April Fool (19 page)

A few minutes later, Selwyn Loo comes into view, walking slowly, his cane ticking against rock and root. Reverend Al is beside him, offering no aid but his voice. “Straight ahead.”

The media part as if for Moses, affording Selwyn clear passage to the tree. A wholesale sucking-in of breath as he nearly trips on a buttress root. A collective exhalation as his hands go to the gnarled, knobbed bark of the ancient fir.

His fingers find a teardrop of sticky sap, which he puts to nose and tongue. He cocks his head, seems to be listening to the tree, as if to hear it breathe. The moment is shattered beautifully by a piercing note, a flicker flying by. He kneels and finds a newly fallen cone, thick with seed, which he spends a moment fondling, then pockets. “Good afternoon, everyone,” he says.

This is an almost transcendental moment for Arthur. He feels something powerful welling from him, like love. For Selwyn, for Gwendolyn, for the primal splendour of this forest. For the mystery of life itself. He resists an urge to join Selwyn at that tree, to put his arms around it, to hear it breathe, find its cone, its seed, its offering.

 

Arthur denies himself a second helping of stew–unless he gets a grip on his appetite, he will soon resemble Barney, the farting horse. An alcoholic may occasionally cut a romantic figure, but nobody loves a glutton.

Selwyn begged off staying the night, but enjoyed–in his manner, ever dour and long of face–a Blunder Bay walkabout. As they wandered along the paths, a solitary eagle flew
in slow, grave circles above them. “They mate for life,” Selwyn said. He continues to suspect Garlinc shot one of the pair. He apologized for his gloom. “Depressive episode.”

Lotis took him to the ferry. Despite her frequent chiding of this morose fellow, her feelings for him, Arthur suspects, go beyond simple friendship. Beyond affection, maybe even to the barren wastelands of love not returned.

“Scene five, how she spent her summer holidays.” Lotis hoists a tray with bowls of stew for Stoney and Dog, who are in the barn, celebrating–the Fargo has been pulled from the pond. “Call 911 if I'm not back in five.”

He follows her out. A nippy evening, with stars and a burgeoning moon. In less difficult times, he and Margaret would be strolling to Blunder Point under that moon, their after-dinner ritual, with Slappy, his diligent inspection of every rock and bush and turd.

Lotis emerges from the barn waving away smoke. “Whoa, I got a contact high just walking in there. We're going for a walk, want to come?”
We
includes Slappy, who came home today, charmed by Lotis. Maybe there's a smell that she and Margaret share, something brave and rebellious, a smell that tells the old dog he'll have adventures with them.

On the way, Lotis doesn't try to break Arthur's silence, and the only sounds are footfalls and snapping twigs, and Slappy behind them, sniffing and snorting.

Where the trail takes a short, steep upturn, Arthur absently takes Lotis's hand. “Let's not twist any ankles this time, my dear.”

“What?”

His mind has become a wandering fool. “Mental slip, sorry.”

“You're totally hopeless without her, aren't you?”

 

16

B
ecause all the rooms in the Victoria courthouse are taken, the disclosure hearing takes place in a study area of the law library. Arthur has Lotis at his side; Buddy Svabo sits alone, looking pugnacious. Judge Iris Takahashi is here to arbitrate, Arthur's former student, dimly remembered. On the other side of a glass partition, wandering around the stacks with a briefcase, is Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn.

Arthur is cross, depressed–Munni Sidhoo, the biotechnology professor, worked all weekend on the semen sample, and her result, no surprise, has Faloon's DNA floating about in the biochemical mix. A long shot that didn't pay off.

“We seek to examine,” Arthur says, “the dirty underwear my learned friend has been loath to disclose. He claims to enjoy the services of a jailhouse snitch.”

“My witness is a Crown informant. By long-standing rule, I don't have to divulge his name.”

“Nonsense,” says Arthur. “He will be called to give evidence. He won't be wearing a bag over his head.”

“This person is in jail awaiting sentence, he's at risk if he's exposed.”

“You'll have to make safe arrangements for him,” says Takahashi. “Counsel is entitled to know who he is and what he intends to say.”

“How is it the defence gets everything and gives nothing?” Buddy's exasperation is poorly feigned. “Okay, you've got me
on the ropes. Father Yvon Réchard of the Holy Roman Church–more of a saintly soul than you expected, eh, Artie?”

“And how does he find himself behind bars?”

Buddy shrugs. “One of those Indian residential school things. Thirty years later, a bunch of guys decide to complain. They're grown up now, you'd think they'd want to put this behind them.”

“Put what behind them?”

“Well, Father Réchard…” To give him credit, Buddy reddens as he grapples for a safe way to answer. “He's up for seven counts of sexual assault.”

