Blood on a Saint (15 page)

“I couldn’t make out any words. This was when I was still mostly asleep. I just heard loud voices and footsteps and they woke me up.”

The witness had Monty’s full attention, and that of Bill MacEwen as well.

“You heard more than one voice then, did you?”

She looked to the prosecutor, whose face offered nothing in the way of assistance.

“Ms. Isenor?” Monty prompted her.

“I’m not sure. I thought maybe it was more than one voice. But it couldn’t have been, because when I looked out there was only one person. Him.” She pointed to Podgis.

“Where exactly was Mr. Podgis when you first saw him out your window?”

“Coming out of Byrne Street onto Morris.”

“What floor do you live on, Ms. Isenor?”

“Third.”

“Do you have a view of St. Bernadette’s church from that height?”

“Yes, I do.”

“So the instant that you first saw Mr. Podgis, where was he in relation to the church?”

“He was a little way past the church, almost to the corner with Morris.”

“Quite a distance from your window in terms of being able to hear footsteps. Would you agree?”

“I heard them, and I saw him.”

“But when you first heard the sound of feet, you were still in bed. That’s what woke you up. So at that point, Mr. Podgis would have been even farther away.”

Bill MacEwen got to his feet. “Mr. Collins seems to be giving evidence, perhaps even opinion evidence, Your Honour.”

“Do you have a question for the witness, Mr. Collins?”

“Yes, I do, Your Honour. Ms. Isenor, on reflection now, do you think it must have been footsteps sounding before you saw Mr. Podgis approaching the corner? Do you think that whoever was yelling might also be responsible for the footsteps?”

“I don’t know. He’s the only person I saw.”

“Because the other person or persons had already gone by the time you were fully awake and at the window?”

Again, she looked to the prosecutor for guidance, but he could not help her.

“Let me ask you this. You said voices in the plural. Did you hear two or more different voices?”

“Well, I just thought I’d heard voices or a voice. I was very sleepy at the time. Drifting in and out of sleep.”

“Yes, I understand. When you looked out and saw Mr. Podgis, could you tell if his mouth was moving, as if he was speaking?”

“I don’t remember seeing that.”

“Were the voices you heard men’s voices?”

The witness suddenly looked as if she was in way over her head.

“Ms. Isenor?”

It took her a while. Monty waited. “Maybe a man and a woman.”

Well. This changed the water on the beans, as Monty’s mother-in-law was fond of saying. It was not going to get any better than that. The witness could not have heard Podgis and the murder victim’s voices, if in fact they had been together. The distance between the apartment building and the back of the churchyard was too great. Of course what she heard may just have been a guy and a girl passing by late at night or early in the morning. This was an area of the city where a great many university students lived. But Monty would make as much of it at trial as he could: other people in the area of the crime scene at the same time as Podgis. He thanked the witness and sat down.

Bill MacEwen got up to examine her on redirect. “Ms. Isenor, you did not see anyone else in the area of Byrne and Morris streets when you got up, correct?”

“That’s right.”

“Just Mr. Podgis, running from the church area and looking wildly about him. Is that right?”

“Yes, he’s the only person I saw. And something about him scared me!”

“Thank you.”

Monty leaned over to his client. “Are you sure you don’t want a publication ban?”

“No! I’ve been stuck with them as a journalist. I’m not going to hide behind the curtains now that I’m the one being persecuted.”

The Crown’s next witness was a familiar one. Bill MacEwen called him to the stand and the court clerk swore him in.

“Would you state your full name for the court, please.”

“Brennan Xavier Burke.”

“And you are a priest?”

“That’s right.”

“Where do you work, Father?”

“St. Bernadette’s, the church and choir school.”

“How long have you been there?”

“Since 1989.”

“And before that, where did you live?”

“New York. Before that, Dublin. Rome for a while. A couple of other places.”

“How long have you been a priest?”

“Over twenty-five years.”

“All right. Thank you, Father. Now, can you tell us where you were on the night of September twenty-third?”

“For the early part of the evening, I was at the Atlantic Television studio on Robie Street.”

