April Fool (7 page)

“I will be there to support her,” Mr. Beauchamp is saying.

“Will you be defending her in person, sir?” asks the interviewer.

“No, it is always a wise practice to hire lawyers for this sort of thing. I am a simple farmer.” Faloon knows he'll have to give up on any daydreams that Mr. Beauchamp will come to his rescue.

 

6

A
rthur rises late after a night of tossing, of dreaming of Margaret as a tree, growing out of sight. He grabs a suit and tie from the recesses of his closet, then races to his Fargo, hoping he won't miss the early ferry. He finds time to buy a muffin from the Winnebagel, the ferry roadside stand, because the boat is late by twenty minutes: a problem with the engines this time.

As the
Queen of Prince George
limps toward the dock, he examines his suit for moth damage. He finds none, but it's unfamiliar wear, he feels strange in it. He forgot his brogues; he'd slipped on his worn loafers. Again he wonders if his brain is not working to former capacity.

On the upper deck, armed with a cup of glutinous coffee from the dispensing machine, Arthur tamps tobacco into his pipe and watches the gulls glide in the slipstream. He wonders how long this hiatus in his comfortable routines will last. He will soon tire of tofu. Again he chides himself. Margaret will be eating dried cereal for twenty-one days, while putting up with a buffoon. (How are their sleeping quarters set up? He'd like to see the blueprints for this platform.)

The affidavits filed by Selwyn Loo, whom Arthur has yet to meet, seem competently prepared, but he's had his ticket for only six years. “We're green but mean,” said the spike-haired imp, Lotis Rudnicki. She has ginger, stood toe-to-toe with the
right-wing opposition, the shallow icon Arthur Beauchamp. A former actress, he's learned, minor Hollywood roles.

For now, Arthur has decided against hiring an old hand–he doesn't want to be seen as demanding special attention for Margaret. Nor would she want it.

It's Friday, day two of the Battle of the Gap. The loggers are still waiting by the trail. Reporters are squeezing out every saccharine droplet of human interest: Felicity, grounded but in a state of doe-eyed devotion for her Lord Byron, and a stuffed shirt stoutly defending his tree-hugging wife. Yesterday, Arthur escaped from a TV crew on his old John Deere.

He hopes the judge will be fair-tempered, and not one of the many he offended in the course of boisterous debate. He hasn't been in a courtroom for years, but feels the old tension, his heart working harder. He tells himself to relax, he will be but a spectator today.

 

Chugging down the street to a loud thrum of engine–his muffler is loose–Arthur arrives in the capital of British Columbia. Victoria is lush with flowering plum and cherry trees, gardeners sprucing up the boulevards for the Americans and Japanese who will flock here in season to imbibe the floral gardens, winding streets, and tea rooms serving scones and Devonshire cream.

The courthouse is a drab, boxy affair, six storeys on half a city block. Arthur has defended many cases here, but he can't bring any quickly to mind: yes, the bribery scandal, of course. The Beacon Park murder. But his triumphs are starting to lose shape, to blur in memory.

He hurries through a side door, avoiding the news cameras at the front. He utters a mild epithet on reading the posted docket: Edward Santorini is presiding in contested chambers–former chief Crown Attorney, loser of five straight murders against him. One time, while racked with a ferocious hangover, Arthur lashed out at Santorini, called him a horse's ass.

He glances over the criminal list, sees Nicholas Faloon's name, murder in the first degree, Provincial Courtroom 5. The crush of events has squeezed Faloon from his thoughts–this must be the mental fitness hearing.

Brian Pomeroy was on the answering machine: “I'll do what I can, Arthur, but I'm afraid Nick's deoxyribonucleic acid was found in a most inconvenient place.” Arthur is pleased Brian jumped to the task but dismayed that somehow–impossibly, absurdly–the DNA fingerprinting found a match in Faloon. He wonders if there'll be time to pop down to the criminal courts. But in the meantime he's late for the Gwendolyn hearing.

