Children in the Morning (27 page)

The jurors laughed a bit at that. I had to decide whether to leave well enough alone, or quash any suspicion that there was a lot of arguing in the Delaney household.

“So arguing happened once in a while in your family?”

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“Oh, yeah. Sometimes. It still does!” Laughs again. “But usually, it’s us kids arguing with each other. Dad stops it.”

I didn’t want to leave that dangling, so I took another chance.

“What does your dad do to stop you guys from arguing?”

“He says: ‘Stop arguing!’”

Once more, the jurors enjoyed the young kid’s testimony.

Encouraged, Connor went on: “He just says to stop yammering or he’ll have to bring back the strap.” Oh God, no. I could already see the appellant’s factum for Beau’s appeal. Incompetent counsel —

me — would be the first ground of appeal. But Connor hadn’t finished. “They used to have a strap that they hit kids with. Not in our house, but in the schools Mum and Dad went to. Dad had a teacher and she was a sister named Little Hitler and she used to hit him and the other students with her strap when they were bad. Dad says that’s wrong, and kids should never be strapped or spanked. So that never happened in our house.”

Thank you, Sister Little Hitler, wherever you are now, for turning Beau Delaney against corporal punishment. It was time to bring the curtain down.

“Those are all my questions for Connor, My Lord. Connor, you may step down. Unless the Crown lawyer has anything to ask you.”

And of course, we hope against hope that she hasn’t.

But my backside hadn’t hit the seat when Gail Kirk was on her feet. “Connor, you said your parents used to argue about Corbett.

Could you tell us who Corbett is?”

I could see Delaney tense up beside me. He had been scribbling notes across the page in his large scrawling handwriting. He didn’t even leave the margins free; the writing went from edge to edge of the page. But his hand ceased its motion. I hoped nobody else noticed.

“He’s our brother,” Connor said.

“Oh? So there are eleven children in your family, not ten?”

“No, there’s only ten now ’cause Corbett’s gone.”

“Where has he gone?”

“Nobody knows! One night he just up and disappeared!”

What in the name of God was this? It took every bit of willpower to stop myself from firing that question at my client. I attempted to look as if nothing was wrong. I directed a mild, just-looking-around 168

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glance at the jury. They were riveted to the child on the stand.

Gail Kirk asked for more. “And you haven’t heard from him?”

I wanted to object that these questions were irrelevant, but I didn’t want to draw any more attention to this subject, and I didn’t want to show that we were rattled. So I stayed in my seat.

“No. We wanted to look for him, but Dad said we wouldn’t be able to find him, so there was no point in trying.”

“Have the police been involved?”

I had to object to that. “My Lord, I have been sitting here and not objecting” — I hoped to give the impression that I had not bothered to object till now because the topic was so unimportant — “to all this irrelevant testimony, but now we are going too far astray. None of this is relevant, and we cannot expect young Connor to know what the police may or may not be doing with respect to missing persons.” I was flying blind, until I felt a nudge against my leg. I looked down and saw that Delaney had written on his page: “Foster child, didn’t work out.”

I got my second wind, and improvised. “Mr. and Mrs. Delaney had been foster parents for many years. Sometimes placements work out wonderfully; sometimes they do not, which is very unfortunate, and other arrangements have to be made.”

“My Lord!” Kirk exclaimed. “My learned friend is giving evidence. He has not been qualified as an expert in social work. Nor is it time for him to give his summation. I —”

“Thank you, Ms. Kirk,” Justice Palmer interjected. “Mr. Collins?”

“My Lord, I just think we are getting way off topic here, and my friend is questioning a child witness about matters that are outside the witness’s competence.”

“Objection sustained. Move on, Ms. Kirk.”

“No other questions for this witness, My Lord.”

The judge spoke gently to Delaney’s son. “You may step down now, Connor.”

“The defence calls Ruth . . .”