“And what were you doing there?”

“I was a guest on the
Pike Podgis Show
.”

“How did you come to be on the show?”

“As a priest I have a duty of obedience to my bishop.”

There was laughter in the courtroom at that.

“And on this occasion?”

“The bishop gave me my orders: go on the show.”

Laughter again.

“Are you telling us you did not want to appear on the program?”

“That’s correct.”

“Why not?”

Monty rose to object. “Your Honour, with respect, I do not see how Father Burke’s feelings about the program are relevant to the question before us today.”

“Mr. MacEwen?”

“Your Honour, Father Burke’s reluctance to go on the show, and the events that unfolded during the show, are relevant to the conversation we are putting in evidence, a conversation that occurred sometime after the conclusion of the broadcast.”

“I’ll allow it. Go ahead, Mr. MacEwen.”

“Father Burke, I was asking you about your enthusiasm, or lack of enthusiasm, about appearing on Mr. Podgis’s TV show. Could you tell us a bit about that?”

“Last thing in the world I wanted to do. I don’t like talk shows, which, from my experience of hearing them on the radio — I’d never seen the TV version — involve a lot of shouting and rudeness and lack of depth with respect to whatever is the topic of the day. I saw no value in participating.”

“But Archbishop Cronin thought differently? He thought it was a worthwhile endeavour?”

“He told me it would be mud wrestling.” Bursts of laughter greeted his remark. “But if religion and the faith were being debated, we should put someone forward to explain our position. So of course I deferred to a higher power and turned up for the event.”

“Who else was on the show?”

“Professor Rob Thornhill of Dalhousie University. He teaches sociology. And Pod — Mr. Podgis was the host.”

“You were to debate Professor Thornhill, was that the idea?”

“Yes, Rob would speak from the point of view of a non-believer, and I would argue in favour of belief.”

“Belief in God.”

“Yes.”

“Tell us how it went.”

“Dennis Cronin was right. It had all the dignity of a mud-wrestling match. That was no fault of Rob Thornhill, who is one of the most pleasant and mannerly people I know. It was Podgis and his vulgar remarks, and his pandering to the audience and really, it seemed, the lowest common denominator in — ”

“Your Honour!” Monty exclaimed. “This characterizing of Mr. Podgis in such a way is uncalled for and not at all helpful in this proceeding. I would ask the court to admonish the witness to stick to the facts, and to comport himself with the dignity he seems to demand of others.”

Monty was getting the death stare from Burke’s coal-black eyes. He affected not to notice.

“Mr. MacEwen?” the judge asked. “Is this a bit of editorializing by the witness? Are we straying a bit from the facts here?”

“Your Honour, the atmosphere on the set of the show is relevant to what occurred later. But Father Burke, perhaps you could just let us know what happened, and not spend as much time on your own characterization of Mr. Podgis’s style of performance.”

No reply from Burke.

“So. Father Burke. What happened on the show?”

“Mr. Podgis asked a couple of questions about religion and science, and I gave my answers, imparting some facts and history that seemed to have been hitherto unknown to Podgis and his audience. But I was constantly interrupted by crass and puerile remarks directed at me or at the audience. When asked what reasonable arguments one can make for belief, I began to lay the groundwork for my answer but again was interrupted by crude comments and gestures.”

“And what happened then?”

“I decided I’d had quite enough, and I got up and left.”

“You walked off the set?”

“Right.”

“Did you notice any reaction from Mr. Podgis as a result of that?”

“No. I didn’t give him another look.”

Bill MacEwen took a few seconds to review his notes, then resumed his examination.

“What did you do after that, Father Burke?”

“I drove home to the parish house.”

“And?”

“Stayed there for a few minutes, took off my collar, and put on casual clothes, then went out again.”

“Where did you go?”

“Midtown.”

“The Midtown Tavern on Grafton Street.”

“Right.”

“And what went on there?”

“I enjoyed a beer and talked to a few people there, and then I left.”

“What happened when you left?”

“I started to walk down Grafton Street and I was accosted by Mr. Podgis.”

