Children in the Morning (26 page)

“Hey, Wayne and I got along okay. He knew he was going to do time. All we could do was try to keep the parole eligibility date down, and I got him the minimum. And I didn’t report him for breach of his bail conditions when he was stalking me at midnight, and threatening my life. Give him a call.”

“He’ll say anything to get out of there for a day. A point the Crown will be quick to make.”

“Give it a try. See what he says.”

So on the third day of the defence’s case, at my client’s insistence, we called a convicted murderer to testify as a character witness for a man accused of murder.

There was extra security in the courtroom, and the jurors were openly curious. Our witness was costumed in an ill-fitting black business suit, but nobody would mistake him for a member of the Chamber of Commerce. He had light brown hair pushed back from his forehead and a nose that looked as if it had been smashed. That might not make him stand out in a line-up of his peers, but the tattoo of a dragon visible on the side of his neck could be considered a distinguishing feature. His knuckles were tattooed as well. Instead of the customary “hate” and “love,” his knuckles read “hate” and

“tail.” He was our man. I plunged in.

“Please state your name for the court.”

“Wayne Joseph Theriault.”

“Where do you live, Mr. Theriault?”

“I’ve gone back to my roots, in New Brunswick. Born and raised there; now I’m back. My retirement years, you might say.”

That’s all I needed, a smartass on the stand. He wasn’t this cocky when I went over his testimony with him in the morning, after he arrived with his Corrections Canada escort.

“Where in New Brunswick are you living now?”

“The Atlantic Institution in Renous.”

“And that is . . .”

“Maximum security prison.”

“How did you end up there?”

“I was convicted of murder.”

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There was a gasp from a couple of the jurors.

“But I didn’t do it. Or, like, I did it, but it wasn’t murder.”

I saw the two Crown attorneys exchange a glance. The last thing I wanted was any talk of “I did it, but it wasn’t really murder” during this trial.

“We’re not here to retry your case, Mr. Theriault. Could you tell us how you came to know Mr. Delaney.”

“Beau helped me out of a few scrapes during my time here in Halifax.”

“Helped you out in what way?”

“Beau’s
the man
!”

Now he was affecting ghetto speech. I had to keep him on track.

“Could you be more specific, Mr. Theriault? How did Mr.

Delaney help you?”

“He’s a great lawyer, man. He got me off on a whole string of theft and robbery-type offences. And it wasn’t easy, ’cause I done them!

But he’s good!”

“So you were a client of Mr. Delaney, and he was successful in defending you on charges you faced before the murder charge.”

“Yeah, we ran out of luck on that one. But can’t win ’em all, eh?

That’s the way I look at it.”

“Now, do you recall an incident involving Mr. Delaney back in 1986, when you were out on bail awaiting your trial for murder?”

“Yeah, I got a little ticked at Beau that night.”

“Why was that?”

“He told me I should plead to the murder because there was no way he could get me off. Said he’d work out a deal with the Crown, get me a good parole date to run by the judge. The usual, you know.”

“And you didn’t agree with that strategy.”

“I didn’t want to serve no time. It was self-defence. The guy I wasted, he deserved it. So the night of this incident, I was pounding back the booze and I got hold of some coke and I was all fucked up.”

Theriault turned to the judge. “Excuse my French, Your Honour.

Anyway, I went looking for Beau. I knew he was working late because I cruised by his office and seen the light on. I went to a phone booth and made a call to him, telling him what I wanted him to do. But he told me to go home or I’d get caught for breaching my bail conditions, 161

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by being out past curfew and drunk and coked up. I called him again and hollered at him and told him to fuck off and to make sure he got me off the murder rap. He hung up on me. So I went back to his office building and hung around and waited till he came out. I got myself all worked up against him. When he came out the door, I jumped him.”

“How tall are you, Mr. Theriault?”

“I’m six foot one.”

“And how much do you weigh?”

“Just under two hundred pounds.”

