Blue Moon (21 page)

The outset of that awful day had been brightened once again by a piece of the delicious sultana cake, baked by Constable Rouse's thoughtful wife—an admirer of mine—and presented to me every day by her husband. “Just a tidbit,” Rouse assured the reporter from the
Spectator.
As usual, I greeted Mr. Rigney with a soft “good morning.”

Mr. Sullivan had warned me well in advance that I was to pay no heed to his closing remarks. “I shall say things which I hope will gain the jury's sympathy and thus understanding. It is our only hope.” Even then, I was not prepared for my lawyer's description of me as a creature of a “fertile, overactive intellect” who lived in a self-created fantasy world. Sometimes, he observed, creators of such inner retreats “never grow up, their dream world never disappears.” His client, Mr. Sullivan assured the jury, was young, pretty, photogenic. “Mrs. Dick is basically an escapist who has tried hard to raise her station in life, reaching for a world other than her own.” Thus far in his address, my lawyer could have been defending a writer like Oscar Wilde from the crime of excessive imagination.

Then, he changed his course abruptly, pointing to the lack of any real evidence against me. He tried to suggest Mother was a sort of demented female King Lear who had turned her back on her Cordelia-like only child. I was, he assured the jury, the victim of an unhappy home life, “perhaps not a very good condition for an impressionable girl to grow up in “Then he pointed at me, drew himself up, and proceeded:

“There has been nothing presented by the Crown to show that this little wisp of a woman could have committed the crime by herself, although she may have known of the crime after it was perpetrated. She could neither carry the body nor cut it up. The array of evidence you have heard docs not make the accused a murderess. Although there are some threads connecting her to the case, that is all they are—threads. Meaningless strands. You cannot attribute any motive to her. Money, passion, love? All of these are absent. Why would she have wanted to kill her husband? The Crown has never answered this crucial question.

“Guilty or not guilty? There is a third vie\v—the verdict must be not proven. Unless the Crown has brought home to you, without a shadow of a doubt, that Evelyn Dick is guilty of the murder of her husband—
I say murder
!—I am convinced you will find her not guilty—which only means she has not been proved to be guilty.” An eloquent response to the absurdities presented as evidence.

Mr. Rigney, well aware of the weaknesses in his own case, characterized me as a inherently deceitful person—the artist as liar. “Even her marriage certificate was a deception: she had no right either to the name of White or to the status of widow. A woman
addicted to untruthfulness, she had practised deception even on the day she had exchanged wedding vows with John Dick.”

Mr. Rigney's review of the evidence against me was mild-mannered in comparison to Barlow's charge to the jury. Those twelve men could come to any conclusion they deemed fit, but, he warned them, “any law that there is in this case is for me to judge, and it is my duty to interpret it to you and it is your duty to follow my interpretation of it.” Pausing, and casting a spiteful glance in the direction of Sullivan, he continued: “If in the unlikely event I have made any mistaken rulings in this case or if I misinterpret the law to you in any way, it can be taken care of elsewhere, but not here.”

As far as he was concerned, the Crown had proven its case: “even if you conclude beyond a reasonable doubt that she did not actually shoot John Dick, that someone else shot him and that she aided and abetted in that murder, then she is a principal and she is just as guilty as the person who fired the shot. She is equally guilty.” He added: “You may not think so, but I think she possessed plenty of motive.” With two quick thrusts, Barlow used his authority to puncture Mr. Sullivan's arguments.

The blue sky gave way to a late afternoon apricot glow as the jurors made their way out of the courtroom. I was escorted by the matrons to a dingy back room, where we could smoke and talk. A few hours later, I was told the court would recess until eight in the evening so Barlow could have his supper. I was given nothing to eat. At about nine, the constable came to fetch me: “The jury is ready to report.”

As the constable, matron and myself entered the trial room, I was struck as never before with the contrast between the brightness of the lights in that chamber and the total void of blackness outside. After I seated myself, Mr. Sullivan came to the dock, offered me a chocolate bar, told me he was confident we had won and then took his seat. I consumed the bar quickly, just as Barlow entered the room and was escorted by his array of officialdom to his dais.

