The Rough Cut

by Douglas Corleone

  I looked away from the camera, sighed heavily. ‘You know damn well I’m not talking about whether the prosecution proved their case or not.’

  He swiftly rose from his chair. ‘Neither. Am. I.’

  The tone in his voice startled me, pinched something in the pit of my stomach. It was a tone I would hear frequently over the next six months, but never fully get used to, even when it wasn’t directed at me. At the time, it struck me speechless.

  Church took a few moments, during which I imagined him counting to ten (probably en français) in his head, then he exhaled audibly and sat.

  ‘One case,’ he said, with a single finger in the air to clarify. ‘In my twelve years in criminal defense, I’ve never taken on more than one major case at a time. Most private defense lawyers have fifty or sixty felony cases at any given moment, and still work bankers’ hours. How? As a defense lawyer, how can you zealously protect the lives you hold in your hands and treat your job like a regular nine to five? You can’t. Because to earn any kind of living at all in this business, you have to speed things along, you have to cut corners, you have to phone it in. Who suffers? The clients. They’re the ones who are fucked without adequate representation. And I’m talking now about defendants who paid for their lawyers. Don’t get me started on the poor bastards who have to rely on the public defender system in certain states.’

  ‘How is this related to the guilt or innocence of your own clients?’

  He smiled. It was a charming, disarming smile, an exceptional knock-off of the genuine thing I’d see over and over the next six months.

  ‘One major case at a time,’ he said, again with the finger. ‘One case. One client. One fate. So I’d better choose wisely, right? I’d better vet every prospective client. I’d better learn who he is, who loves him, who will cry if he’s convicted and sent away to prison, or worse. Who will attend his funeral if he receives a sentence of death.’ He paused a beat, took a sip of iced water from a hulking crystal water glass then set the glass neatly back on its coaster. ‘But above all, I ask myself, will I be at this man’s funeral if he’s sentenced to die? Will I stand over his grave knowing that the State has taken the life of an innocent man?’ In his eyes rose a thin mist I wasn’t expecting, but his voice didn’t waiver. ‘If so, I had better be damn sure I did everything humanly possible to stop it. Which is why I needed to meet with Ethan face to face before I took him on as a client.’

  I swallowed hard, suddenly desperately thirsty. ‘You took it even though it’s not a death case?’

  ‘Life in prison or lethal injection; same difference for a guy like Ethan.’

  I was now less interested in the argument over Church’s dozen clients than I was about his belief in Ethan’s innocence.

  ‘So you’re one hundred percent sure he’s innocent?’ I asked. ‘Absolutely certain that he didn’t murder Piper?’

  Church leaned back in his chair, carefully folded one leg over the other. Took a deep breath and declared with uncut confidence: ‘One. Hundred. Percent.’

  Seconds of silence passed, then Church said four words that would echo endlessly in my head, four words that rang out like a warning shot, shrilled like a faulty alarm clock. Four words that would unfailingly deliver me an unspecified dread over the coming half-year.

  ‘Turn off the camera.’

  ‘Of course not,’ Church said, once the camera was off. ‘How can I be sure Ethan Jakes is innocent? I’m not a mind-reader, I wasn’t there when it happened. I was in Indianapolis, with Marissa, arguing like hell, with the utmost civility.’ He paused, sipped more water. ‘But you, Riles, you I’d like to have on my jury. Together we’d walk the lot of them.’

  A deep heat ascended the length of my neck, flooded my cheeks. My heart beat faster, my systems on the verge of an unthinkable panic. Sweat at the hairline, a sensation like ice in my veins, shortness of breath, then …

  No, not in front of this fucking guy.

  ‘In all seriousness, though?’ he said. ‘I absolutely factor in my belief in my client’s innocence. And I set that bar extremely high. Much higher a standard than reasonable doubt. I need to truly believe a man who tells me he’s innocent to even consider taking on his case.’

  I realized then what made Nicholas Church such a superb trial lawyer. First, he lures you in with his gifts – his eloquence, his magnetism, that smile – then, once he has your ear, he casually lets you in on a little-known secret: that he’s a bullshitter; you can’t believe a word he says. By conceding as much, he conversely appears sincere, unaffected. Just a guy who speaks his mind, sometimes crass, sometimes vulgar, but frequently to humorous effect. Harmless, right? Meanwhile, he pockets that credibility, that faux integrity he’s built, for moments like this, when – true or not – he wants you, he needs you, to believe him.

  I was again witnessing that sorcery I’d first seen him perform all those years ago in The Prosecutor, only this time live and in person. This was the true Nicholas Church. He was handsome, he was charismatic, he was articulate as fuck. He was sitting here across the table from me, and the magic in his eyes was alive. How could I be anything but mesmerized?

  Moreover, I was elated. Because I was convinced he genuinely believed in Ethan’s innocence. And I so wanted Ethan to be innocent. I so wanted him to be the man I met at Manoa Falls, the man I watched performing ‘While my Ukulele Gently Weeps’ on YouTube. I so wanted Ethan to be innocent for reasons I didn’t yet comprehend. But more than anything else, I so wanted him to be innocent for my movie.

  Two hours later, the phone rang in Church’s suite. Brody began filming again.

  Church placed the call on speaker. ‘This is Nick Church.’

  ‘Mr Church, this is Detective Lance Fukumoto, HPD.’

  ‘What can I do for you, Detective?’