“So you’re a big man, but not quite as tall and heavy as Mr.

Delaney. Would you agree with that?”

“Yeah, he’s a big dude, no question.”

“What happened when you jumped Mr. Delaney outside his office?”

“He flipped me off him.”

“How?”

“I don’t know. I just ended up on the ground.”

“Then what?”

“I tried to get up and go at him again. But he held me down by putting his foot on my chest.”

“Did that hurt?”

“It didn’t really hurt; it just kept me from getting up.”

“Then what?”

“He tried to talk me down. Get me to chill out. Said we’d talk about the case when I was straight and sober. Told me he’d get a cab and send me home. Said if I got caught breaching my bail, I’d never get bail again.”

“And then?”

“When he thought I had cooled off, he eased his foot up. Reached down with his hand to help me stand. I got up, and he turned around and walked over to his car. He put the key in the door, and I ran after him and put my arm around his throat and had my fist ready to slam him in the side of the head.”

“What happened at that time?”

“I didn’t do nothin’. I backed off.”

“How come?”

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“Because I seen he had his wife in the car. She was waiting for him. Her and a little kid.”

“Witnesses.”

“I didn’t give a fuck about witnesses! It was the man’s wife! And his kid! I wasn’t going to beat a man up in front of his family. What kind of an animal would do that?”

“What did Mr. Delaney do at that point?”

“Beau had it all under control. He said: ‘Wayne, you don’t want to start this. Walk away. We’ll talk when you’re sober. And if I get a sincere apology and if I think you won’t try this again, I’ll stay on as your lawyer. If not, I’m cutting you loose. Now back off, or my wife will go for the police.’ I looked at the wife and kid. They were staring at me like I was something in a horror movie. I felt like a lowlife piece of shit. I let him go, and I took off.”

“Were there any more . . . scuffles . . . between you and Mr.

Delaney?”

“No, that was it. I ate crow when I seen him next day, and he stayed on as my lawyer. I swiped a nice bottle of Scotch and gave it to him as a peace offering. He probably still has it. Beau’s not much of a drinker. He got me as good a deal as I was going to get on the murder charge. I never seen him again till now.”

“Thank you, Mr. Theriault. The Crown attorney may have some questions.”

She did indeed. Gail Kirk rose to her feet. “Mr. Theriault, how long have you been in Renous prison?”

“Six years.”

“Have you had any other escorted outings or temporary leaves of absence during your time at Renous?”

“Nope.”

“So this is your first day away from the prison in six years?”

“Yeah.”

“You’d do or say anything to get out of prison for a day, wouldn’t you?”

“Yeah, maybe so.” I winced when I heard that, but it was a chance we had decided to take.

“Like, I coulda come down to Halifax,” Theriault continued, “and told Beau and his lawyer I’d say nice things about Beau, and then I 163

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coulda come in here and shit all over Beau’s case just for the hell of it,

’cause I got the day out anyway. But I didn’t. I came in here and told the truth about Beau because he’s a good guy, and a good lawyer, and he gave me a lot of help over the years. And he didn’t beat the piss out of me when I went after him all drugged up and tanked up, and he could have killed me, but he didn’t.”

I could have kissed him, but I didn’t. I assumed Gail Kirk had a lot more questions she wanted to ask, but she decided to cut her losses, and said: “No further questions for this witness, My Lord.”

“Mr. Collins? Anything arising out of that?”

“No, My Lord.”

“Thank you, Mr. Theriault. You may go. With your escort.”

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Chapter 12

(Monty)

“Beau wants me to call the kids,” I said to Brennan at our regular Tuesday night sitting at the Midtown.

“You’d think he’d want to protect them from all this,” he said.

“As a father yes, as a defendant maybe, as a showman no. If he had his way, we’d have them all lined up like the Von Trapp family.”

“He’d have them burst into song.”

“Exactly.”

“It’s not as if their evidence would add anything to the record.

