Punishment (8 page)

“A heel.”

“It was a forty-ouncer. There might have been maybe four or five ounces in the bottom. At the most.”

“Had you ever seen her drink?”

“A beer or two on that other visit. After they’d been there a while I realized that what they really wanted was to smoke a little weed. I suppose I should’ve drawn the line at that. But, anyway, I didn’t.”

“Were you aware of any drugs that second time?”

“Nothing. She wanted to make a toddy and that’s what she was doing when I left her. I can still see her standing by the kitchen counter with her arms folded, watching the kettle.”

“Then what?”

“Then what? Not a thing. I went to bed. Slept. In the morning I had to drive to Halifax. I left at six a.m. The living room was kind of dark but I could see that she was there, curled up under the blanket. Sound asleep, I thought.”

I let the silence hang.

“And that’s the God Almighty truth,” he added.

“There will be toxicology, I assume …”

Sullivan interjected. “The toxicology—and this is confidential until it comes out in court—the toxicology revealed the significant presence of a narcotic, possibly oxycodone, in her system. The official cause of death was cardiac arrest.”

“She was seventeen.”

“We’re trying to get her medical records to determine if there was any prior history of coronary disease, for her or near
relatives. I believe her grandfather died quite young of a sudden heart attack.”

“He wasn’t a blood relative, as far as I know,” I said.

Strickland said to Sullivan: “He’d know.” The tone was neutral.

Sullivan said, “I see. Well, given the circumstances, Dwayne is in a strong position to get the charge reduced and a reasonable outcome. Obviously the Crown will want to be seen to pursue this aggressively because of local sensitivities. Her age and background. Being a young woman with a promising future, one way or another related to almost everybody in the place from what I hear. But the facts speak for themselves.”

I studied Strickland’s face. “Oxycodone?”

He made a face and shrugged. “Don’t look at me. God knows where she got it. She could have got it from home, for all I know. She told me she lived with old people. They get it real easy.”

“So you have no idea where she got it?”

He raised his right hand, looked me directly in the eye. “Swear to God, on my mother’s grave.”

Our eyes were locked, and he didn’t blink. I let the silence grow.

Finally I said, “So what were you doing for five days?”

Strickland shrugged. “A bit of business. Met some friends. Enjoyed the city. I have a female friend up there. She can confirm everything.”

“And how did they trace Mary Alice to your place?”

“No idea,” he said. “I assume one of the regulars said try there. Anyway, I hadn’t even locked the door behind me when I left.” He laughed. “Some murderer, eh?”

“The fact is,” said Sullivan, “the Crown knows they have an extremely weak case. This murder charge is a knee-jerk reaction to the local mood. I think they came on strong because they’re as anxious as we are to settle this without a trial. We’re talking about an agreed statement of facts and some kind of a saw-off on sentencing for a guilty plea. They’re pushing for criminal negligence causing death. I think we can hold out for bodily harm. Get off with time served.”

“Sounds like they don’t have much of a case at all,” I said.

“My thought exactly,” Strickland said.

Sullivan waved his hand. “Look. Let’s be realistic. Dwayne here has a serious record. They’re gonna try to make the case that he was a drug dealer and the source of the OxyContin that’s been showing up around the place …”

“That’s all horseshit,” Strickland interrupted.

“I’d rather play it safe, argue for probation. A period of house arrest. Community service.”

“Right,” said Strickland. “I can imagine the community service …”

“What
would
be helpful,” said Sullivan to me, “would be someone of your background and obvious stature to give us an affidavit for pre-sentencing. Talk a bit about how Dwayne grew up, the things he was up against, kind of an outsider in a tight, dare I say, inbred community. What he was like as an inmate, how he worked to turn his life around. You know his institutional history, which was pretty positive, I understand. What do you think?”

“An affidavit,” I said. “I could be called then, and cross-examined?”

“Technically.”

I suppressed a smile. Technically? “I’m not sure that I could be very helpful. We grew up in the same place, but at different times. I never met him here. I think the Crown would argue that any insights I achieved in prison would have been affected by the circumstances.”

“That I was putting on an act?” said Strickland.

“I wouldn’t say that, but someone else might.”

