Many in Saint John believe his high-priced legal team, coupled with the family’s clout, means Dennis Oland will be acquitted.Andrew Vaughan/The Canadian Press
Residents of this city's west side can occasionally smell hops wafting over from the Moosehead brewery.
The imposing factory is owned by the Oland family, hard-driving industrialists who have been fixtures of the city for decades. Like the smell of its suds, the clan's influence in Saint John is widespread. The company name, or that of its controlling family, is splashed on everything from sports jerseys to museums.
Recently, the Oland name has become more ubiquitous than ever – though now it appears in newspaper headlines, not on hockey sweaters.
This week marks the likely culmination of Dennis Oland's second-degree murder trial. The 47-year-old is accused of bludgeoning his father, Richard (Dick) Oland, to death in 2011. Closing arguments by the defence and the prosecution start on Monday, and a jury is expected to begin deliberations on Wednesday.
Since the slaying, Saint John has existed in a miasma of rumour and prurient fascination. The trial – which weaves together sex, class and family discord, along with a series of maddening unanswered questions – has become perhaps the most closely watched in New Brunswick history.
Saint John has seen better days. It has been a blue-collar community for generations, but the potash trains, pulp mills and oil refineries are fast becoming relics, much like the 19th-century brick mansions downtown. This is a postindustrial city; the local population has dropped from about 90,000 to 70,000 since the early 1970s.
"You're on the street at night and it's almost like you can see the tumbleweeds rolling," said Greg Marquis, a professor of Canadian and criminal justice history at the University of New Brunswick Saint John.
Those precarious economic straits help account for the tortured relationship between the city and the Olands. The family is admired for keeping jobs in Saint John – they've always rebuffed offers to sell from brewing multinationals – but, inevitably, the family is resented for its wealth.
Most of the Olands live in Rothesay, an old-money bedroom community 15 minutes outside Saint John. The rich here operate in a quasi-feudal style, carving out industries for themselves and keeping them in the family. New Brunswick has long been dominated by business dynasties: the McCains (frozen food), the Crosbys (molasses), the Ganongs (candy) and, of course, the Irvings (pretty much everything).
The Olands are in that mould. Apart from brewing, they have had interests in dairy farming, real estate and a local lime quarry. Their long history in the city and the scope of their empire mean that virtually everyone in Saint John has an Oland connection.
That intimacy turned jury selection for Dennis Oland's trial into something of an ordeal. The New Brunswick Department of Justice sent out nearly 5,000 summonses for the case, two or three times more than it would normally issue. Some 1,100 potential jurors were eventually herded into a hockey arena for screening. One was disqualified for having attended Dennis Oland's wedding.
"It's just because of who was involved," said Dave MacLean, a spokesman for the provincial Justice Department.
In light of the publicity, it's amazing that 12 people were found who didn't have a strong opinion on the case; "drywall hammer" – the alleged murder weapon, which was never found – has become a kind of standalone, two-word joke.
"I can't go downtown without being talked to by many, many, many people," said Mr. Marquis, who is writing a book about the latest and darkest chapter in the Oland family's saga.
Public curiosity has been sustained through a two-year investigation that eventually led to charges against Dennis Oland – the last person known to have seen his father alive – and one of the longest criminal trials ever in the province.
When Mr. Oland testified two weeks ago, interest in the case reached a fever pitch – members of the public had to be turned away from the courthouse, which seats more than 100.
"People were hooked," said April Cunningham, the first reporter to arrive at the crime scene in 2011, when she was working for the Telegraph-Journal in Saint John.
Interest has been sustained partly by the claustrophobic smallness of the city: Dennis Oland sightings are common downtown, and his wife, Lisa, runs a high-end consignment shop one street over from where the killing happened.
The voyeuristic frisson of following the case has been heightened by the city's class dynamic.
"You don't usually see this happening to classy people," said Bill Farren, a city councillor who worked at Moosehead for most of his life. "You usually see it happening to guys like me. There's a lot of attention because of that, I think."
The trial has produced a wealth of salacious detail about the family's dysfunction, irresistible in a city that sees the Olands as local celebrities: Dick's eight-year affair with a local real estate agent; Dennis's expensive divorce, bankrolled by Dick; and the simmering enmity between father and son.
The case has also served as a reminder of the family's uncommon wealth: Dick was bought out of the brewing business by his brother in 2007 after a series of legal battles in the 1990s, but he subsequently had a trucking business of his own – and a net worth of more than $30-million.
Dennis, then an investment adviser at CIBC Wood Gundy, struggled with cash in the years leading up to his father's killing. But he has been backed during the trial by his uncle Derek, Moosehead's executive chairman, and has a pair of formidable defence lawyers in Alan Gold and Gary Miller of Toronto and Fredericton, respectively.
That high-priced legal team, coupled with the family's clout in Saint John, has many convinced that Dennis is heading for an acquittal.
"There is a feeling that there's a two-tiered justice system, that richer families get treated different," Ms. Cunningham said.
In any case, the verdict may prove to be anticlimactic. Whatever the jury decides, the crime will continue to haunt and fascinate the city for years.
Sitting in a Second Cup coffee shop around the corner from where Dick Oland was killed, Ms. Cunningham can still hardly believe what happened.
"How can a community move forward with such a gruesome murder happening in the heart of the city – to someone of such prominence?" she said. "It's just incredible."