Todd Clearihue is in the corridor, speaking to a reporter, promoting Garlinc's case but seeming anxious to return to court. He beats Arthur to the door, cracks it open. “They got started twenty minutes ago.” A friendly punch on the arm. “Hey, Arthur, I know we'll be toking the peace pipe when this is all over. Listen, help me. Who's the looker working your side? Damn, she's familiar.”

“Lotis Rudnicki. The young lady you picked up hitchhiking.”
Sorry I couldn't fulfill your fantasies.

Clearihue blanches.

The room is crowded–mostly environmentalists, Arthur supposes. Counsel for Garlinc is Paul Prudhomme, a silver-haired patrician, old money, privately schooled, unambitious. He is fielding questions from the judge.

“Why can't you go around that tree?”

Prudhomme is about to answer but is distracted by Arthur striding up the aisle–the grand entrance is an old habit, a show of control and confidence. He exchanges nods with Prudhomme, with Santorini, and eases his creaking back onto a chair behind lynx-eyed Lotis Morningstar Rudnicki. She looks almost unrecognizable in a chic pantsuit, with her hair brushed. No wonder Clearihue had trouble placing her. Beside her is an angular young man in a long ponytail, obviously Selwyn Loo. Arthur is confounded to see a white
cane at his table. Dark glasses. The blindfold chess champion.

Selwyn turns to him, as if aware of his nearness through highly tuned senses. Arthur leans forward, but before he can introduce himself, Selwyn says, “Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp.”

“How did you know?”

“I've heard you smoke a pipe.”

Arthur's suit must smell of it, the pipe in his pocket. He earns a brisk handshake, then cannot retreat as Selwyn tugs him into a chair at counsel table, whispering, “I need all the help I can get–the judge is a nincompoop.”

Prudhomme struggles to pick up where he left off. “As I was saying…”

“Before you say what you were saying, what if the eagles raise a family in that tree? That's their only argument that I can see.” Santorini is cranky. “You can't do in their nest.”

“Milord, we've done helicopter searches, dozens of passes over two days, and no eagle has been seen in that tree. There's an old nest, but it has been without tenants for years. I think you'll find the relevant material in affidavit J.”

Selwyn stands. “Surely, the nest is protected under section 34 even if it has been abandoned for a decade…”

“Mr. Loo, we already had that argument, and I'm against you. It's absurd to think a valuable timber tree can't be harvested because there's an old, falling-apart nest in it. No, I'll need some proof it's a viable nest. Eggs, Mr. Loo, I need to see eggs.”

“The eggs might come along a lot sooner, milord, if we put a stop to these so-called aerial searches, which seem intended to scare the eagles away. Has your Lordship had a chance to look at the counter-petition filed this morning?”

Santorini is not on top of things, and shuffles through his file. “Counter…Yes, let's see, you want to restrain these flights–why? They're just bird-watching, in a manner of speaking.”

“Because it's not a search, it's deliberate harassment of eagles to prevent them from nesting.”

Santorini frowns over the Wildlife Act, then turns again to Prudhomme. “Why is this tree such a bother? Can't they go in some other way? Over the hill?”

“If your Lordship will look at the topographical map, appended to Exhibit M, you will see what an imposing task that is. According to the engineer's report, it's hugely expensive and would be environmentally destructive.”

“And we wouldn't want that.” Selwyn's barbed tone. Arthur wonders how long he's been without sight–has he ever seen nature in her glory? He tries to imagine absorbing beauty through other, enhanced senses, the chatter of wrens, the smell of the humid forest, the feel of a fern leaf.

“What about going in by barge from the ocean,” Santorini says. “At least until after nesting season. Or have you thought of helicopter logging? I know something about this, I worked on a few logging crews in my time, summer jobs–I didn't get my degree handed on a silver platter.”

Prudhomme explains politely how each of these helpful hints, in turn, are prohibitively dear.

“What about this business with all the air traffic around the nest, they say you're trying to scare the eagles.” He abruptly focuses on Arthur. “What's your position, Mr. Beauchamp?”

“I would be delighted to state my position were I counsel, milord. However–happily for the defendants–I'm not.” But he cannot resist: “The rule, as your Lordship is abundantly aware, is that the applicant must come to court with clean hands.”

