The Case Against Owen Williams

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Authors: Allan Donaldson
Tags: FIC000000, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Contemporary Fiction, FIC034000
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the stand. Dorkin had never heard what the H. P. stood for, but he recalled a much-told story in which some witty judge had once said to Whidden, “Don’t give me no sauce, H. P.”
    Leading his entourage today was his junior partner, Donald McKiel. Thirty years old, tall, lean, bespectacled, he was as great a contrast to Whidden as calculation could have devised. Dorkin had been in residence with McKiel, a freshman when McKiel had been in his final year. McKiel had been one of those frightening rarities, a student who had decided exactly what he wanted to become before he ever arrived at university and pursued his goal with unswerving singleness of purpose. No booze, no late nights, no dames. Some squash, at which he was very good, to keep fit, a movie or a game of bridge now and then to clear the head.
    It was possible to imagine Whidden, even at sixty, destroying himself through some spectacular act of folly. Not so McKiel.
    As they settled themselves, the clock on top of the post office down the street began to strike ten, the sound at first just registering above the buzz of conversation, then silencing it. In that silence, Thurcott emerged from the door behind the bench and took his place. Then from another door to the side, Carvell and a deputy sheriff escorted Williams to his place at the table along the side to Dorkin’s left.
    He was dressed as Dorkin had seen him earlier in his rumpled work uniform, which made him appear as if he were already a convict. As he sat down, obviously stunned by his surroundings, he seemed the very image of abject guilt brought before the bar of justice.
    Thurcott tapped his gavel, cleared his throat, and began. They were here to conduct the preliminary hearing of Owen Thomas Williams, private in the Seaforth Highlanders of Nova Scotia, lately of the County of York, in connection with the death of Sarah Elizabeth Coile of the County of George, who met her death by foul play at some time between July l and July 5 this year of our lord 1944.
    â€œThe Crown is to be represented in these proceedings by special prosecutor H. P. Whidden and assistant prosecutor Donald McKiel. I regret to say that Private Williams is not represented by counsel. Is that correct?”
    He turned to Williams, and Williams mumbled something in-audible. “You understand that you yourself have the right to question witnesses if you wish,” Thurcott said, “but I must warn you that anything you say will constitute evidence in this case and may be used against you. Do you understand?”
    â€œI have been advised by Lieutenant Dorkin that I should not say anything until I have a lawyer,” Williams said in a low voice, as if reciting a lesson.
    Thurcott turned to Dorkin.
    â€œI realize that you are not here to represent Williams,” Thurcott told him, “but you are naturally free to seek clarification of any of the testimony that is presented, if you wish.”
    Dorkin nodded, disguising the nervousness he felt under the scrutiny of so many eyes.
    â€œWe may proceed then,” Thurcott said. “Mr. Whidden, if you will call your first witness.”
    Whidden rose slowly, leaning forward with one hand on the table.
    â€œI beg to inform you, sir,” he said, the rich voice booming effortlessly, “that I have turned this part of the proceedings over to my assistant, Mr. McKiel.”
    A murmur of disappointment ran through the spectators, and McKiel rose and called Corporal Drost of the RCMP .
    Corporal Drost, in full dress uniform, sat with a small notebook discreetly in his right hand and began the story of the discovery of Sarah Coile: the phone call from her mother, the interviews with Vinny Page and Williams, their futile enquiries, his expedition in the company of Sheriff Carvell to The Silver Dollar and their walk through the woods to the Hannigan Road, their investigation of the churchyard and their arrival at the gravel pit.
    â€œAs we descended the

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