I could see Gail Kirk practically squirming with impatience; she would not, however, have wanted to alienate the jury by objecting to the redundancy of the evidence of Delaney’s children. But her concentration never flagged. During other trials with Gail, when there were tedious legal motions being argued, I had often noticed her 169

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drawing little pictures of leaves and flowers along the edges of her notepad. Not now; she wasn’t missing a word of the testimony. In fact, I did not plan to call all ten of the kids. Beau and I had agreed on two girls and two boys. One more to go.

When it came to Ruth, I could see that the young girl was trembling with nerves. She looked miserable with her dark curly hair pulled back from her broad face, and a skirt and sweater that were too small for her heavy build. She did not want to perform in public.

So I should have stopped there. But, before I could announce that we would call no more evidence that day, little Jenny was up on her feet and on her way to the stand.

“I’ll do it, Ruthie,” she said to her older sister. “I know you’re feeling sick today.”

So Jenny was sworn in, sat in the witness chair, smoothed her flowery skirt, and smiled at me.

“Hello, Jenny.”

“Hi, Mr. Collins.”

“Thank you for stepping into the breach today.”

“You’re welcome.”

I took her through the same series of questions, and received the same endorsement of Beau Delaney as a wonderful man and loving father.

When I thought she was finished, I thanked her again, and she took the opportunity to express her gratitude to me.

“Thank you too, Mr. Collins, for helping Daddy. He didn’t kill Mummy. The Hells Angels didn’t come in that night and do it either, so we’ll never know what that was about. Nobody killed her.” She turned to face the jurors, a few of whom appeared to be amused by the biker reference, but quickly masked their reaction, and smiled at the young witness. “Nobody would have,” Jenny said, “because everybody loved her. It was an accident.”

If I thought the Hells Angels reference would be dismissed at the Crown’s table as a child’s idea of how somebody might be killed, I was wrong. Gail Kirk got to her feet and addressed the witness.

“Hello, Jenny. Could you tell us what you meant just now when you referred to the Hells Angels?”

Before I could even get to my feet, I felt the pressure of my client’s 170

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leg against mine. He scribbled on his notepad: “NO!”

“Objection, My Lord,” I said dutifully.

“Grounds, Mr. Collins?”

“Relevance, My Lord. Neither the Crown nor the defence has led any evidence or made any reference to a motorcycle club. The question here is whether Mr. Delaney was involved in his wife’s death, or whether it was an accident. We obviously say her death was accidental. We have not raised the spectre of a third party in this.”

“My Lord,” Gail Kirk argued, “this matter came up on direct. We are entitled to cross-examine the witness on it.”

“I’ll allow it. Go ahead, Ms. Kirk.”

Delaney was deathly still as the prosecutor asked his daughter once more why she mentioned the Hells Angels, and Jenny obliged her with an answer.

“It wasn’t anything. They didn’t do it. It’s just that Mum yelled out

‘Hells Angels’ the night she died. I heard her, and she sounded upset, and I meant to get up and ask her if she was okay, but I was so tired I fell asleep again! I could have helped her! I might have saved her from falling down the stairs! But I fell asleep, and she died!” The little girl began sobbing uncontrollably.

I was struck dumb at the defence table. Peggy had shouted out the words “Hells Angels” not
some time
or
one night
, but the night she died. I found it hard to believe, and so would the Crown, that she was talking to herself. It sounded to me as if she had been making an accusation, or reacting to a statement; either way, she was not alone when she uttered the exclamation. Not alone, perhaps, at the moment of her death.

Gail Kirk wanted desperately, I knew, to press Jenny about that night, but the child was so distraught that she had to offer a respite first.

“Would you like to take a break, Jenny? Here, please take a tissue.”

Jenny wiped her eyes and blew her nose. She took a few minutes to compose herself. I could well imagine the willpower Beau had to summon to keep himself from rushing to the stand to comfort his child. Whatever else was going on in his mind was something I would have to deal with at another time.

