Punishment (31 page)

I entered a cubicle, closed the door, sat face in hands. Strickland will go free, I thought. Strickland deserves to go free. And his freedom will represent a challenge to the place, and a provocation. It will eliminate a facile answer to a lot of questions, not just how and why poor Mary Alice died but about a mythical community and virtues that we always took for granted—integrity, civility. I had a sense of dread. People do not easily abandon the comfort of their myths and certainties. I longed for someone I could hold and really talk to.

Two men came in and I could hear them talking at the urinals. One was saying: “I saw everybody going back in. They must be ready to go back at it.” I waited where I was until they were gone, then followed them toward the courtroom.

I slipped into a seat in the back row as the judge was saying that he would in due course provide written reasons for his decision but for the time being and because the situation was so clear to him he wanted to render a decision verbally right away.

“In the evidence I have heard here, there is no basis for any reasonable expectation that a trial would lead anywhere but to an acquittal of the accused. The Crown has failed to produce evidence that would lead a properly instructed jury to convict. A trial would be a waste of the resources of the court. It grieves me to say that the last few days have been a waste of the court’s time.”

He paused, stared for a moment at the lawyers in front of him.

“Do you gentlemen have anything to say for the record?”

Sullivan seemed to think for a moment, rubbing his chin. “Nothing to say, Your Honour, except to request that the accused be discharged.” He sat down.

Jones stood, and mumbled, “In the circumstances I would not be opposed.” And he sat and rubbed his eyes, then leaned back.

The judge frowned briefly at Strickland, then said, “After listening to the evidence and consulting with counsel for the accused and the Crown, I’ve decided that all charges should be struck. Mr. Strickland, you are discharged and free to go.”

Strickland stood and I think he said “thank you,” but I couldn’t hear for the murmuring and movement of chairs as the courtroom crowd reacted, the atmosphere electric with their disappointment and disdain for the process. Strickland, Sullivan and the sheriff left through a side door. Caddy was still seated, examining her hands. I sat beside her, unsure of what to say or do.

“I’m okay,” she said at last. “A trial wasn’t going to bring her back.”

I put my arm around her shoulder, drew her to me but felt no engagement.

“I hope he’ll go away,” she said. “He doesn’t belong here. He never did.”

“How do you like them apples?” Neil said.

“It’s the system, for better or for worse.”

“Lawyers, eh?”

“I was married to one. I know all about them.”

“I thought the old judge had more on the ball than that. ‘Properly instructed jury,’ my arse. Give
me
five fuckin minutes and I’d instruct them. But in the end, eh, a judge is just another fuckin lawyer. We should talk. Drop by the house some evening. Or I’ll come by your place.”

“I can’t imagine what’s to talk about,” I said.

He stared at me for a moment, then laughed, slapped my shoulder and walked away.

Caddy was silent on the way home, alone in a lifetime of memories, of people and events I never knew and wouldn’t understand.

In her driveway I watched as she fumbled in her purse to find her keys. Then she smiled weakly at me, as if she was embarrassed to discover I’d been watching her. She opened the truck door, hesitated for a moment near the front fender, then walked slowly to the house.

——

Birch seemed agitated when I got back and the moment I opened the door he dashed into the field, squatted, looking at me resentfully. In the kitchen I started to remove my coat, then noticed that the answering machine was blinking. I pressed ‘play’ then sat, working on my boots. I instantly recognized the voice.

“Hey, Tony. Howya doin’? Tommy here. Tom Steele. I wonder if you could call me. Got something I want to discuss with you. Hope you’re well, livin’ the life.”

He left a Kingston number.

A
woman answered. “Sally?” I asked.

The voice was unfriendly. “Who’s calling?”

“It’s Tony …”

“Shit. Tony! Tony, how are you, it’s been God, how long. Hang on, I’ll go get him. He’s in the garage. My God, Tony, it’s so good to hear you. Hang on a minute.” The phone was dangling, clunking.

Then it was Tommy, with a hearty “hello.” Caution lights glowing inside my head.

“Tom, I got your message …”

“Thanks for calling back, Tony. I wasn’t sure you would, after everything. I have to tell you that I was shocked as everybody when I heard that you’d taken the package. It was the talk of the
place and I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d taken a pass …”

“What can I do for you, Tom?” I was working hard to keep a neutral tone. “I’m surprised you found me.”

