next? Will I be asked to defend an honest banker against a swindling charge, when there is no money missing? Or a respectable citizen accused of burning down his warehouse, when there has been no fire? I have such respect for the law, our distinguished judge, my learned confrères, and you, gentlemen of the jury, that I must apologize in advance for this case ever having come so far, an insult to your intelligence. But here we are, faute de mieux, so I must get on with it. As you have already heard, Barney Panofsky, a loving husband and provider, turned up expectedly at his cottage in the Laurentians one morning and found his wife and his best friend in bed together. Imagine the scene, those of you who are also loving husbands. He arrives, bearing treats, and discovers himself betrayed. By his wife. By his best friend. My learned confrère will ask you to believe that Mrs. Panofsky was not committing adultery. Oh, no. She was not wanton. Consumed by illicit lust. Wearing an alluring nightgown, she snuggled into bed with Mr. Moscovitch because he was trembling, and she wished to warm him. I hope you are touched. But, to come clean, I’m not. Were there no more blankets available? Or a hot-water bottle? And how come when the accused surprised the two of them in bed, how come the wife to whom he was devoted was no longer wearing her revealing pink satin nightgown? Was Mrs. Panofsky, unlike the trembling Mr. Moscovitch, insensitive to cold? Or was she obliged to shed her protective nightgown in order to facilitate penetration? I leave that up to you to decide. I also trust you to decide why a married woman, entering another man’s bedroom in the absence of her husband, did not stop to put on her readily available dressing-gown. I also must ask, if her embracing Mr. Moscovitch was so innocent, why did she flee the cottage in such haste? Why didn’t she stay on to explain? Was it because she was consumed by shame? Justifiably, if you ask me. You will hear medical evidence of a residue of male sperm found on Mr. Moscovitch’s sheets, but don’t let that worry you. He probably masturbated during the night.”
Savouring the jury’s laughter, an emboldened Hughes-McNoughton went on to say, “But, given that the accused was understandably shocked by what he chanced on in that bedroom … his adored wife, his cherished friend … it was still no licence for murder, and I put it to you there was no murder. Or there would also be a body. Mr. Moscovitch and the accused quarrelled, that’s true, and both of them had a good deal to drink. Too much to drink. Mr. Moscovitch elected to go for a swim, a bad idea in his condition, and Mr. Panofsky, unaccustomed to the intake of so much liquor, passed out on the sofa. When he wakened, he could not find Mr. Moscovitch anywhere inside the house or on the dock. He feared he had drowned. Mark you, he did not flee the scene, like Mrs. Panofsky. Instead, he immediately summoned the police. Hurry, he said. Now does that sound like the action of a guilty man? No. Certainly not. But, as you have already heard, a shot was fired from the service revolver that belonged to Mr. Panofsky’s father, Detective-Inspector Israel Panofsky. A good deal has been made of the fact that the accused initially lied about the weapon found on the premises. Given that the officers of the Sûreté are our protectors, this is regrettable. But it is also understandable, for, at the time, Barney Panofsky was both grieving and fearful. So he twice tried on fumbling, evasive responses about the provenance of the revolver. But he finally volunteered the truth when he could have remained silent and asked to speak to his lawyer. Remember, this son of a detective-inspector, raised to revere the law, was not coerced into telling the truth. Happily the citizens of this province,” he proclaimed, pausing to nod at O’Hearne, “do not live in a Third World country where suspects are beaten up by the police as a matter of course. No sir. We are fortunate in our Sûreté and have every reason to take pride in the decorum of its officers.
“So Mr. Panofsky told