April Fool by William Deverell

Yesterday, Arthur escaped from a TV crew on his old John Deere.
    He hopes the judge will be fair-tempered, and not one of the many he offended in the course of boisterous debate. He hasn’t been in a courtroom for years, but feels the old tension, his heart working harder. He tells himself to relax, he will be but a spectator today.
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    Chugging down the street to a loud thrum of engine–his muffler is loose–Arthur arrives in the capital of British Columbia. Victoria is lush with flowering plum and cherry trees, gardeners sprucing up the boulevards for the Americans and Japanese who will flock here in season to imbibe the floral gardens, winding streets, and tea rooms serving scones and Devonshire cream.
    The courthouse is a drab, boxy affair, six storeys on half a city block. Arthur has defended many cases here, but he can’t bring any quickly to mind: yes, the bribery scandal, of course. The Beacon Park murder. But his triumphs are starting to lose shape, to blur in memory.
    He hurries through a side door, avoiding the news cameras at the front. He utters a mild epithet on reading the posted docket: Edward Santorini is presiding in contested chambers–former chief Crown Attorney, loser of five straight murders against him. One time, while racked with a ferocious hangover, Arthur lashed out at Santorini, called him a horse’s ass.
    He glances over the criminal list, sees Nicholas Faloon’s name, murder in the first degree, Provincial Courtroom 5. The crush of events has squeezed Faloon from his thoughts–this must be the mental fitness hearing.
    Brian Pomeroy was on the answering machine: “I’ll do what I can, Arthur, but I’m afraid Nick’s deoxyribonucleic acid was found in a most inconvenient place.” Arthur is pleased Brian jumped to the task but dismayed that somehow–impossibly, absurdly–the DNA fingerprinting found a match in Faloon. He wonders if there’ll be time to pop down to the criminal courts. But in the meantime he’s late for the Gwendolyn hearing.
    Todd Clearihue is in the corridor, speaking to a reporter, promoting Garlinc’s case but seeming anxious to return to court. He beats Arthur to the door, cracks it open. “They got started twenty minutes ago.” A friendly punch on the arm. “Hey, Arthur, I know we’ll be toking the peace pipe when this is all over. Listen, help me. Who’s the looker working your side? Damn, she’s familiar.”
    â€œLotis Rudnicki. The young lady you picked up hitchhiking.” Sorry I couldn’t fulfill your fantasies.
    Clearihue blanches.
    The room is crowded–mostly environmentalists, Arthur supposes. Counsel for Garlinc is Paul Prudhomme, a silver-haired patrician, old money, privately schooled, unambitious. He is fielding questions from the judge.
    â€œWhy can’t you go around that tree?”
    Prudhomme is about to answer but is distracted by Arthur striding up the aisle–the grand entrance is an old habit, a show of control and confidence. He exchanges nods with Prudhomme, with Santorini, and eases his creaking back onto a chair behind lynx-eyed Lotis Morningstar Rudnicki. She looks almost unrecognizable in a chic pantsuit, with her hair brushed. No wonder Clearihue had trouble placing her. Beside her is an angular young man in a long ponytail, obviously Selwyn Loo. Arthur is confounded to see a whitecane at his table. Dark glasses. The blindfold chess champion.
    Selwyn turns to him, as if aware of his nearness through highly tuned senses. Arthur leans forward, but before he can introduce himself, Selwyn says, “Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp.”
    â€œHow did you know?”
    â€œI’ve heard you smoke a pipe.”
    Arthur’s suit must smell of it, the pipe in his pocket. He earns a brisk handshake, then cannot retreat as Selwyn tugs him into a chair at counsel table, whispering, “I need all the help I can get–the judge is a