Rough Justice Read online

  The four of them sat uncomfortably in Grant’s office, on hard wooden chairs which lined the wall, while the prosecutor sat on the edge of his desk and talked to them. He told them the case would be a marathon, not a sprint, and that it would ebb and flow along the way. Piling on the metaphors, he described a criminal trial as a series of skirmishes, and he went on to say that whoever won the key skirmishes would win the war. He advised them, most emphatically, not to lose their tempers under cross-examination, that doing so would be playing into Browning’s hands. Saying this, he looked pointedly at first Maria and then Kate. He concluded by emphasizing that they held a distinct advantage in what was to come because they – and not Joseph Sanderson III – were telling the truth.

  The speech came off as a pep talk and was uncharacteristic of Grant, at least of what Kate had seen of the man, and she wondered if he was trying to convince himself of their chances, as much as them. As he was speaking, she glanced from time to time at the other three women, trying to decide who might be the weak link in the bunch, wondering if it might be her. But she didn’t feel that way, not at this moment. Then again, it had yet to begin.

  And then it did. It was like a blur, moving single file down the hallway and into the noisy courtroom, where a dozen conversations merged into a jangle of words each indistinguishable from the other, the talkers gathered in groups – clerks and lawyers and spectators and cops. The chatter subsided briefly as they entered, as nearly everyone turned for a first look at the four, then the talking resumed, although at a significantly lower volume.

  They were led by Grant to a long wooden table marked PROSECUTOR. There were five chairs waiting, and plastic bottles of water on the table, and legal pads, with sharpened pencils at the ready. Miles Browning was already present, installed at an identical table on the far side of the courtroom. He was leaning forward, talking to a young guy in a black suit. Between the two was Joseph Sanderson III.

  The Mayor.

  He gazed unflinchingly at the four women as they entered, his expression that of a kindly grandfather attending a graduation or wedding. Kate looked back at him, but found she couldn’t hold it for long. The realization unnerved her and after a moment she forced herself to turn to him again. But he was no longer watching them, having diverted his attention to the spectators behind them. Kate turned, saw David among them. He smiled and then winked. She glanced about the crowded gallery for Frances but couldn’t find her.

  The jury was already in the box. Seven women, five men. Kate regarded the twelve, watched them fidgeting, saw them casting quick looks at her and the others before looking away. She wondered if they were nervous too, and she wondered if anybody in the building was not. But then she glanced again at The Mayor. He was not nervous. Whatever he was – and she knew too well some of what he was – he was not nervous, not about this, and quite possibly not about anything. Which was why he could sit there and present himself as the congenial relative, why he could smile and nod to various people in the room like it was a ribbon cutting and not a criminal trial.

  Judge Oliver Pemberton walked in and the place fell silent. Moments later Grant was on his feet, addressing the jury. Kate was surprised just how quickly it had begun. After all these years of waiting, how could anything seem sudden?

  ‘There are four things you need to know,’ Grant said, starting out. He was standing directly in front of the jury box, his hands in his pants pockets, his belly overhanging his belt. ‘And really, they are the only things you need to know. That’s the simplicity of this case. There are no gray areas to consider, no mitigating circumstances, no intricate points of law to argue. There are just four things you need to know. One – Joseph Sanderson the third raped Debra Williams. Two – Joseph Sanderson the third raped Maria Secord. Three – Joseph Sanderson the third raped Kate Burns. And four – Joseph Sanderson the third raped Amanda Long.’

  As he went down the list, Grant moved away from the jury, crossing the courtroom to the table where the four women sat. As he named each in turn, he stopped in front of her and paused before proceeding. Upon finishing, he turned back toward the jury.

  ‘Those are the four things you need to know.’

  Kate looked at the defense table. Browning was doodling on a legal pad, his glasses on the tip of his nose. The Mayor had removed his own glasses and was meticulously cleaning them with a cloth. There were two others at the table now, a man and a woman, presumably assistants or co-counsels to Browning. Of course one of the two was a woman, and of course she was sitting beside The Mayor.

