I'll See You in My Dreams: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel (37 page)

He didn't storm off. Remained quite still, in fact, eyes large as if in surprise – or a surge of relief?

I felt encouraged. I parroted Smitty's pitch: our bleak outlook, the expected hanging address from the judge, a jury in thrall to a foreman whose brother was a Mountie. I tried to describe the negotiations in as neutral a way as possible, though I delicately left out the bits about the emasculation of my promising career. I told him the Crown could get soft on the twenty years. In any event, such a stiff sentence could be appealed. Early parole could be sought.

A flicker of annoyance – I was trying too hard to sell this. “What about the truth, Arthur? What about my right to take the stand and tell the truth?”

“Okay, there's an enormous amount to explain. How your prints got in Dermot's wallet. Why you begged Monique to alibi for you. We can't corroborate your account of being in your cabin all afternoon. That you were absorbed in Dermot's memoir has unfortunate connotations, given the prosecution's vengeance theory.”

“What is your estimate of my chances?”

“Not in our favour.”

“Spell it out bluntly.”

My spelling out was sterile, formal. “A verdict of capital murder is more likely than an acquittal. Hammersmith will likely curtail
the options of non-capital murder or manslaughter, based on your testimony that you weren't present. Your word against Lorenzo's on that issue. If they believe him, they will believe you killed with intent and will convict you of capital murder.” Gabriel's searing gaze didn't falter. “If I can get them down substantially from twenty, I will likely recommend this deal. It's your right to seek another opinion. I could ask Harry Rankin to see you.”

“I didn't level with you about a couple of things. Is that why you're giving up on me, for not being straight with you?”

“I am bloody well
not
giving up on you.” That was so vehement it sounded false.

Gabriel contemplated one of the barred windows, as if assessing his chances – Deer Lake was out there, a swim to freedom. Or maybe he didn't want me to see his struggle to control himself. “What would I admit to?”

“You would say nothing. Simply plead to the manslaughter indictment.”

“The judge has to know what I did. He doesn't sentence in a vacuum.”

“A sufficiently ambiguous recital of facts will have to be filed. It remains to be worked out,”

“How about … when I caught Dermot masturbating, I kicked him into the fucking river. How does that sound? Would you like me to admit to something like that?” The sarcasm suggested the fuse had been lit. “Is that recital of facts ambiguous enough, Arthur?” He was half out of his chair. “For Christ's sake, do
you
think I killed Dermot Mulligan?”

Instead of hedging with the standard disclaimer
(what I think doesn't matter)
, I simply asked, “Did you kill Dermot Mulligan?”

He didn't explode but visibly deflated, as if he'd taken a punch. Wearily he shook his head several times. He wasn't just expressing denial, I think now, forty-nine years later. There was also bafflement, disillusion. Shock at my betrayal.

From “Where the Squamish River Flows,”
A Thirst for Justice
, © W. Chance

WE MUST CREDIT BEAUCHAMP for staying relatively sober that week, despite the crushing pressures on him, despite the sense of timidity and guilt he must have felt. Most of the pressure came from his bosses, who believed he'd engineered the plea bargain of the decade and were dismayed that he'd told the client not to make a rush decision.

I believe Beauchamp when he says their cajolery had no effect on him. I believe it because he needed no help in pursuing a course he'd committed himself to, after what he claimed was a nebulous reaction from Swift. (Beauchamp wouldn't relate this privileged conversation, but a note dictated to his file reads:
G to think over, 2 days.)

Moore could sense the pain he felt, and was somewhat forgiving. “I may have unfairly accused him of not having the
cojones
to go all the way,” she told me. “Arthur persuaded himself – and finally me as well, I guess – that he was ethically bound to put the best interests of an innocent client ahead of any duty to defend when execution was a plausible outcome. It is a touchy issue, with ethical considerations.”

Beauchamp had to battle his own conscience, of course, and swallow the bile that rose whenever he thought of Knepp, Jettles, and Lorenzo swigging beers around the barbecue pit, congratulating themselves for putting that lippy Indian where he belonged. But our hero also sought refuge in doubt – maybe Swift did do it, maybe manslaughter was indeed a victory – and he even indulged in the fantasy of Swift pumping his hand in thanks when it was all over.

