The weekend away had been everything Beau had needed. He felt recharged and ready for what he knew was going to be a critical week in the trial. He’d set aside Sunday evening to review his trial strategy.

Before he’d left for the weekend, Beau had asked Tippy Mah to save the weekend’s papers. The minute he stepped back into his room Sunday night there it was, jumping off the front page of the Saturday edition. Beau’s anger quickly turned to excitement as he realized the words headlining the front page would support another mistrial motion. And then just as quickly, he remembered the judge’s warning with its understated and unmistakable threat of judicial censure and penalty which had been directed at Beau. He needed to be careful. 

But as Beau prepared he thought about this judge. He was not unreasonable, he was just traditional and understandably positioned himself as the bailiff of justice and fair trials. Beau knew that he would understand a good, aggressive defence lawyer was essential in a criminal trial, in his own way helping to ensure a fair and correct outcome.

Beau decided that it wasn’t personal between him and the judge.  The force of the exchanges might make observers think so, but both the judge and the lawyers in this case had separate responsibilities and it was in the natural tension between all three that the criminal justice system worked. 

Beau made his decision and fell asleep.

“My Lord” Beau rose to his feet, waving a copy of the Whitehorse Star above his shoulder, his voice gathered with the coiled energy of the outraged, “I am made fully aware that your Lordship has little patience with motions for mistrial and I stand aware that you have warned me of consequence but M’ Lord I have no other choice.” 

He could tell that the judge was trying to capture the offending headline of which he was by now certain would be at the root of his complaint, foiled though he was by the constant waving. Beau stopped moving and wordlessly brought the Saturday edition of the Whitehorse Star up in front of him, giving the judge a clear view of the headline: “STOKES TO CLAIM INSANITY” screamed the headline in big bold three inch font.

“You have my attention, Mr Jackson.”

“My Lord, I have complained previously that the editorial position of the Whitehorse Star is being injected into every story about this trial. I have complained that the young reporter assigned to this trial is injecting his opinion into the daily coverage of this trial, a place for facts alone. I should also tell this court and my learned friend that I had occasion to speak with Mr. Franklyn, the reporter in question.”

Gallagher pounced to his feet, “That is at the very least irregular m’ Lord, Mr. Jackson has no business meeting surreptitiously with a member of the press, trying to influence the media coverage I suppose.” 

Gallagher gathered steam, “It is ironic to say the least, if not blatant cynicism for Mr. Jackson to acknowledge this meeting which must have been intended to influence media coverage of this trial while at the same time complaining about media coverage.”

“Neither irregular, nor planned, nor arranged M’ Lord. Mr. Franklyn approached me unsolicited, hell bent as I recall wanting tell me off in no uncertain terms, haranguing me in public in a local restaurant about defending Mr. Stokes, announcing for all to hear that he knew my client was guilty of first degree murder. I am telling the court because I think it should be on the record as part of this motion for mistrial. 

And quite apart from this obvious intention to influence the jury, the headline can leave only one impression with the jury: my client has an obligation to present a defence. He is under no such obligation to do so, he is presumed to be innocent until proven guilty. He may not present any defence if the prosecution leaves him no such reason. But in any event m’ Lord, this guessing by the Whitehorse Star is injuring my clients chance of a fair trial.”

Now it was Beau’s chance to go for the jugular. 

His voice laced with sarcasm he continued, “Mr. Franklyn has through his own words declared his opinion and bias, he has presumed to assume the role of this jury, potentially stripping them of their ability to render a fair verdict. Were it so simple, perhaps we should have the Whitehorse Star’s publisher and young Mr. Franklyn adjudicate this trial for us. 

They might well call it the Star Chamber.”

Beau knew he was being too clever by half and waited for the sharp rebuke that was his due for the Star Chamber crack.

But none came. Well, none came Beau’s way. With a rising voice, restrained with effort, the judge turned to the prosecutor and said,

“Mr. Gallagher, I am putting you on notice. Mr. Jackson has my attention. I am ordering you to subpoena the publisher of the Whitehorse Star. I want him in court after lunch.”

“There’ll be no need to issue a subpoena m’ Lord, he will come of his own accord.” 