  Grant then gave a brief history on the specifics of each attack, offering the dates, locations and some, but not all, of the details. His pitch was even and controlled, and he gave no indication that the actions that he described disgusted him, or enraged him, or had any effect on him at all. He might have been describing a play he’d seen recently. When he had finished the narrative, he walked back to the table where the women sat.

  ‘These sexual assaults – these rapes – all took place between sixteen and twenty years ago. Does that fact make these crimes any less egregious? Of course not. Justice delayed is justice denied. As a jury, you can do nothing about that delay. However, you can do something about the denial.’ Grant pointed a long forefinger at The Mayor. ‘The defendant here is a man recognizable to most of you, probably to all of you. He was the mayor of Rose City for almost thirty-two years. He has received the Order of Canada. He has dined with prime ministers, diplomats, royalty. He has been a public servant with scores of achievements to his credit. And … he has raped these four women.’ Grant turned back to the jury. ‘That is all you need to know.’

  Grant sat down and Browning stood up. He smiled and nodded in the direction of Grant and then he removed his glasses and placed them on the table. He had a number of papers in his hand. After a moment he put these on the table as well, taking a moment to arrange them in an orderly fashion. Finally, he turned to the jury.

  ‘I was never very proficient in math,’ he said. ‘But I do know the difference between one and four. And I can tell you that there is only one thing you need to know. Joseph Sanderson the third is innocent of these charges. And I will demonstrate to you that fact. Now we may be here for a week or we may be here for a hundred weeks. It matters little to me. All that matters is that when you leave here, you will be utterly convinced of the innocence of this man. You may very well leave here confused as to why these accusations were ever made in the first place – but you will be utterly convinced of my client’s innocence.’

  Browning then provided a rambling biographical sketch of The Mayor’s life, rife with personal details and mentions of his more notable professional accomplishments. Grant had, of course, already alluded to some of these and it occurred to Kate that he had done so to pre-empt Browning in his own opening. Still, Browning managed to touch upon most of the key events of The Mayor’s seventy-two years on the planet. His scholastic achievements in university, fifty years gone, were noted, as was the fact that he had skipped the third grade. Kate wondered what the jury was expected to do with that little nugget of information. Do over-achieving eight-year-olds rarely grow up to be rapists?

  When Browning had finished the details on his Norman Rockwell print he turned again to the matter at hand, shifting from folksy biographer to indignant defender of truth.

  ‘Who are these women who have brought forward these charges?’ he asked, standing by the jury box but looking defiantly at Kate and the others. ‘I don’t know the answer to that question. I have tried mightily to understand, to see what is in their hearts. I don’t know what unfortunate circumstances have combined to bring them here, what harsh conditions would prompt them to invent these malicious accusations. But I do know there is hope for them, as there is for all of us, no matter our trespasses. I believe that as much as I believe in the judicial system we are about to implement here today. But first and foremost, we need to know the truth. We always need to know the truth.’

  At this po
int, Browning walked over and stood directly behind The Mayor, placing his hand on the older man’s shoulder. ‘It’s no secret that my client was a politician in this city for nearly four decades. In my opinion, any politician who stays in the game that long and doesn’t step on a few toes isn’t worth his salt. Is that what is behind these scurrilous charges? Is some unknown person out to settle a score? If so, that person is playing some pretty dirty pool.’ Browning walked over to his own chair. ‘They’re playing dirty pool and I don’t think you should stand for it.’ He hesitated, then as if on sheer impulse he turned back to the jury. ‘No, let me rephrase that. I don’t think we should stand for it. You know what you do with a person who plays dirty pool? You send him packing. So let us do that. Let us do it together.’

  TWO

  Prosecutor Grant called Debra Williams to the stand first. He began by asking her about her background, her education, what she did for a living. There was nothing remarkable about her history, and it seemed that Grant wanted to make that clear, especially in contrast to Browning’s earlier hagiography of The Mayor.