“I called Anna. She gave me your co-ordinates. I don’t think we’ve talked since you and Anna … I gotta tell you Tony, Sally and I were quite devastated by that. Sally was saying that if it could happen to you guys, you know what? Made us think hard about what’s important to us. So, anyway, how are you doing?”

“I’m okay, Tom. Getting by. What was it you were trying to get in touch about?”

“Well, as you know, ever since that business about Pittman, I’ve been in Warkworth, doin’ my penance, so to speak. And I’m going to tell you straight up, it’s been good. Gave me a chance to really do a lot of thinking about things, things that I regret now. I don’t mind telling you. I don’t think there’s a night goes by without me thinking of poor Billy Pittman bleedin’ there. And I’m going to tell you, I’m taking ownership. I even wrote to his family, spelled it out. How I fucked up, excuse my French.”

I waited. Then I said, “Well that’s great, Tom. So where does that leave things?”

“Tony, I’ve been trying to make it right. But I want
everything
right. Lately I’ve been having serious conversations with senior management about reinstatement.”

Into the long silence, he said, “You’re still there, Tony?”

“I’m just thinking, Tom. It’s going to be kind of hard to reinstate what Pittman lost.”

“That’s my everlasting cross to bear, Tony. I can’t tell you …” He seemed to choke up.

“I hear you, Tom. But I’m not sure what I have to do with any of this … now that I’m out of it.”

“There’s a pretty serious review going on and … okay, Tony. I’ll come right out with it. I’m going to give them your name as a reference. Would that be okay?”

“I’m trying not to laugh, Tommy. You’re serious?”

“I’ve never been more serious. What do you say?”

“I don’t know, Tommy …”

“You always said it, Tony. People can change. People can improve … even the worst inmate can be rehabilitated. I’m tellin’ you Tony … and this is a hard thing to say—but I know now that I was as bad as any inmate. But I found rehabilitation—and you were right. It’s possible and it’s wonderful when it happens.”

“If you don’t mind me asking, Tommy, how did that come about?”

“Just figuring it out, Tony. Plus I been rethinking the whole religion thing. I was pretty devout in my early days and I’ve been kind of getting back into it. It’s been a great comfort, I can tell you. Sally and me, we’ve joined a little group. It’s done wonders for the relationship.”

“I’m happy for you, Tom, I really am …”

“Oh, and on that subject … another shocker. You’ll remember young Sophie, at the RTC. I think she moved to Ottawa around the time you left. Moved the family up there. Then out of the blue, husband walks out on her just last Christmas. Boom. Just like that. Took the kids with him. Couldn’t hack the city. Imagine, couldn’t hack Ottawa. What’s to hack? Hadda be more to it than that. But anyway, that’s neither here
nor there. I know you guys were close. I just thought you’d want to know that.”

I was surprised by the absence of emotion. I felt flat, already weary of his eager voice.

“I know this is a lot of stuff to come at you all of a sudden, Tony. I’m really not asking you to do anything, just maybe let me know if they approach you, which they probably won’t. But if they do, maybe we could have another talk. What do you think?”

“I have your number, Tom. I’ll call you if I hear anything.”

“God bless you, Tony. And I’ll tell you in all sincerity, the place misses you. You left a big hole …”

“Tom, I hear someone at the door … I’ll let you know. Bye for now.”

And I wasn’t lying. It was Birch barking to get in.

It was mild for early March, and gloomy. I sat with my coffee, staring out the kitchen window at low dark clouds over the horizon, ominous with moisture. By the day’s end there would be rain or snow. Birch could sense it and was whining at the door. The sound and the simplicity of his instinct dispersed my mood. “Sure,” I said. “Let’s go get some cardio.”

We stood on the doorstep for a while as if the dog was having second thoughts about our expedition, looking up at me ruefully, shivering. “You’re not a dog,” I said. “You’re a pussy is what you are.” He tore off up the lane.

I caught up with him on the trail where he was earnestly sniffing at fresh footprints. I continued on. The other walker had been heading in the opposite direction, which was reassuring. I
hated meeting people on the trail, the stopping and socializing, fighting boredom and the chill. Then Birch raced past, tempting me to run.