The crier announced that the court would now resume. The jurors entered slowly, more deliberately than usual, and, as was not their custom, avoided looking in my direction. I feared the worst. His Lordship warned the audience against any demonstration of emotion.

“Gentlemen of the Jury,” asked the Registrar, “have you agreed upon a verdict?”

We have, sir,” the foreman Mr, Paupst assured him. “We have found the accused guilty, with a recommendation for mercy.” He looked at me, tears welling up. The jury had not reached their sentence lightly.

Barlow interrupted my reflections: “Evelyn Dick, stand up!”

As I got to my feet, so did Mr. Sullivan. The judge would not tolerate this custom in my instance: “Sit down, Mr. Sullivan, please.”

Then turning to me, Barlow asked: “Have you anything to say why sentence should not be passed upon you according to law.”

Although I had not been instructed by my counsel in this matter, I knew justice had not been served. Moreover, I recalled Barlow's comment on the unlikely possibility he might have made any kind of error. Defiantly, I simply stated: “I want my case appealed.”

If he was surprised, Barlow concealed that emotion. He informed the jury: “I don't see how you could have brought in any other verdict based on the evidence presented to you.” Then, looking directly at me, he proceeded in an even voice: “Evelyn Dick, the sentence of this court upon you is that you be taken from here to the place whence you came, and there be kept in close confinement until the 7th of January in the year 1947, and upon that date you be taken to the place of execution and that you there be hanged by the neck until you are dead.” Then the hint of a sneer could be heard in his final sentence: “And may the Lord have mercy upon your soul.”

At my high school, the assembly prayed on my behalf. This offering was prefaced by a remark from the Mother Superior that I had once been a pupil at the school and deserved their “consideration
although a Presbyterian, a person of heinous morals, and someone who never inculcated Loretto values”
John Dick's family was magnanimous: “We hate the sin that has been committed but we do not hate the sinner.” For them, capital punishment was simply the fulfillment of the moral law I had callously broken and that had to be rigorously enforced.

With the police clearing a path for me through the throng and the exploding flash bulbs, I slowly made my way to the waiting car the
night of the verdict. Even after I had settled myself in and was waiting for the driver to take me and matron away, faces pressed themselves against the windows to catch a glimpse of the demon woman who had only now received her just desserts. Against the glass and in semi-darkness, the distorted countenances seemed to promise me their ever-present company in the deepest reaches of hell fire.

Time's
caption was meant to be facetious: “Evelyn Dick: She went too far.” The more sober
Newsweek
was matter-of-fact: “Torso Girl' Sentenced to Hang.” At the Barton Street Jail, I was transferred to a cell at the end of the corridor on the third—the top—floor, which had been isolated for the death watch by a made-to-order steel door. Tiny and windowless, my new room contained only one piece of furniture—a cot. In the corridor outside, on a chair facing the cell, three women kept around-the-clock surveillance in eight-hour shifts. Beyond that seated guard was a barred window, the only way in which I could monitor the weather. My reading was selected for me:
Photoplay
and
True Confessions
magazines. I pleaded for
The New Yorker
and that request was granted, although my wardens were amazed that a denizen of a prison in a medium-sized Canadian city should be interested in reading about the sophisticated goings-on in Manhattan. Books were frowned upon because the matrons did not wish to bother themselves to fetch and return them to the public library.

Before, my high-windowed cell at the Barton Street Jail had been one of several in a long corridor. I could see and easily talk with the occupant of the opposite cell. Now, I had to tell my guards when I wished to be accompanied to the toilet; my bath was at a specified time each day; I took a ten-minute walk outside with the matron on the day shift; my clothes were now prescribed; I took my meals alone on a small card table which was set up and then dismantled; the chair I sat upon to eat was available only at mealtimes. For most of the day, an animal on exhibit in a dreary zoo, I could pace the room or recline on the bed. My only consolation: because my room was brightly lit twenty-four hours a day, I slept in fits and starts and did not dream of the nightmare ride up the Mountain.