Much of Beauchamp's difficulty arose from the bond he'd allowed to develop with his client. Even as he speculated
about his innocence, he admired him, envied him for qualities he himself lacked: the passion, the rebel spirit, the pride in who he was. Beauchamp couldn't live with the thought of losing him to another Arthur, Canada's pseudonymous hangman.

So he didn't sit by idly as Swift thought it over: he began a diligent campaign to sway him. His primary strategy was to make the deal more palatable. He was repeatedly on the phone with Smythe-Baldwin, begging for something to show his client he was actually working for him, seeking to bargain him down from eighteen years – the Crown's alleged final offer – to less than half of that.

The second leg of his campaign was to recruit allies. He sent a Tragger, Inglis driver up to the Cheakamus Reserve to fetch Bill and Celia Swift to his office. One must assume he was at his most eloquent, because later they spent ninety minutes with their son at Oakalla. Beauchamp also got a letter from the grieving widow urging leniency, a powerful and emotional appeal that can be read on my website.

But the key to getting the client aboard was Jim Brady, the young man's other mentor and father figure. Beauchamp spent a long Saturday evening with Brady and his wife at their home …

A
n old frame house in the heart of working-class Vancouver, not far from the
CN
yards. Jim had been unavailable earlier – feuding with raiding Steelworkers – but insisted I come for a dinner of fresh sockeye. He and his wife, Grace, were outside, slow-smoking the fish in a pit of cedar chips, when I arrived with a dozen each of Pilsner and roses. The three of us gathered by a backyard picnic table.

I had them laughing over my red-baiting episodes, but when Grace said, “Now you're one of us,” I felt a chill.
Us
was the Communist Party, and I had a sense of it, even in those post-Stalin years, as a disciplined secret religion, a persecuted sect. Grace was the
CP'S
provincial treasurer. She and Jim had met at a Party convention back East. She was Montreal Jewish.

I was hiding my anxiety. Gabriel seemed not in a compromising mood; he'd been threatened with a stay in isolation after his loud and scathing lecture to a visiting priest about the res schools. He knew he must decide by Sunday at noon to either gamble with his life or take a plea. Fifteen years, less parole, less time off for good behaviour – that was Smitty's most recent final offer. I'd begged him to go down to nine, but he was constrained by the Attorney General's concern over political implications. Had Mr. Bonner read the gracious, forgiving letter penned by Irene Mulligan? Smitty assured me it would be on the
AG'S
desk in the morning.

The mosquitoes were out, so Jim, Grace, and I retreated to their kitchen table – their small home lacked a dining room – with our salmon and fixings and beers. I'd had a couple, just enough to embolden me to make my pitch, and I did that with clarity and reason, but also with the unflappability of a claims adjustor weighing the risks for Mutual of Omaha. But I was too cool and detached for the Bradys, too unimpassioned. Their body language told me I wasn't making much headway.

I'd seen similarly unreadable faces on Bill and Celia earlier that day, but both ultimately let their masks drop. Celia's eyes went damp with relief and she crossed herself; she'd been sure they were going to put her son in the grave. Bill weighed in with the usual refrain: “He's alive, that slick professor. He faked his death.” Gabriel listened in silence, did not commit himself.

My dissertation in the Bradys' little kitchen was followed by an awkward silence, broken by a haunting train whistle. Grace got up to make tea. Jim played with his empty long-neck Pilsner bottle, casually spinning it on the oilcloth-covered table. When it came to a rest, its mouth pointed accusingly at me.

“What are the chances he will be hanged?” he asked.

“Too high. You saw them in court – Knepp and Lorenzo.”

“It was obvious they were colluding in a lie.”

“That wasn't so obvious to the judge and jury.”

“But it's obvious to you, Arthur.” He sat back, frowning. “Or is it?”

“I'm certain they were lying. But Gabriel lied as well. That is a matter of record. Also – I measure my words – his accounts to his own lawyers have not always been consistent.”