“Which you intend to prosecute with faint heart.” Arthur wonders how strong his own heart is, he shouldn't get riled. But he finds his voice rising. “Or maybe not at all–is that the deal you made? You'd swap the ruined lives of seven men for perjured testimony?” As Arthur slaps the table, lawyers in the library turn from their studies. Jasper Flynn, standing among the legal texts, glances up, stiffens, as if ready to go into action. Lotis looks surprised to see that the icon has a temper.

Buddy has raised his hands defensively, as if protecting his head. “Hey, hold on, Artie, if he gets a cheaper sentence for co-operating, that's up to the judge, I'm neutral.”

Doubtless a deal not made on paper, but with winks and nudges between Svabo and counsel for the priest: a suspended sentence, probation. Arthur must sit down with his client, must garner information on this pedophiliac.

Buddy hands out copies of Réchard's statement. A mere three paragraphs, in a neat hand on lined paper. He occupied a cell adjacent to Nick's. They often shared a table at mealtime. They talked about religion and philosophy. The priest believed Faloon was a Catholic–“fallen, like myself, so far from grace.”

Arthur picks up a hint of Milton in that line. The final paragraph, the nub of this jailhouse confession, is less poetic, just as pious: “I felt something was bothering poor Nick because he
had been sleepwalking in his cell. I asked him if he wished to relieve himself of any troubles. He shook his head, and I didn't press it. But that night I heard him whispering to me from the next cell. He said, ‘I couldn't help it. She was beautiful. I just couldn't help myself, I couldn't help myself.' His voice trailed off as he repeated that. I felt it my duty to come forward.”

“Short and sweet,” says Buddy, trying to look virtuous.

“He felt it his duty to come
forward
?” Arthur raises his voice again. “The very forward Reverend Réchard, is it? If the man has no compunction about betraying the confessional, why should we assume he's honest at all? I can hardly wait, Buddy. I am chomping at the bit. I want the jury to see how desperate you are.”

“I have to call whatever evidence comes my way, Artie, that's my job.”

“Whom did he come forward
to
? I want every word of every interview that led to this. I want every piece of paper you've got on this fellow.”

“Not. Can someone tell me why we're even here?” A testy, aggrieved tone. “The case is tight–we've got DNA, you guys are looking at a ten-billion-to-one shot. Faloon is going to do it all, the freaking
book
, and he can forget parole.” His temperature is up, his face red. “How are you doing with those new tests, Artie? What about
our
rights to disclosure? I'll eat my shirt if the results don't spell Faloon in neon.”

“The presence of the defendant's DNA has been confirmed.”

“Bam. Case closed.” Buddy punches the air, causing Takahashi to jump. “Cop a plea, Artie, let's get this stinker buried. You've got no idea the pressure I'm under from some lobby groups.”

Feminist groups, he might have said, were he not aware of Takahashi giving him a cold eye. “Let's get on with this,” she says. “I have a continuation.”

Arthur moves to the issue of Dr. Winters's files. He doesn't mention Adeline Angella. The defence, he explains, merely seeks to know if any patients harboured a murderous delusion or grudge. “Why is the prosecution balking at producing her records? It causes suspicion to bloom like the flowers of spring.”

Buddy acts offended. “These are peoples' emotional lives we're talking about, they came to her expecting she would keep their secrets.”

“And carry them to the grave?”

“You want the moon–Dr. Winters practised a dozen years, we're talking several hundred people with painful traumas.” Buddy turns to Takahashi. “It's a fishing expedition, and he's looking for a red herring.”

“What do you say to that, Arthur?”

“We have a particular fish in mind.”

“Yeah, who?” says Buddy.

Arthur can't believe he's pretending ignorance–doesn't he know Doctor Eve was consulted by Lorelei, the temptress?
A desperate need to examine her sexuality.

“You should produce the files, Buddy,” Takahashi says.

Buddy had hoped to win at least a draw. He looks at Sergeant Flynn, raises his arms in supplication. Flynn puts down a text, picks up his briefcase, and walks ponderously to their room.

“This shark is beating me to a pulp, Jasper. Give him the files.”

Flynn hands Arthur a disc. “This is everything, sir. What Dr. Winters didn't keyboard in, our techies scanned.”

Arthur is distrustful of the wizardry that supplanted copiers. Does information remain errorless when it has passed through the innards of a computer, digested, digitized, shat out? He asks for a printed list of patients. Buddy greets that with a sigh of such anguish you'd think he'd been ordered to strip naked. He lifts a weary hand toward Flynn, who produces a computer printout, about forty pages.

Arthur looks at the second page–between a G. Anfield and a P. Annhauser, there's an A. Angella. He leafs through the remaining pages with no change of expression.

“This was compiled how?”

“From the deceased's index cards,” Flynn says.

“I'm sorry, people,” says Takahashi, packing her notes away. “I can't keep my courtroom waiting.”