“I think your words would carry a lot of weight,” said Sullivan. “We’d be before a judge and I think he or she would pay attention to anything you had to say.”

Nobody spoke for what seemed like a full minute. “What do you think, Dwayne?” I asked.

“I hate putting you on the spot,” he said. “You’re probably thinking about how you gotta live there. What they’re going to think. But you’ve always been one for doing the right thing, eh.”

His eyes were steady, unblinking, a slight smile at the corners of his mouth. “Plus, I think you probably owe me one.”

“Owe you?” said Sullivan. “Owe you what?”

I cocked my head. “Where have I heard that before?”

“I’m just sayin’.”

“Do we really want to talk about that again, Dwayne?”

“What’s the downside?”

“About the Italian? You’re sure.”

“What Italian?” Sullivan was puzzled.

“There was a situation,” I said carefully, “when Dwayne had a choice to make, whether to respond as a convict or as a citizen.”

“I see,” said Sullivan. “I’m assuming he made the right choice.”

“I couldn’t say for sure,” I said. “I couldn’t swear to it.”

“How about if I tell you up front,” Strickland said. “I ratted out some guys for a murder in the joint.”

Sullivan seemed to jerk backwards, face surprised.

“You did?” I said. “Not to me.”

“No. I kept you out of it. I told the IPSOs. I also told the shrink, the cute one, Sophie. You can check it out.”

“I don’t work there anymore.”

“You still have contacts.”

I shook my head. How much should I disclose? How much does he already know? “It’s pretty sensitive,” I said.

“Mr. Sullivan put his finger on it,” said Strickland. “Comes a moment in everybody’s life when you gotta pick a side. Right or wrong. Even if everything is on the line. You know what I’m sayin’, Tony?” His eyes were briefly anxious.

“I’ll have to think about it,” I said, suddenly too warm. “You’d really want that on the record, Dwayne? Public testimony that you informed on a couple of other inmates? Guys like the Horse and Driscoll? The media would be all over it.”

“If it would get me off I wouldn’t have to worry, right? They’re both doing life twenty-five. Maybe facing dangerous offender. We’ll all be old people when they get out. Anyway, if we can keep it from going to trial, who’d ever hear about it?”

“I’ll think about it,” I said.

“Oh. And you should know Mr. Sullivan plans to get in touch with Anna. You can maybe let her know.”

“Anna and I aren’t together anymore,” I said.

“Oh, really?” Dwayne’s surprise was genuine. “Christ. That must be tough. Since when?”

“It’s not really relevant,” I said. “Suit yourself about getting in touch with her, though I can’t imagine how she might help.”

“Character,” said Sullivan. “She can talk about his character and how hard he worked to improve himself.”

“Anna was the best friend I ever had, for a while there,” said Strickland, face now slightly flushed. I asked myself if I was imagining some insinuation in his tone.

“I envied you,” said Strickland. “I really did. I’m really sorry to hear that you two split. Anna is one of a kind.” His eyes were actually misty.

I stood, reached out a hand. He clasped it. “I’ll think about it,” I said. “You think about it too—about me bringing up the Vito business.” I shook my head. “Give it some serious thought.”

“Thanks for your time,” Dwayne said. “And be sure to remember me to Anna, if you’re talking to her.” Was there a hint of mockery in the tone? “Come back sometime,” he said, all smiles.

“We’ll see.”

“I’ll do the paperwork. Get you on my visitors’ list.”

“Sure thing.”

“It’s a really, really short list.” Smiled again, calm and handsome, confident.

“Oh, and the kid’s family,” Strickland said. “Really. I really mean it. I can only imagine what they think.”

Driving away, the wind and rain were delivering a full-bore autumn storm, a preview of the coming winter. Imagine this as snow, the groaning windshield wiper seemed to say. But I was still with Strickland, weighing his sympathetic words for
honesty, some evidence that he grasped the reality of his situation. The legal case was weak, almost non-existent. But he didn’t seem to understand that in the court of public sentiment, he was in deep, deep shit.

T
he rumour spread that Strickland was going to plead guilty, save everybody a lot of heartache. At the store, there was general approval. I didn’t ask, “Guilty to what?” Or comment, “We’ll see how pleased you are when he pleads out on negligence causing bodily harm or less and gets what you’ll consider a free pass.” Time served because he’ll have been in jail for months by then; community service, whatever that might be.