Grace was staring at the kettle, urging it to boil, but she picked up that her husband was watching her for a reaction, and returned him a troubled look. I had a sense they much valued each other's advice.

“So you're not entirely sure he's innocent.”

“I'm not sure if that's the point.”

“Do you believe he's not guilty?” Not letting up. He'd done many labour arbitrations, knew something about cross-examining.

I spoke honestly. “He may well be innocent. I expect he is. A great crime may have been committed against him”

“And if he rejects the plea bargain?”

“I will continue to defend him as best I can. I will put him on the stand. But there will be no political theatre. I will not let him portray himself as a brave communist martyr taking on the fascist state.”

Jim winced. I had the cynical thought that was a scenario the
CP
might prefer: Gabriel expendable, a tactical sacrifice to advance more significant goals. The organizational hallmark of communist
parties the world over was their discipline. And that's actually what I was counting on.

“If they convict, he can appeal,” Jim said. “Right up to the Supreme Court of Canada.”

I sighed. “And after years of appeals, a fresh trial, more appeals, he could be out on parole.” I slapped a hand on the table, spoke with emotion. “Damn it, I'm fond of Gabriel. I admire him, I am
awed
by him. I see something of genius in him. I want him to live. He will survive jail. He has an unbounded future after that.” Abandoning caution, I added, “He will be of immeasurably less value to the Party as a dead martyr than as a great leader and thinker.”

Jim brooded, flushed as if ashamed. As Grace brought the tea, he rose and mumbled something about duties elsewhere. I took that to mean bathroom duties, but he closed the door to the living room and I heard him talking, presumably on the telephone.

Grace took over. “Even if he loses all his appeals, they could commute a death sentence. Like young Truscott.”

“And he'd spend his life in jail.”

“Can you appeal a conviction based on a guilty plea?”

“No, not really.”

I hadn't mentioned the attack on him by the White Clansmen. That would distract from the main issue. I didn't want them thinking a long jail term would be fraught with danger.

Jim's voice became louder, more animated.

I sipped my tea. Grace sipped hers. There came a sudden silence from the living room. That seemed to serve as a cue for Grace to grasp my hand. “Thank you for saying what you did.” Finally smiling.

“What do you mean?”

“There are some who feel it's necessary to sacrifice our bravest sons and daughters.”

Jim took a few moments to return, as if composing himself after winning an argument. He went directly to the fridge, snapped the cap off a Pilsner. He gave Grace a weary smile before turning to me. “We expect Gabriel to take the deal,” he said.

A
fter reading Irene's note, Attorney General Bonner had satisfied himself there was little danger of a media uproar if Crown and defence consented to a twelve-year sentence. I told Smitty I was sorry, I couldn't possibly go above ten and a half. A few hours later we telephonically shook on eleven years and four months.

A few hours after that I was staring at Oakalla Prison, a sullen, brooding monster staring back at me through the softly falling rain, a monster with multiple barred eyes. I'd been waiting almost an hour in my Volkswagen, in the visitors' parking lot, for Jim Brady to return from his visit.

When he finally emerged through the gloom and rain, he went straight to his old Ford coupe without pausing to chat. Just a nod of his head signifying the work was done – Gabriel would take the eleven and four.

Despite his hurling of calumnies at the prison padre, Gabriel was still in the relatively relaxed confines of
PCU
, safe from the White Clansmen. There was an
AA
meeting going on, led by a Salvation Army volunteer, so we met in his cell. I took a chair, he the cot, both of us alert to the hazards of looking squarely at each other, of reading each other's faces. I brought out some paper and we began to work through the rough statement of facts I'd proposed to Smitty. A final version would be filed with the court before sentencing.

We were calm and businesslike on that rainy Sunday afternoon. No chagrin from me, no apologies or expressions of shame. No regrets voiced by him, no faulting the evil capitalist system. We were formal, cautious, purposeful, a typical solicitor and typical client going over the contract, deliberating, suggesting a change of wording here and there. In the aural background, men confessed their woes to each other.