“What time was this?”

“Around half-eleven.”

“Eleven thirty?”

“Yes.”

“Now, what do you mean, accosted?”

“He lurched towards me on the sidewalk and started roaring into my face.”

“What was he saying?”

“He was blathering on about the show, and who was I to walk off the
Pike Podgis Show
when he got dozens of appeals every week from people who were dying to appear on the program. I tried to step around him and get on my way, but he tried to block me.”

“How did you react to his attempt to block you?”

“I suggested that he let me pass.”

That was not the version of events Monty had heard, but he would get to that in time.

“Was anything else said at that point?”

“Words were exchanged.”

“Tell us about that.”

“I may have said something to the effect that if he didn’t get out of my way, I would make him consubstantial with the pavement beneath our feet.”

“Consubstantial meaning . . .”

“One in substance with the pavement, as in I’d pound him into it and then walk over him to get away.”

Muted laughter and a stern look from the Crown.

“Did you have any intention of carrying out that . . . course of action, or was it just a manner of speaking?”

“If I’d intended to carry it out, I’d have done it. Flattened him. I didn’t.”

“Your Honour!” Monty protested again. “This witness has admitted to threatening Mr. Podgis with physical harm. I submit that his evidence against my client should therefore be — ”

“You’ll have time for submissions later on, Mr. Collins. Mr. MacEwen, proceed with your witness.”

“What occurred after that, Father Burke?”

“Podgis told me to get along home. He didn’t have any more time to waste on me because he had a date. He was going off to meet a woman somewhere.”

“Those were his words, that he was going to meet a woman?”

“He didn’t say ‘woman.’ He referred to her as a young bit of stuff or something like that.”

“Is there anything else you can tell us about the conversation or the encounter with Mr. Podgis?”

“No, that’s about it. I left him there and walked back to St. Bernadette’s.”

Monty was about to rise to cross-examine the witness when Podgis leaned over and bleated, “Tear that fucking bastard apart!” Monty was taken aback by the viciousness in his client’s voice and the look of sheer hatred on his face. If there was anyone who could dish it out — on national TV — but not take it, it was Pike Podgis. Might be rethinking the publication ban about now.

Monty spoke into his ear. “Take it easy, Podgis. He had to testify to what happened. He was subpoenaed by the Crown. This is the way it works, when you get yourself charged with murder. Now compose yourself as if none of this bothers you in the least, because you know you’re innocent, and let’s do our jobs here.”

He got up then, and addressed the witness. His closest friend, when they were not facing each other in a courtroom.

“Father Burke, you told us you went to the rectory before going to the Midtown. You were only there for a few minutes. Why did you go there?”

“To change my clothes.”

“Why did you do that?”

“To take off my work clothes before heading out.”

“To take off your collar?”

“That’s part of taking off my work clothes.”

“Is there any particular reason you didn’t want to wear your white collar to the tavern?”

“Your Honour, how is this relevant?” the Crown asked.

“I’ll move on, Your Honour,” Monty conceded; he could have added
now that I’ve tried to suggest Burke was off for a night of heavy boozing and did not want to be seen in the collar of a priest of the Church.

“How did you get from the rectory to the Midtown?”

“I walked.”

“Didn’t take your car.”

No reply. He had already answered. Burke could be a man of few words when he chose to be.

“How long were you in the Midtown?”

“Hour and a half, two hours.”

“I take it that, if you were in the Midtown, you were drinking?”

Burke gave Monty a look that said he knew the Pope was Catholic, and Monty should too.

“Answer the question, please, Father.”

“The one doesn’t necessarily follow from the other. One could go to the Midtown to talk with friends, watch a game on the screen, and drink ginger ale. But in my case, yes, I had something to drink.”

“And what were you drinking?”

As if Monty didn’t know, from more than two years of drinking at the Midtown with Burke.

“Draft beer.”

“How many did you have?”

“Not many.”

“You don’t know how many draft you had?”

“I knew at the time how many draft I had. But the number was not outstanding enough to remain in the forefront of my mind.”