, but …” A furtive glance at me; she’s trying to devise a credible excuse.

But just then the clerk walks in, almost buried in roses of a myriad hues. “For you, Miss Sage. They were just delivered.”

Augustina gapes at them, enfolds them in her arms. “Who the hell?” She finds my business card, reads the flipside aloud: “‘Friendship is the breathing rose, with sweets in every fold.’ Oh, Arthur, you dear lovely man.”

“Oliver Wendell Holmes. It seemed appropriate: His son was one of the great judges of our century.” I leave unspoken the inference we are not in the presence of similar greatness. We bid sweet adieu to his forlornly smiling lordship and walk out arm in arm.

In the corridor, reporters throng me like squawking chickens, hungry for their sound bites. I bid them have patience until proceedings formally close.

The two psychiatrists are in the mezzanine, in earnest colloquy. Jonathan is pacing, head down, absorbed in other worlds until I arrest his attention.

“We’re moving for a directed verdict,” I tell him.

“Great,” he says absently. “Is she still here?”

“Who?”

“Kimberley.”

“Why?”

“I think I need to talk to her.”

“That would be most unwise. Clarence de Remy Brown may not approve of your having further intercourse — social though it may be — with his fiancee. Let sleeping dogs lie.”

“I just want to tell her I have no ill feelings. And to apologize for putting her in such an awkward position. . rephrase that, embarrassing situation.” He himself seems much embarrassed.

“I advise against it.”

But there she appears, with Patricia, emerging downcast from the witness room: She no longer has eyes for Jonathan. Patricia leads her to court, and as Jonathan steps forward I grasp his elbow, restraining my restive steed from galloping off to her. I wait for Augustina, who has rushed off somewhere to put her flowers in water; then we lead in our client.

The jurors fumble into their seats, still shaken — all but the forewoman, Jackson-Blyth, and the broker, Goodman. The former is frowning, the latter, smiling.

Wally Sprogue, so recently outduelled by me on the fields of chivalry, looks as if he’s been pouting. “Ms. Blueman?”

“Ms. Martin can be excused from the stand?”

“No one has any more questions? Very well, the witness is excused from court.” Kimberley, sitting behind Patricia, makes no motion to leave. Tight of lip and stiff of neck, she seems determined to brazen it out for the trial’s denouement.

Patricia formally closes her case. “That is all the evidence for the Crown, m’lord.”

Wally turns to the jury. “Ms. Foreperson, jury members: The charges before you require proof the complainant did not consent. When the evidence points entirely in the opposite direction — and I think you will agree there was consent here beyond a reasonable doubt — it becomes the judge’s duty to direct the jury to find the defendant not guilty on all counts. I so direct you. I take it you do not need to retire and consider that verdict.” He smiles unctuously. But Hedy Jackson-Blyth has raised a hand. “Ms. Foreperson, you have a question?”

She rises with a look that intimates she feels male mischief is occurring here. “The defendant kissed her while he thought she was unconscious. He admitted that. Are you saying that is not a sexual assault?” She has a firm, emphatic way of making a point, doubtless perfected in union halls. The other jurors shuffle awkwardly — they do not seem in support of their leader. Goodman is grimacing, expressing disgust.

“Madam, we are not debating societal mores here,” Wally retorts — perhaps too quickly, but he is cranky: His word has been challenged.

“No, I just want it clear. Can a woman consent to being kissed unawares, when she has her eyes closed? Or are there different kinds of consent?”

Wally is about to say something, then pauses, reflects. This feminist spear-thrower may have aimed her political dart too correctly: right down Wally’s affirmatively acting throat. “Well. .” he says. “Strictly speaking, no, it’s not true consent, but. .” He struggles, a hint of panic in his eyes.

“I’m not saying it’s a serious type of assault, but wouldn’t it be a very bad precedent? I don’t know if I could play a part in it, your honour. Unless you’re sure that’s what the law says.” She can barely keep the scorn from her voice.

He turns to me for rescue. “There’s a principle that applies to this, isn’t there, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“De minimis non curat lex. The law does not concern itself with trifles.”

Jackson-Blyth will not let up. “Well, if unwanted touching is a trifle — ”

But Kimberley sharply breaks into this disputation, her voice fierce. “Oh, for God’s sake, I wanted him to kiss me. And it wasn’t any trifle.”

Someone gasps. Jackson-Blyth reddens. “I’m sorry,” she says. She looks around at her frowning comrades. “Well, I guess the verdict is not guilty.” They nod. She sits awkwardly, ruffled.

“Very good,” says Wally. “Now, before we adjourn — can I have the jury’s attention?”

They are distracted by Kimberley, who is slowly gaining her feet. She takes a deep breath, regards Jonathan for a moment, then begins to glide out, head high, curls dancing.

“A final word of thanks to you, members of the jury. You have made sacrifices to serve your country, giving up home, family, and workplace….”

No one is listening to this saccharine dirge. They are watching Kimberley make an about-face at the doorway. She smiles gamely, blows a campy kiss to the audience, raises her arms in theatrical surrender, and departs.

“. . I could tell by your faces you had an obvious grip on the issues. . ”

Wally stalls as Jonathan rises and walks quickly up the aisle.

“And, ah, I observed you paid attention throughout. . ”

Heads are turned as Jonathan accelerates towards the door and disappears, sending it shut with a thud.