The Judge was visibly furious. “Don’t you presume to lecture me or this court. 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.  

The Judge was furious. “You had better be careful making empty claims in my court Mr. Jackson. And let me say this about mistrials, lest it inform you going forward. I have been on the bench for over twenty five years and not once in all that time, not once, have I ever granted a motion for mistrial. I am not about to begin anytime soon.”

He could see that Peter was furious, struggling to remain composed. Beau pressed his advantage, “You and your publisher need to be careful. You care too much. You want my client to be convicted of first degree murder again. And if you’re not careful you’re going to interfere with a fair trial for my client. You’d better be careful.” he repeated. Peter was wordless but his flushed cheeks and the tension in his face betrayed his anger.

Joe Stokes had never had a day of trouble with the law. Yet, he had shot a man dead with one shot to the head with a .357 revolver. What happens to cause such a break, a lapse into a dissociative state, unshackled from the usual restraints against violence?

“Can I tell you about the biggest hemorrhoid I’ve ever seen?” It was Terry, a friendly welcoming member of what I came to call ‘The 10am Small Dog Dog Park Group’, a gathering of dog owners who met most mornings at a dog park in West Kelowna. I do remember thinking to say ‘No’ might seem unfriendly, even uninterested but then surely one can’t appear to be too interested in ‘the biggest hemorrhoid Terry had ever seen’. And I had no time to make my decision.

The case against Joe Stokes was what the cops call ‘open and shut’. They had the victim, the murder weapon and the only possible suspect. On top of all that, Joe had confessed to the killing.

September 12, 1977: He lay motionless on the floor of the only bar in Ross River, Yukon. Hank Woods had been dropped by a single bullet from a .357 magnum revolver. The shooter now seated on a bar stool over at the long mahogany bar, put the gun down, spun it along the bar and told the stunned bartender, “There. Now call the RCMP!”