The Case Against Owen Williams by Allan Donaldson Page A

was white, untanned and untannable, like that of the Irish girls Dorkin had gone to school with in Saint John.
    â€œWhy are you wearing clothes like that?” Dorkin asked. “Where is your uniform?”
    â€œThe Mounties took it the night I was arrested, sir,” Williams said.
    â€œYou didn’t get another uniform?”
    â€œNo, sir.”
    That would be Fraser’s doing, Dorkin thought, with the idea of distancing Williams from the army and himself.
    â€œYou still don’t have a lawyer?” Dorkin asked.
    â€œNo, sir. My uncle tried to get one in Fredericton, but he couldn’t find anyone.”
    â€œYour uncle?”
    â€œYes, sir. My mother and father are both dead. My father got gassed in the war. He couldn’t work much, and he died when I was ten years old. My mother died a couple of years ago. They had a farm in Carnarvon, but that went to my uncle for debts or something.”
    â€œI see,” Dorkin said. “Well, if you can’t afford a lawyer, the court will appoint one for you. You can’t be tried without a lawyer.”
    â€œMaybe after today I won’t need one,” Williams said.
    Dorkin affected not to be surprised by such naivety.
    â€œAll I did was walk that girl a little way from the dance hall and leave her,” Williams said. “I didn’t do anything to her.”
    Dorkin studied him. He sounded confident enough, but he had had over three weeks to practise speeches like that.
    â€œThat may be,” Dorkin said, “but I think I’d better warn you that a prosecutor doesn’t usually go to a preliminary hearing unless he is reasonably sure that he has a chance of his case being sent to trial.”
    Dorkin saw Williams’s face whiten even further, and the fingers dropped from the table edge into his lap.
    â€œBut I didn’t do anything to her.”
    â€œI’m sorry,” Dorkin said, “but I have to warn you. They evidently feel that they have enough evidence to justify a trial, and that is what will probably happen.”
    â€œWhat will happen today?”
    â€œThey’re going to present the evidence they have to a magistrate. If he thinks it’s enough to make it seem possible that you are guilty, he’ll set a trial date in two or three months. If you had a lawyer, he would contest their evidence. Since you don’t, you shouldn’t say anything yourself at all. You’ll only get yourself in more trouble. When you’re asked if there’s anything you want to say, you should say that you’ve been advised not to say anything until you have a lawyer to represent you.”
    â€œBut then they’ll think I’m guilty,” Williams said.
    â€œNo, they won’t. It’s the normal thing to do in the circumstances.”
    Williams stared across the table at the window beyond which the leaves of a maple tree stood against the sky, and birds came and went, and the ordinary world went on. Dorkin was afraid Williams was going to start to cry.
    â€œDo you understand?” Dorkin repeated. “You shouldn’t make any statements in court. Or to anyone about any of this until you get a lawyer. But listen to what is said so that you can tell your lawyer when you have one about anything which doesn’t seem to be an accurate account of what happened. Do you understand?”
    â€œWhy couldn’t my uncle find a lawyer?” Williams asked.
    â€œI don’t know,” Dorkin lied. “There may not have been anyone who was free to take the case.”
    No one would take it, Dorkin knew, because it was a case where there was nothing to be gained—not money evidently and certainly not glory. If Williams were convicted, his lawyer would be seen as having chalked up a well-deserved defeat in defence of a bad cause, and he would have to endure such guilt as he might be capable of at having a client hanged—for if Williams were convicted, he would