Detective-Sergeant O’Hearne the truth. He had fired a shot over the head of Mr. Moscovitch in jest. Surely had it been otherwise, our astute officers would have found blood — in the cottage, on the grounds. Somewhere. They searched inside and outside, they brought in dogs, but could find no blood, or evidence of a struggle anywhere, and these are men who know how to go about their business. They came up empty because Barney Panofsky was telling the truth. So where, you may well ask, is the missing Mr. Moscovitch? He is surviving somewhere, not for the first time, under an assumed name. Really, as the Crown has already argued, then how come he left all his clothes behind? Well, did he? Does Detective-Sergeant O’Hearne know exactly how many clothes Mr. Moscovitch brought with him? Can he testify, under oath, that Mr. Moscovitch did not in fact make off with a shirt, a pair of trousers, and shoes and socks? Ah, but he left a bank book behind, and there have been no withdrawals from his account since. But how do we know there are not other accounts in other banks? Other countries, even. Mr. Moscovitch was no ordinary man. He was sick, a drug addict, and a reckless gambler. Did he flee, and assume another identity, to evade drug dealers, bookmakers, or casino proprietors to whom he owed great sums of money? You will hear from witnesses, including a celebrated Canadian novelist and an internationally famous American painter, who knew both Mr. Moscovitch and Mr. Panofsky in Paris, that Mr. Moscovitch has disappeared before, for months at a time. And I will introduce into the evidence a short story by Mr. Moscovitch, but I am obliged to apologize in advance for the obscene, and occasionally blasphemous, language, which may offend you. The story is titled ‘Margolis’ and is about a man who walks out on his wife and child, and assumes a new identity elsewhere. Mr. Moscovitch, you will be surprised to learn — as Barney Panofsky was astonished to discover — does in fact have a wife and young child, living in Denver, and they hold him in such high regard that they are not here today. You will learn from witnesses, and I will introduce cheque stubs to prove, that time and again Mr. Panofsky bailed out his friend when his gambling debts became insupportable — the very same friend he would find in bed with his wife.
“I will not suffer the grieving Mr. Panofsky to testify in this courtroom. Falsely accused, he has already endured enough. Two betrayals. His wife. His best friend. But I am counting on your good sense to acquit him. In conclusion, and at the risk of being adjudged indiscreet, I must confess that there is nothing like a lawyer’s life. Why, this case is so nonsensical, so lacking in substance, that I feel guilty accepting my fee. And from here I go on to defend a man accused of stealing the Crown jewels from the Tower of London. But there is a problem. There are no jewels missing. You have a similar problem to deal with here. A respectable man charged with murder. Problem. There is no body. Thank you very much.”
O’Hearne testified that when he had come to the cottage he had discovered that I had fresh calluses on the palms of my hands, which I claimed to have acquired digging an asparagus trench. Far from being happily married, it seemed, on questioning me further, that I kept a mistress in Toronto, a Jewish woman. “You fucking keep her name out of this,” I had said. I had lied three times to him about the hidden [sic] revolver before I said, “I got him right through the heart, and then I buried him out there in the woods, where those pricks are searching right now.” I had been a hostile witness, given to obscenities, taking the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ in vain more than once. Finally I became violent and had to be restrained. Obviously contemptuous of the gentile officers of the Sûreté du Québec, I had called him, said O’Hearne — apologizing for the crudity of my language before quoting me — a functionally illiterate prick.
I had to admire that bastard. The accused, O’Hearne went on to say, whose library included many