“Mr. Gallagher, let me be clear. Both you and this publisher need to understand one thing. I will control this court and the conduct of this trial. That is my job as it is mine to ensure a fair trial. A fair trial for you Mr. Gallagher as you represent the people of Canada, and a fair trial for the defendant Mr. Stokes. I want a subpoena issued. It will give me the authority to hold parties in contempt in the event further action is needed in this trial.”

In the barrister’s changing room Beau reflected on the morning’s events. He had literally exhaled with relief when the judge got after Gallagher. Not only had he not been the target of the judge’s wrath but he knew now he had the judge’s attention on his mistrial motion. 

After the lunch break the jury was dismissed and the publisher of the Whitehorse Star took the stand. “I’ll ask the questions, Mr. Gallagher” the judge announcing in tone and words that he was very unhappy with the witness before him.

“Do you understand Sir that your paper is the most influential in the Yukon?”

“Yes Your Honour” came the confident reply.

“And do you understand with that influence comes responsibility?” asked the judge, more statement than question.

“I do Your Honour.”

“Well Sir, and I will say this only once. It is not apparent to this court that you do understand that responsibility, or that you as the publisher are providing sufficient guidance to your reporters in their coverage of this trial in my courtroom.”

Young Peter Franklyn was in the gallery and while he had not been named, there was no doubt as to whom the judge was referring. 

“If I may your Honour,” the publisher turned to the judge mounting his defence, “We at the Star take our responsibility to report on important events very seriously. We’ve done that for over a hundred years. And this trial is the trial of the century in the Yukon. The people of the Yukon have a right to know what happened, a right to know the facts. A much loved and prominent citizen of the Yukon was gunned down and our readers want to see justice done!” 

The judge was visibly furious. “Don’t you presume to lecture me or this court on the importance of this trial to the people of the Yukon or the role of the media in reporting it. I have long understood that a free press is a key agency of an open society and that it plays a vital role in criminal justice, a vital link. But in everything you have just said I have come to understand that as Mr. Jackson has argued, you actually do harbour a bias as it relates to the trial. 

This Sir, is not the trial of the century! This is a first degree murder trial in Whitehorse, Yukon. It is no more and no less than that. It is in and of itself important and needs no media declaration to make it so. It will be made neither more or less important by calling it The Trial of the Century. This is a system of justice that has evolved over a thousand years and I will not see you or any reporter trivialize its importance with a fancy name.  

It is a trial of a man before a jury of his peers who will adjudicate his guilt or otherwise based on facts presented and proven beyond a reasonable doubt, free of influence and in a court of law.”

The judge paused to let his last words sink in, “… in a court of law Sir, not in a court of public opinion. Let me repeat myself, lest you be unclear. This jury will adjudicate guilt or otherwise based on facts presented and proved beyond a reasonable doubt, free of influence and in a court of law. In this court of law, not in your newspaper. Do I make myself clear Sir?!”

The publisher remained silent although Beau thought he sensed hostility. If pursed lips and a defiant gaze meant anything, defiance it was. He was not used to being dressed down in such a public place, the humiliation made all the more real as it was in front of people he knew and his own reporter, Peter Franklyn.

“Do I make myself clear?” he repeated, a hint of menace in the judge’s voice.

“Yes, your Honour.”

“And I’m sure you’ll pass on my concerns to your young reporter Mr. Franklyn who I see in the gallery.” 

Beau turned and caught a startled ‘deer in the headlights’ look from Peter Franklyn. The judge wanted to ensure the reporter knew exactly who he was referring to. Mission accomplished.

In one respect Beau was a little disappointed the judge had taken the publisher to task so forcefully; no doubt Franklyn would have his wings clipped by the publisher and that would probably be the end of his reporting mistakes. 

“Mr. Jackson, your mistrial motion is denied. Return the jury please. Mr. Gallagher, do you have any further witnesses?”

“No m’ Lord, the prosecution rests.”

“Mr. Jackson tomorrow is Break Out. You’ll begin your defence Thursday.”

Neither the prosecutor nor the judge knew at this stage whether Beau would call any witnesses and certainly not whether Stokes would take the stand. 