  Finally he approached her, leaving his notes behind. ‘Assistant pro at Oak Creek?’ he said to begin. ‘Would it be inappropriate to ask why I’m hitting my iron shots so thin of late?

  There was subdued laughter from the assembly.

  ‘You’re probably lifting your head,’ Debra said. ‘Keep your eye on the ball.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Grant nodded. ‘We all should keep our eye on the ball.’ He looked at the jury for a long moment, as if appreciating that it was about to begin for real. Until now, it had been shadow boxing and feinting. Now it was eight-ounce gloves. He turned to Debra. ‘The summer of 1995. How old were you that summer?’

  ‘Fourteen. I would be fifteen in September.’

  ‘Where were you living?’

  ‘In the town of Trowbridge.’

  ‘With your family, of course?’

  ‘Yes. Well, my mother and my brother.’

  ‘Your father did not live with you?’

  ‘No. He … he left.’

  Grant nodded and made a point of looking at his notes; he wanted the mention of the absent father to linger.

  ‘How did you first meet the defendant, Joseph Sanderson the third?’ he asked then.

  ‘He has a lake house, on the, um … on the lake up there.’

  ‘Lake Sontag?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And Trowbridge is on the eastern end of the lake?’

  ‘Yes,’ Debra said. ‘After my father left, my mother used to clean cottages for different people on the lake. For extra money. Sometimes I helped out when she got real busy. And that year she started doing the Sanderson place.’

  ‘She was hired to clean the cottage owned by Joseph Sanderson the third,’ Grant said. ‘And you got to know Mr Sanderson?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  ‘Not really. She gave me a pop once or twice. But he was always nice. The year before he lent me his fishing pole. He showed me how to put a worm on the hook, like, to thread it so it wouldn’t fall off. He knew lots about fishing.’

  ‘Tell us what happened on the afternoon of July eleventh, 1995.’

  Debra dropped her eyes, inhaled deeply before looking up and directly at The Mayor. The move seemed rehearsed, something to trigger her resolve. ‘We were cleaning the Sanderson place. There was nobody there. I was cleaning the kitchen and my mom finished the bedrooms and stuff and she said that she was gonna drive over to the Robsons’ and start there. It was … I don’t know … down the road a bit, out on the point. So she left and I was cleaning the kitchen, and then … he showed up.’

  ‘Who showed up?’ Grant asked.

  ‘He did,’ Debra said, looking at The Mayor again.

  ‘The defendant?’

  ‘Yes. And he started talking to me. About the pickerel hatch that year, I remember. And he was really talkative that day. Like he’d been drinking.’

  ‘Objection.’ Browning said the word with such casual indifference that there seemed some confusion at first as to where it came from. Judge Pemberton was not among those confused.

  ‘Sustained,’ he said. He looked at Debra. ‘Stick to what you know. You cannot speculate as to things you don’t.’

  She nodded. ‘He was talking a lot, like I said. He said he was there for the weekend and that Mrs Sanderson was driving up later. And he was asking me about school and stuff. He told me I was pretty. I remember he told me I looked like Michelle Pfeiffer. After a while he took his bag or luggage or whatever down the hall. And a couple minutes later he came, like, halfway back, and he asked me if the big bedroom had been cleaned. And I said yeah. And he said he didn’t think so. He asked me to have a look. So I went down to the room and as soon as I stepped inside—’ Here she hesitated.

  ‘It’s all right,’ Grant said. ‘Take your time.’

  ‘As soon as I stepped into the room, he tried to kiss me. And I, like, tried to make a joke, and I just pushed away. I said, I have to finish the kitchen. I think I said my mom’s waiting for me. But then he grabbed me and he did kiss me, hard. And then he kicked the door closed and he … he threw me on the bed and pulled my shorts off. And he raped me.’

  Grant nodded, working the moment. ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘After I walked into the bedroom, he didn’t say anything. He just … did it.’

  ‘Did he say anything afterwards?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Yeah. Well, he left and went into the bathroom, and I got dressed and I was crying but I went back to the kitchen and kept cleaning the sink. I didn’t know what else to do. And after a while he came back, and he just started talking like nothing had happened.’