Leave them out of it,” Brennan urged me.

“Spoken like a true non-lawyer. It’s not about what they say. Of course they’re all going to say wonderful things about their dad.

That’s not the point. The point is to have the jury see them. Ten children who have lost their mother to a tragic
accident
, and who may lose their loving father. A family that will be shattered, the children divided up and dispersed to relatives, foster homes, and government bureaucracy. Ten adorable children who love their father and know he’s innocent; that’s why they’re supporting him. The jury has to see 165

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them. To me, that would be sufficient. But he wants them up there, showing no fear, testifying to his good character.”

So that’s the way it went. I had Peggy’s sister Sheila bring all the Delaney kids into the courtroom and seat them before the judge and jury came in. Parading them in after the jury was in place would have been over the top. The kids were scrubbed and dressed in the kind of clothes you’d wear to visit Grandma on a Sunday afternoon. Little Sammy and Kristin, aged five and six, sat on the knees of the two eldest teens, Sarah and Derek. Everyone stood, as protocol demands, when the judge and then the jury entered the room.

“The defence calls Sarah Delaney.”

Tall like her dad and blond like her mum, Sarah walked stiffly towards the stand. She wore a tartan skirt, a white blouse and a heathery blue sweater over it; her bangs were pulled to the side with a barrette. I did not detect any makeup, with the possible exception of some colour on her cheekbones.

She was sworn in, and I asked her to give her name.

“Sarah Margaret Delaney.”

“How old are you, Sarah?”

“Seventeen.”

I smiled at her. “Please tell the court how you are related to Mr.

Delaney.”

“He’s my dad.”

“And tell us where you come in the family.”

“I’m the oldest of the ten of us.”

“What’s it like having nine younger sisters and brothers?”

“Sometimes it’s fun and sometimes it’s frustrating!” The jurors laughed. With her, not at her. “I wouldn’t change it, though. There’s none of them I’d want to lose!”

“What kind of a dad is Mr. Delaney?”

“He’s great! He spends all kinds of time with us, and takes us places, and helps us with our homework and other things. He’s sweet, and sometimes he’s really funny! Not so much now . . .”

“Once in a while, kids need some direction. Or correction, I might say. Discipline. How does your dad handle that?”

“He tells us to smarten up, or we’ll be grounded. And he means it.”

“Have you ever been grounded?”

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“Well, not me, but . . . the boys. You know.”

Everyone laughed again, and I said: “I know! Now I realize children aren’t with their parents every minute of the parents’ lives, but from what you saw of your parents, did they seem to get along well or not?”

“They were really happy together. He was very, very sad when Mum died. And he still is. He really loved her.”

“From what you could see growing up, was there any violence between them?”

“Never! They never hit each other, or, you know, threw things the way you hear of other people doing. He wouldn’t have hurt Mum at all, let alone . . .” Sarah looked as if she was going to burst into tears.

I wasn’t going to promote that.

“I have nothing else to ask you, Sarah. Ms. Kirk may have some questions.”

“No questions, My Lord.”

Justice Palmer said: “You may step down, Sarah.”

Next I called Derek, who was fifteen, tall and thin with short brown hair. He gave pretty well the same evidence. Then it was Connor’s turn. He was thirteen and a half. He had dark blond hair, and was considerably shorter than his sister Sarah.

I started off the same way, and then got to the question of whether things ever got physical between Beau and Peggy during an argument.

“No, never! Not even when they got into fights about Corbett!”

I had no idea who Corbett was, and this was not the time to ask questions and get answers I was not prepared for. Instead, I zeroed in on the word “fights.”

“Now, Connor, when you say ‘fights,’ what do you mean?”

“I don’t mean hitting people! I just mean when you say something and the other person says something back, and like that.”

“Words going back and forth, people arguing? Disagreeing?”

“Yes, arguing! That’s what I mean, not fighting. Dad never hit Mum. And Mum sure never hit Dad!”