The presumption of innocence means that a defendant in a criminal trial is under no obligation to testify or even produce any witnesses. The defence can simply rest after the prosecution has finished and argue that the facts have not been proven beyond a reasonable doubt.

Strolling back to the T & M Beau reflected on what lay ahead, “I get that Gallagher and the judge don’t know what I’m going to do. Interesting. I don’t either.” It made him laugh out loud.

But what he did know was the trial had a rare mid week adjournment for something called “Break Out”. He’d heard about it. He’d been told by a lawyer friend of his who had spent some time in the north that he had to take in Break Out when he was in Whitehorse. He’d said it’s like all the pent up energy from people being winter bound, for the most part in their homes, all that energy being released in a giant riot of fun and partying. He said it was like Mardi Gras except in cold weather. And he’d also said to Beau, with a twinkle in his eye, “Get ready to meet The Crazies man, they all come out to play.”

Beau was definitely into it. He would just have to find out what ‘it’ was.

Beau had his own form of cabin fever going on and he’d only been in Whitehorse a few weeks. A midweek break in the trial was a little unusual and he could use the time for some more trial prep but perhaps that could wait he thought, silently cajoling himself, “I should find out what this whole Break Out thing is about. Perhaps the Sourtoe Saloon would be a good place to start.”

“Bear, you sonofabitch! How you doin’ brotha?” The American accent was unmistakable, “Hey Shrap, good seeing you man.”

“Meet my buddies.” Beau looked over at Shrap’s companions. They were both small in stature but ramrod straight and well built, they were obviously tough. Of course the military fatigues they were wearing added to his first impression. Beau assumed they were South American and immediately wondered how on earth they had ended up in Whitehorse.

“This rat faced badass is Felipe, you can call him ‘Bean’ and this fucker over here is Pablo. They call him ‘Pablum’. Guys this is ‘Bear’ Jackson, he’s the mouthpiece defending the dude who killed Woods. But don’t hold that against him,” he laughed at his joke, “He’s good.”

Beau knew he was in good company for the evening and being introduced by nicknames was Shrap’s way of welcoming Beau into his group, letting his buddies know he approved, even if he was a lawyer.

And the night took off like a rocket ship from Cape Canaveral. Where it would end up Beau had no idea; all he knew was that it was going to be one hell of a ride.

Beau loved it. Here they were Bear, Shrap, Bean and Pablum, out for a night on the town. None of them from here, all of them here for a reason. As the night wore on, each of them trying to out drink one another, all part of the universal cock fight that it is to be a man, the stories got wilder and wilder.

Bean and Pablum it turned out were both from Columbia and had been soldiers in the guerilla wars that were plaguing that country.  Neither of them had any strong beliefs about what they were fighting for. They’d been born into poverty and were recruited by the guerillas who came to their villages in the jungle, offering food and shelter and money to fight. 

“I would have fought for anybody.” said Bean. “You can’t understand what it’s like to have no hope and no future. It was my way out. And I was good at it. It’s what I am now.”

Beau realized Bean and Pablum were mercenaries. Honest to God soldiers of war. He couldn’t get enough of their stories and where they had fought in the world; Columbia, Brazil, the Congo, Vietnam they’d lived incredibly dangerous lives and they had survived, which Beau assumed was something to do with how hard they partied. 

“Where’d you guys meet anyhow?” he asked, looking at Shrap. 

“In an opium den in the Golden Triangle over in ‘Nam.” Beau knew by now he shouldn’t be shocked by anything these guys said, but God damn if they didn’t keep doing it!  “I told these guys I was out, that I wasn’t coming back and I’d head into Canada if I had to. We just ran into each other up here a couple of months ago. But I’m not like those guys, they’re just here to get away from it for a bit. They’re mercenaries now, it’s kind of what they do. Guns for hire. Live now. Die later.”

“Jesus, what a life!” Beau was incredulous. “Did you ever think about it.”

“Being  a mercenary? Fuck no man. I ain’t no killer. It’s why I got out. I couldn’t even kill for my country, I sure as fuck couldn’t kill for money. These two don’t know no other way. It’s what they’re good at. Probably be dead in a couple of years.”