I asked Mother and Mr. Sullivan for food to supplement my meagre repasts and received fruit—and the occasional chocolate bar. I eventually added twenty-six pounds to my previous 109: that accomplishment filled columns in the
Spectator
on a regular basis. The
weight gain was seen as divine retribution: I had lost the figure which had been the foundation of my life of crime. By implication, I was a gluttonous person, who now spent her entire existence gratifying herself through her stomach. These were the obvious wages of sin.

For over six months—since the day my lunch on Carrick Avenue had been interrupted by Wood and Preston—I had not seen my daughter. About two weeks after the conclusion of the trial, my mother announced that Heather would accompany her on her next visit. I cannot say I was overjoyed at the prospect of my only child seeing me in such dreary surroundings, but I did wish to see her, touch her. Allison, the matron on duty the day of that visit, was a cheerful soul, a tiny sparrow of uncomplicated, eager friendliness.

At first, I thought Mother had arrived at the appointed time by herself. Then I realized Heather was crouching behind her, hiding herself from my view. Beautifully dressed in a heavy blue wool coat, my daughter had grown slightly taller and looked lovely—my mother had obviously had the little girl's hair professionally styled in Shirley Temple curls.

“My little blue angel,” I called to her. “Doesn't Wee Willie Winkie want to say hello to Mummy?”

Heather peered out from behind my mother and then retreated again. She glanced intently as Allison carried chairs into my cell. When the three of us were alone, Heather agreed to sit in the chair closest to mine.

“Mummy is so pleased to see her little lady.”

Heather said nothing, occasionally turning around to search my mother's face.

Mother seemed embarrassed, a rare state of being for her. “Heather now calls me Mummy. She refers to you as Mother.”

“How has that come about?”

“Well, Evelyn, every little girl has to have a Mummy who stays with her every day. She started to call me that, and I did not forbid her from doing so.”

“What a wonderful reversal. You've been working on that change for a long time, well before John Dick arrived on the scene.”

By now, Mother was angry. She could never bear even the slightest allocation of guilt. “You've never shown much interest in her. You're an unnatural mother, interested only in yourself, your own pleasures.”

“Ah, but you devised those so-called pleasures. Some would say you were the unnatural mother. Like mother, like daughter.”

This conversation, conducted in the most seemly, lady-like manner, quickly reached its climax. I indicated to Allison that my mother and daughter had unexpected obligations to which they must attend immediately. The interview concluded, I picked up the little girl in my arms, kissed her and bid her adieu. “Good-bye, Mother,” she whispered as she hurriedly wiggled out of my arms. As soon as the cell door was closed, Heather took Mother's hand in hers.

“Heather's a gorgeous child, such a little lady,” Allison assured me a minute later as she resumed her seat in front of me. I never beheld the flesh of my flesh again.

I launched the appeal in order to save my skin. I have to be frank about that, but I did have other sentiments. I felt defiant. I had not committed the crimes of which I was accused, and I was certain I had been found guilty because I was a fallen woman, who must bear the weight of the crimes she has unleashed in her community.

I was angry at the mysterious person—my former patron—who had set in track the series of events that had led to John Dick's death and in whose service my father—who had obviously dismembered the corpse—had been engaged. I was curious. Since I remained certain my father had not pulled the trigger of the gun, I vaguely hoped that the identity of the shooter—and thus his boss—would be revealed at a new trial. I also wanted to revenge myself on Barlow, who, Sullivan assured me, had made some atrocious judgements for which he could be rendered culpable on appeal. I cannot say I had any abstract sense that the cause of justice had been trampled upon, but that concern may have been operating at an unconscious level.

As soon as I was found guilty, the joint trial of my father and Bill Bohozuk resumed before Mr. Justice George Urquhart. On 17 October, the second day of those proceedings, I was summoned to testify. A drenching rain did nothing to forestall the huge crowd who sought admission to the courthouse that day. At three o'clock in the afternoon, I entered the chamber, glanced in Bill's direction, noticed my father's misty eyes, and took the witness stand. When the court registrar held up his Bible, I told him to put it down.