“Are you asking me to assume they're trying to forcibly evict a bird?”

“A pair of them. I can attest to having seen them, in fact. As my affidavit indicates, they were showing the typical indicia of being in love.”

“Didn't know you were such an expert, Arthur.”

“In birds or love?”

Poorly smothered laughter from Lotis Rudnicki. Maybe she thinks it's absurd that this old gaffer might be an expert on love.
Proving she's capable of the sin of compromise, at least in a courtroom, there's no lip ring, no gel in the hair.

Santorini is chuckling too. “Well, the real question is whether those eagles are nesting there or not. I'm going to adjourn this for a couple of days. I want a sighting–not just an eagle, a nesting eagle, eggs–and I'd like photographs.”

After adjournment, Santorini's clerk corrals the lawyers. “The judge wants to see counsel. Especially you, Mr. Beauchamp.” She leans to his ear. “Even in those shoes.”

Arthur reluctantly parades behind the others, finds Ed Santorini at his desk in shirtsleeves, his feet up, a benign smile that hides an intention to talk hard business.

“You're looking in great shape, Arthur. Ten years younger than when I last saw you, if you want the truth. Must be the country air. Goddamn, come here, you old son of a bitch.” He stands, and Arthur moves toward him with hand extended, but is met by the full Italian embrace. “Best fucking lawyer on these Pacific shores. Bruised me up a few times.”

“You're looking remarkably ageless yourself, Ed.”

“I don't want any jokes about bald eagles.”

“Nonsense, you look good without your feathers.”

Santorini laughs again. “You reprobate. Hey, as we were carrying on in there, I started wondering, How do those birds mate on the wing? Must be something to see.” Selwyn Loo smiles pleasantly as a heavy silence sets in.

Santorini resumes his seat, procoeeds briskly. “Okay, I'm not going to detain anyone, I just want this thing settled as painlessly as possible. Arthur, you've got your wife up that tree. Good-looking woman, from the pictures I've seen, and I'll bet she's a hell of a great gal. I don't want her arrested–I don't want anyone arrested here–and I don't want anyone thrown in jail or fined. I just want those people off that tree, eagles or not, and I'm going to insist there be no logging until we straighten that out.”

“What about the air surveillance, sir?” says Selwyn.

“Okay, I want to be fair, let's hold off on that for a while. Any problems with that, Paul?”

Prudhomme agrees to advise his clients to comply.

“And in that spirit, let's see if the defendants can bend a little too, climb down from their perch. Will you talk to them, Arthur?”

“What do you suggest I say?” He wants to tell Santorini that Margaret Blake doesn't climb down from anything easily.

“Christ, Arthur, use your famous velvet tongue, explain to your good wife I'm letting her off the hook–the other guy as well. I'll protect their interests as long as they cooperate with me.”

To Arthur, that sounds of disguised bullying. “Communications are not simple. One shouts.”

“Heard you do it many times.”

Twenty years ago, for instance, in open court–Arthur can't remember all the words he used in describing Santorini. Only the expression
horse's ass
lingers.

“Eddie, I do not intend to counsel persons, whether they be clients, friends, or wives, by shouting into half the nation's microphones.”

“Then go up the tree on that…what have they got, a rope ladder?” Santorini's bonhomie has faded under Arthur's gently scornful gaze, and he is flustered now, aware he is making demands that are patently unreasonable.

“Perhaps I could swing like Tarzan through the boughs.”

Lotis Rudnicki snorts with laughter. Santorini forces a stiff smile, studies her for a moment. “You're sure we haven't met, Miss Rudnicki?”

“Not in the flesh, milord.”

The comment demands elaboration, but Santorini opts not to seek it. “Arthur, I take it you're not involved in this…this escapade. The plaintiff alleges a conspiracy, I'd hate to see you named in a writ. Along with whoever built that platform.”

He stands. “Okay, we'll use the weekend as a cooling-off time and meet again on Monday. No, I have a judges'seminar. Tuesday. I want a response to my offer of clemency. I don't care how you lay down the law to your wife, Arthur, but I don't want to see her with a criminal record.”