Beau didn’t know whether to admire this posse or be scared of them but as one drink led to another, one shot became five, any anxiety he harboured evaporated into a ribald, wild four man car crash of a night; in and out of every bar they staggered, picking fights and avoiding them, laughing like school boys, losing themselves in an alcohol fueled hiding place.

“Bear,” Shrap shouted over the noise, slurring at this point, “The boyz and I want you to ree-solve somethin’ for us. You’re a lawyer, figure you be a judge one day so we need you to azhuudicate but we need to git neked in order for you to do any judgin’!”

“What the hell you talkin’ about Shrap?”

“Come on, we’re going to your room at the T & M. Pablum buy a bottle of tequila from the bartender”

And off they all staggered, Shrap, Bean, Pablum and Bear, arm in arm, brothers for life or until dawn, whichever came first. Bear knew he didn’t have much left in him but he’d give these boys what he had. Back in Beau’s room, the evening accelerated and spun right out of control. He was told to sit in a chair and pour them all a shot of tequila. When he looked up they were all standing in a row facing Beau, shoulder to shoulder and as naked as the day they were born.

“So Judge Bear, herez the question we need you to decise for us.  Who has the worst battle injuries. So you need to take a close look at each of us. If you have any questions you can ask. So okay. Go!”

Beau knew that this was possibly the funniest moment of his life, for sure beating anything so far but maybe even making his #1 Lifetime Funniest Moment Ever! list.  But he was not about to laugh at three drunk military veterans, two of whom were mercenaries.

“For sure.” Judge Bear got up from his chair, strode over to the three men, all standing at swaying attention, eyes front. Bear looked Bean up and down and noticed two obvious knife wounds, deep slashes across his chest and right shoulder. But there were two other wounds, one on his chest, the other on his right thigh. 

“What are those?” he asked.

“Bullet holes. This one up here damn near killed me. They had to stretcher me out of the jungle to a field hospital in the Congo, nearly bled out. Same fucker got me in the leg, still have some metal in the bone from that.”

Bear moved on. He surveyed the naked Pablum and then Shrap and had each of them identify their wounds and tell the battle stories behind them. It was all too bizarre for Beau to deal with but that was1 fine for Beau, the boys could care less about poor Beau and what he thought. These boys were demanding to know what Judge Bear had decided. 

“Don’t you be no pussy Judge Bear” they all laughed at their own joke. “We ain’t leaving ‘til you decides who got  it the worst.”

Judge Bear had an idea. He gathered himself in the chair and told the three men that he had sufficient evidence to make his decision and instructed them to put their clothes back on. They were surprisingly compliant thought Beau, and then he figured it out. This was just a game, a bit of fun for them, a release; getting naked and drunk with other soldiers was about as intimate, as revealing as they would ever get about the dark memories their damaged bodies hid. These boys were sharing. In the brotherhood of soldiers this was a good time.

“This court has been asked to adjudicate on which of these three brave men, Mr. Sharp, Mr. Bean and Mr. Pablum has suffered the worst battle injuries. I am ready to render my verdict. The court has closely inspected the bodies of these three brave soldiers and has decided the following:

Mr. Bean is to be recognized for suffering the most severe battle injuries incurred during battle as a guerilla in the Columbian civil conflict.

Mr. Pablum is to be recognized for suffering the most severe battle injuries incurred during battle as a mercenary soldier serving in the Belgian Congo.

Mr. Shrap is to be recognized for suffering the most severe battle injuries occurred during battle as an enlisted soldier serving in Vietnam.

It is so ordered.”

And crickets. For Beau a long ‘hold your breath what’s going to happen next’ silence. 

And then, “Fuckin’ eh, fucking rights eh?” Shrap laughed and gave Judge Bear’s decision a ‘fuckin’ eh! All was good. The three men hugged and laughed and high fived each other. It was a natural end coming to a night not one of them had expected to share when they had woken up that day. 

And then they were gone. All Beau knew was he would remember this night forever. Well, what he could remember he would remember forever.

As he laid down to sleep Beau had one last thought , “This Break Out thing is a good time!!!”

And he was out.