Buddy rises. “Anything else you need, Artie, I'm always happy to oblige.”

As the others pack up, Lotis gives Arthur an exaggerated look of dumb surprise. The name Angella has been overlooked by the techies in the course of their scanning and keyboarding. Maybe computers have made cops lazy. Unless Svabo's blustering hides a dramatic talent, he has no clue that Angella is holding back critical information.

Lotis sums it up. “Angella doesn't want the bulls to know she screamed blue murder at Dr. Winters.”

Brian Pomeroy picked up her anxiety about testifying–unusual given her enjoyment of the spotlight. But the searchlight of suspicion glares fiercely too, and she must have hoped Flynn's team lacked the patience to read Winters's files. They have their killer; why put in the extra hours?

Arthur says, “I take it you are adept with a computer.” Why would he think otherwise?–this young smarty knows everything else about the modern world.

Predictably, Lotis pulls a notebook computer from her pack, flicks it open, slides in the disc. After a few moments and a few cascading screens, she types “Angella.” The computer tells her, “Not found.” Lotis sweeps hair from her forehead, puzzled.

Here is Jonas Anfield, who doesn't know how to tell his wife to stop having affairs behind his back. The next file isn't Adeline Angella but Penny Annhauser, whose boyfriend hates dogs and she loves them.

Arthur has underestimated Svabo's duplicity. “We have caught them red-handed, concealing information from us.
They have spirited away the Angella file but forgot her name was also in the card index. It explains why our lightweight friend seemed a little jittery.”

“That may not be the actual scenario.” Her impish smile.

“What other possibility is there?”

“The other possibility is that we already have that file. Dr. Winters left it with her lawyer, your misogynist pal Cleaver. He gave it to us at El Beau Room, remember?” Apologetic, as if embarrassed to witness the deterioration of the icon's mental faculties.

He harrumphs. “Yes, of course. I have it at home. Yes, that helps explain why Svabo hasn't twigged.”

But how telling it is that Angella didn't share with Buddy her history with Winters, her furious demands for redress. As for Père Réchard, Lotis will run out to the jail with a copy of his statement, and will ask Faloon for his version.

They pause by the table where Jasper Flynn was reading a text. Lotis picks it up: the current edition of
Canadian Divorce Law
.

“Troubles on the home front,” she says.

That takes Arthur where he doesn't want to go, his own prosaic, snapless marriage. The worms of paranoia keep finding new places to dig at him. This morning, over coffee, he was haunted by an unsavory vignette: Margaret and Cud sharing confidences, intimacies. He's not simply a lout with a Hogarthian appetite. He turns out to have a coarse, homespun charm. When one pokes hard, one finds little tender areas, he's sensitive beneath his baboonish exterior. A decade younger than her, virile, needy.
You're not going to tell your old man, I hope? No, of course not.

What is the matter with him, what causes all these improbable imaginings? It's the Annabelle Syndrome. She twisted his psyche with her constant scavenging of handsome men, caused a permanent warp, something complex and crippling. Acute jealous anxiety disorder, little understood.

He reminds himself to call a casualty of another troubled home front, Brian Pomeroy, who has been leaving fulminating messages, his marital crisis worsened by his evening with Angella. The untimely call from Caroline, who overheard Angella's chiding tones and her “Ouch, your knee,” has slammed shut the door of reconciliation.

Now comes Arthur's first use of the evil cellphone as Lotis steps him through his call to Brian, who receives the news of the day with grunts of interest, then begins to rail.

“I'm suing for access if she doesn't cough them up this weekend.
Easter
is coming up, for Christ's sake. I want to take them camping. Caroline would prefer to keep them at home in front of the tube, scarfing junk food while she marks her students' puerile essays on Benét and Auden and Spender.”

Arthur waits until this eruption is done. He has learned it's never wise to offer family advice, especially to friends. Nor does he intend to plead Brian's case to Caroline, who is as bright and brittle as her husband. He suspects Brian savours being wronged, the nobility of it–a spy on the rack, refusing to confess his clandestine role on behalf of an innocent man. (Yet there is intensity in his marriage. It breaks, it mends; over many separations and reunions, it stays alive. If there's romance in conflict, Arthur's a drab lover.)

“Adeline Angella, at least,
is
talking to me. She phoned last night, offended–why hadn't I held to my breathless departing promise to call her? I told her she was very much on my mind. When I see her next, it's in public, with witnesses.”

Brian will find a pretext to ask where she was on April 1–if she has an alibi, it's best to know early. If it's a false alibi, the defence must prepare to counter it. If it's honest, the defence must shift targets.

 

After helping Edna Sproule with a breech birth, Arthur runs to the house to clean up, then rushes to the ferry to pick up Lotis, fresh from her visit to Faloon. She heaves her packsack
over the tailgate, lights a cigarette, and they head off. She has finally got a haircut, now she can see.