I started jogging, once again resolving to buy proper shoes.

Running had been a big part of my fitness program once. Anna shamed me into it, reminding me of how certain inmates would take advantage of the confines of the yard for jogging. Round and round they’d go, resolutely plodding, keeping fit for self-esteem or physical survival, or both. She’d say how they’d kill for the opportunity that we had to run along our lovely lakefront past the parks to the conservation trail that went forever. I’d reply that most of them would kill for a whole lot less.

I knew even from a distance that it was Strickland coming toward me on the trail. Something about his hunched shoulders, the trudging gait as he studied the ground, lost in thought. I’ve seen it a hundred times in the exercise yard, learned from it, the power of concentration, to mentally remove yourself from your immediate circumstances. It would mostly be the solid cons, solitary but never isolated, always aware but from inside a zone of personal autonomy. Plodding purposefully, working on some private challenge. They would never talk to me about their shit, especially not me. I never took it personally. These were the guys I didn’t have to worry about.

Though Strickland was preoccupied I knew that he was aware of my presence. He confirmed it when, about thirty feet away, he stopped and stood still, staring at me from deep inside his parka hood, no hint of surprise in his expression. Birch trotted up to him and sniffed his boot. He paid no attention to the dog.

After what felt like a long silence he said, “I have nothing to say to you.”

“Cool with me,” I said.

I started walking toward him. But as I passed close by, he stooped, extended his free hand, palm down, toward the dog. Birch sniffed and licked, walked around behind him, sniffed his tracks.

“Is this your dog?”

I hesitated briefly. “Yes,” I said.

“I’m thinking of getting a dog.”

“They’re good company.”

He smiled, stood straighter. “Living by yourself can get to a fellow in a place like this.”

I said, “Let’s go, Birch.”

As I walked away he said, “About Anna. I tried to call you.”

“Don’t mention Anna.” I walked on.

The daily walks were getting longer and, I noted with a slight trickle of satisfaction, easier. I was near a sparse place where the emaciated coastal evergreens reveal the nearby shoreline. In the rubble of rusty ice floes and tangled driftwood, I could see an abandoned picnic table, a reminder there had been and soon will be a summer, happy voices, nearly naked bodies on a beach, a world that is almost unimaginable in the vast winter gulag. I found myself anticipating sunshine, warmth.

Tommy’s call had rattled me—brought back ugliness and bitter calculation, a sleepless night. But I eventually realized that, in a way, it marked the end of the experience that had
redefined me and it occurred to me, sitting at that picnic table, that for as long as we are alive and reasonably healthy, an end can also be considered a beginning. Maybe it was really Strickland who inspired the insight. His brief, spontaneous connection with the little dog. “I’m thinking of getting a dog,” he’d said. A new beginning.

And Tommy? I smiled. Did he for a second think that I was persuaded by his contrived contrition? His references to Anna and religion? Sophie? It was all suddenly so sad and funny. It was a victory of sorts, Tommy’s miserable capitulation, the new spiritual Tommy, his abject surrender to such pathetic needs. I felt suddenly sorry for him: he’s been punished and I could punish him again. But I knew I wouldn’t. Even Tommy Steele deserved a new beginning.

I stood and I felt lighter. I called for Birch.

St. Ninian was still buzzing about Strickland, how he got off. How he got away with murder. I didn’t want to leave the house but I realized it had been days since I’d been at the store. There would be a backlog of newspapers. And I hadn’t heard from Caddy since court. I called but she wasn’t answering her phone.

The usual half-tons and old cars were clustered in front so I drove on by. The unfinished conversation with Strickland had continued in my head ever since I’d left him standing on the trail. Was Anna just bored, a woman approaching middle age, finding transient excitement with a younger, firmer man? That would be easy to live with—I could pity her for that, the shallow
impulse to deceive herself, to make believe that she was someone younger, more appealing. I could forgive that. But he’d said she was attracted to bad boys like him. What did that mean? What if she’d found more than carnal satisfaction? What if she found in Strickland something that she couldn’t find in me—a missing quality that had also disappointed Sophie and a dozen other women I could name?