  ‘He didn’t refer to what had happened?’ Grant asked. ‘He didn’t make mention of the fact that he had just assaulted you?’

  ‘After a while, he … he started talking about my mom,’ Debra said. ‘He said he knew my mom didn’t have much money, and that she needed cleaning jobs. He said that he knew everybody my mom worked for.’

  ‘So he was telling you that if you didn’t keep quiet, your mom would lose these jobs?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Objection,’ Browning said in his quiet, bored voice. He was reading some notes on the table and did not so much as look up. Watching him, Kate thought of a father, absently reprimanding unruly children while reading the newspaper.

  Grant turned to Judge Pemberton and held his hands up as if conceding. ‘What was your reaction,’ he asked Debra, ‘to what he was telling you? What did you think he meant?’

  ‘That if I told anybody, my mom would lose her cleaning jobs. And we wouldn’t have any money.’

  ‘What happened then?’

  ‘I finished cleaning the kitchen and I got out of there. I went over to the Robson place.’

  ‘Did you tell your mom what happened?’ Grant asked.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What did your mom say?’

  ‘She didn’t say anything. She was on a ladder outside, washing the bay window, all those little squares, and she didn’t say anything. After a while, she told me to go inside and vacuum.’

  ‘And that was it?’ Grant asked.

  ‘No,’ Debra said. ‘That night, after supper, we were sitting outside. She was having a cigarette. I remember cuz she gave me a cigarette that night. First time she ever did that. And she asked me why I wasn’t going into town to hang out with my friends, like I did most nights. And I told her I didn’t want to see anybody because I was ashamed. And finally she told me there was nothing we could do about it. Because he was rich and we were poor.’

  ‘Because he was rich and you were poor,’ Grant repeated.

  ‘That’s what she said.’

  Grant walked back to the table. Kate watched him as he once again went through the lawyerly pose of reading from his notes. It seemed he’d accomplished what he wanted to and he wanted the testimony to sink in.

  When he finally turned back to Debra Williams,
he backtracked, asked her about her schooling, her life before and after the rape, what her relationships as an adult had been like. He kept her on the stand until half past three, and then he thanked her for her testimony.

  As Browning stood to begin his cross-examination Grant announced that he wished to meet with the judge and Browning in private, that there were matters of procedure that needed clarification. After some consultation at the bench, the judge called an adjournment until the following day.

  ‘Matters of procedure, my ass,’ Kate said. She and David were standing in the rear parking lot outside the courthouse. Kate and the others had been advised to use a side door which led to the lot. The media were gathered again by the front steps, waiting for Browning and The Mayor to emerge. A couple of reporters had approached when Kate and the other three women had exited the courthouse but they had been shooed away by a pair of cops who were there, Kate suspected, at Grant’s behest.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ David asked.

  ‘Grant called the old man a serial rapist in his opening statement and then he put a woman on the stand who backed it up. That’s what he wants the jury to go home with. Not whatever Browning’s going to have for Debra Williams.’

  Glancing back, Kate saw Frances walk out the front door of the courthouse while Browning was conducting an interview with the press corps on the steps, The Mayor standing at his side. Frances was watching the old man and even from that distance Kate could see the contempt on her face. When Kate waved Frances started over. She was wearing a black t-shirt with a Fair Trade logo on the breast and tan cotton pants. Her dark hair was tied at the back of her neck. She hugged Kate.

  ‘I didn’t see you in there,’ Kate said.

  ‘I got here late and got stuck up in the balcony, with the proletariat,’ Frances said.

  ‘What did you think of Browning?’ David asked.

  ‘I think he’s a windbag,’ Frances said.

  ‘But a professional windbag,’ Kate said.

  Frances nodded. ‘And you can tell how much he loves the spotlight, how he loves to hear himself talk. Can you imagine living with a guy like that? Pontificating from dawn to dusk? Must be exhausting.’