Caddy called the night before Strickland was to appear in court for a plea and pre-sentence arguments. She told me she had to be there and asked if we could go together. She needed moral support. “I’ll pick you up,” she’d said. “Be ready, I’ll not come in.”

The next morning I watched the lane, nervous as a boy, for half an hour before I saw her car.

We showed up at the courthouse early, and already the parking lot was full. Caddy had warned me there would be a crowd and the seating would be limited. Maybe thirty people filled the chairs, some standing at the back, Neil Archie among them. Caddy sat beside me, thigh and shoulder warm on mine.

Nearly half the courtroom was a large enclosure separated from the public seating by a rail; pale maple panelling, long tables, chairs for lawyers. A bench behind the lawyers’ tables, reserved for the accused. A jury section, witness box. A lectern. At the front a kind of altar for the judge, the high priest of the business; a high-backed chair flanked by flags; above the flags a flattering portrait of the Queen. In the front rank of the spectators, young reporters were laughing, chatting, clasping notebooks. Coming in, one of them attempted to engage with Caddy but she just looked down, hurried by. When I realized she’d looped her arm through mine, I smiled.

Lawyers sauntered in, stood inside the enclosure, posed thoughtfully organizing files on tables. Sullivan was there, talking to a prosecutor who was frowning. Then a door clicked open and everyone went silent. Three men in uniforms, bulky in protective vests, flanked Strickland. He was wearing a pale green shirt and a dark tie, black dress pants. He’d had a haircut. I thought with a slight twinge of resentment that he was the best-looking man in the room. Young, trim. He could have been an actor in a movie drama. Brad Pitt maybe. He looked straight ahead, face grave. They ushered him toward the bench behind his lawyer where he sat, one of the officers beside him. The other
two withdrew to stand like sentinels at the back of the room.

Caddy gripped my arm, just above the elbow, followed every move he made. He stood, nodded to the officer beside him, bent to talk to Sullivan briefly, then sat again, leaning back and looking around, frowning. Sullivan turned to him, talking rapidly, but Strickland was just staring straight ahead.

“What’s going on?” Caddy whispered.

“I’m not sure.”

Then another door opened and a woman’s voice called, “All rise.” Everybody stood and suddenly it felt like church. A bulky older man in robes entered, looking grumpy. He made his way to the high chair. The woman loudly made another proclamation: Court was formally in session. The judge sat, reading glasses on a nose that seemed to be enlarged and unusually red. He peered quickly at a sheet of paper, then leaned forward and looked down, spoke directly to the Crown. “You’re ready to proceed?”

The prosecutor stood. “Your Honour.” He paused and glanced with what appeared to be disdain toward Sullivan. “My friend has just informed me that he has a brief statement he wishes to make to the court, a matter that could affect proceedings here today.” And he sat.

Sullivan rose, thanked the Crown. His voice was muted by what seemed to be uncertainty. I had to strain to hear.

“Your Honour, this is a little bit awkward but I find myself in the position of having to ask the court for an adjournment.”

He was shifting nervously from foot to foot, shuffling papers. The prosecutor sat with his elbows on the table, hands on either side of his face.

The judge looked angry. “My understanding was that we
were here for a plea and pre-sentencing arguments. Are you telling me that this has changed?”

Then Strickland was on his feet. “I want to say something.”

Caddy grabbed my hand. Strickland turned, as if to address the room. His guard was standing, too, looking confused.

“Sit down,” the judge said firmly. Strickland faced him.

“No. I’ll sit down when I’m finished—”

“Sit down, and shut up,” the judge enunciated with forced calmness.

“I’m not pleadin’ guilty for the convenience of the court. I’ve seen too much of that.”

“I’ll have you removed,” the judge said, voice rising.

“Not until—”

“Officer, remove the prisoner.”

The burly deputy reached for an elbow but Strickland snatched his arm away. He swept his hand around the room, half-turning toward us. I realized I’d abandoned Caddy’s hand, was on the edge of my chair. They don’t understand the situation, I thought, heart racing. They don’t get it, not even the officers. This is new to them, this defiance. Then Sullivan was on his feet, speaking quietly to Strickland.