When Jenny pulled herself together, Gail asked her gently: “Who 171

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was your mum talking to when she said ‘Hells Angels,’ do you know?”

Jenny shook her head, then said: “I don’t know. I just figured . . .”

Her eyes went to Beau, and then jerked away. “Nobody, I guess . . . She was by herself, and all us kids were in bed.”

“So you didn’t hear anyone else? Another voice, or sounds that —”

I got up again. “The witness has already answered the question, My Lord.”

The child was shaking her head again.

Gail said: “I’ll withdraw the question, My Lord. Jenny, do you remember the Hells Angels being mentioned any other time at your house?”

I was trying to formulate an objection to that one, but Jenny got ahead of me. “No way,” she answered. “That was the only time.”

“I have no further questions, My Lord.”

†

I certainly had questions. For my client. But rather than have him hauled out of sight for an urgent consultation, I decided to have him leave the courtroom surrounded by his flock of children. I normally didn’t play to the press in this way, but I would use anything that would help our case. Never mind that the jurors were not supposed to read, watch, or listen to any news reports about the trial. We would take good publicity whenever we could find it. The television cameras were there, and Delaney performed beautifully, giving all his attention to the kids and none, ostensibly, to the cameras.

But afterwards, in the narrow little kitchen of his place in the Twelve Apostles, I lit into him: “What is this business about the Hells Angels? We’ve built our entire case on the assertion that you weren’t there, Beau! Jenny heard Peggy shout out something about the Hells Angels, and I suspect the jury’s impression is the same as my own, and the Crown’s, that Peggy wasn’t talking to herself. She was reacting to something she had just heard, or she was making an accusation of some sort. My guess — my inference — is that she was talking to you, that you were there when she died. You’d better come up with a damn good explanation!”

“Why the hell did you let her go on about it?”

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“Me? Why the hell didn’t you warn me that one of your children had information that could blow your case out of the water? I heard something about the Hells Angels, but you can be damn sure I didn’t hear that this happened the very night she died! So, were you there or not? Your neighbour thought you were. Gorman.”

“You neutralized him with the weatherman and the timing of the snowstorm.”

“Of course I did. That doesn’t mean the poor old fellow had it all wrong. What happened, Beau?”

But he didn’t reply. He just stared at the exposed brick wall of the old house, and tuned me out.

I had no intention of leaving till I got an answer. If he wanted to stew about it for a while, so be it. Then I remembered something else.

“While we’re at it, Beau, tell me about Corbett. Funny I never heard his name before.”

“Community Services placed him with us last year. He had been with us briefly a few years before that. Despite our best efforts, he never fit in.”

“That must happen quite often with foster children.”

“True.”

“How old is he?”

“Fifteen now.”

“So the placement was what? Terminated? How does it work? Is he back in care with the government? That’s the impression I got from your note.”

“Not exactly.”

“Well, what? Where is he?”

“He ran away.”

“Just as Connor said on the stand.” I glared at him. “Good thing we shut it down when we did.” Delaney sat there without speaking.

“Beau? What’s the story here?”

“The kid was a bad actor. He didn’t get along with the other children.”

“How did he get along with you?”

“Not great.”

“And Peggy?”

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“She thought there was hope for him.”

“And you didn’t.”

“He never would have fit in. His presence put a strain on the family.”

“Peggy didn’t agree?”

“No.”

“What did she see in him that you didn’t?”

“Or what did I see that she did not? I saw trouble. She saw a boy who could be helped.”

“You and Peggy argued about it.”

“Inevitably.”

“Were you arguing about Corbett the night Peggy died?”

It took him awhile, but he denied it: “No.”

I regarded him in silence for a long moment. “Is this a missing person case? Are the police involved? Community Services must be in the loop.”

“I did not call the police.”

“Why not?”

“Because I informed Community Services, and left it up to them to figure out what to do. Corbett originally came here from the Annapolis Valley, so I expect the department here would have been in touch with their people there. And I would imagine they contacted the police as well.”