  I noted Church didn’t dignify Fukumoto with a nickname.

  ‘I’m giving Mr Jakes one final invitation to come down to the station and explain what happened last Thursday night.’

  Church didn’t hesitate. ‘Mahalo, but no mahalo.’

  Fukumoto chuckled. Said, ‘Mr Church, what you are trying to say is “Hoomaikai aka, aole hoomaiki”. Thanks, but no thanks, yeah?’

  ‘Sorry, I haven’t had time to brush up on my Hawaiian. It was a brief twelve-hour flight from Indianapolis International.’

  ‘Mr Church, I think you and I would get along just fine.’ There was a smile in the way he said it. ‘Why don’t you bring your client on down to the station and we’ll hash this out together, you and me. We just want to confirm your client’s version of the events that night.’

  In front of me sat Church’s linen business card. On the front, just his name and email address. On the back, three lines, his instructions to clients on what to tell police:

  I AIN’T GOT SHIT TO HIDE,

  BUT I AIN’T GOT SHIT TO SAY EITHER.

  LAWYER MY ASS UP.

  Below that, some boilerplate about how neither Nicholas Church nor The Church Law Firm was responsible for any resultant police ass-beatings, though he would represent you in the subsequent civil suit. ‘USE DISCRETION’, it read.

  ‘As much fun as that does sound,’ Church said, ‘my client and I are going to have to decline. We’re previously engaged.’

  ‘Nothing that can’t be changed, I hope. Because in the case of your refusal, I’m afraid a warrant will be issued for your client’s arrest.’

  Church sat up straighter. ‘If you have enough to charge him, why are you sitting around on the phone playing grab-ass with me? Why haven’t you charged him?’

  ‘Mr Church, you will find that I am a very thorough man.’

  Church scrawled those last few words on his legal pad.

  ‘Mr Church, I am also a reasonable man. So I am extending you the courtesy of surrendering your client.’

  Church glanced at his Rolex. ‘Tomorrow morning, ten a.m.?’

  ‘Today. Four p.m.’

  Church opened his mouth to negotiate further bu
t the line had gone dead.

  ‘Well, this just got interesting,’ he said. ‘Turn off the camera.’

  ‘Wait,’ I shouted to Brody. ‘Don’t.’

  Church said, ‘No more filming until you sign the contract.’

  ‘I can’t give you approval over the final cut.’

  ‘Listen, Riles. You and I both know damn well that if Ethan did this and there’s concrete evidence to prove it, you and Shaggy over there have no movie, right? If he’s found guilty but it’s not as clear-cut, there will be as much interest in the appeal as in the trial itself. As a filmmaker, you know that some belief, some hope, that Ethan is, in fact, innocent of this crime is what drives your audience to follow this story. Nothing else. Not me, not Detective Fuck-your-mother, and certainly not the victim. If Ethan’s found guilty, your film’s only chance is the very same chance I’m trying to protect in this contract. If he’s convicted, your only hope is that one day justice is done and Ethan’s set free. Either way, it behooves you to allow me final-cut approval so that we can show our case – Ethan’s case – in a light most favorable to the defense.’

  ‘And if he’s found not guilty?’

  ‘Once double jeopardy attaches, you can edit the film any way you like. You can make it NC-17 for all I care. Just note Paragraph thirty-two, Section six-B assures me considerable compensation for any full-frontal nudity.’

  I turned to Brody. ‘Did you get those words on film?’

  ‘About the full-frontal?’

  ‘That I can make whatever the hell film I want to make if Ethan is acquitted.’

  Brody gave me a thumbs-up.

  ‘All right,’ I said to Church, ‘we have a deal.’

  But Church had already moved on to his next task. Phoning Nate from his mobile as he paced the room, telling him in a voicemail to have Ethan call him back as soon as possible, without giving a reason.

  Then Church set the speaker box on the table and said, ‘Sheena, call Charlie.’

  A Siri-like voice, only sexier, said, ‘Calling Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie,’ Church said to the speaker box when Jesse picked up, ‘I’m with my angels, BQ and Riles.’

  As he wore out the plush carpet around the table, he filled Jesse in on his phone call with Fukumoto.

  ‘They’re going to charge him based on nothing but circumstantial evidence?’ Jesse said. ‘Well, at least you have a strong argument for bail.’

  Church appeared skeptical. ‘Let’s run through what they have again. Trace evidence – hairs, fibers – but he practically lived there, so that’s relatively meaningless, right? Fingerprints on the beer bottles out by the pool. That’s certainly no crime, unless …’ Church stopped mid-step. ‘Unless she was struck in the head with one that night.’

  Jesse said, ‘To charge him based on that, they’d need the autopsy report, and we know that hasn’t been completed yet. It’s not in the system; I’ve been in their system all week.’

  Church’s hands clenched into fists. ‘That’s what he meant.’

  ‘Who?’ Jesse said.

  ‘Fukumoto. About him being a thorough man.’

  ‘Nick, I checked the medical examiner’s files, too. Everything’s on the same network. There’s nothing there.’

  ‘When he said that he was thorough, he wasn’t referring to the murder investigation at all. He was referring to me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Get out of their system, Jesse. Get out of their system now.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because they know you’re there.’

  Just as Fukumoto had researched Ethan on his way to the crime scene, he’d done his homework on Nicholas Church. As Church explained it (off camera, of course), Jesse had hacked into HPD’s system from the moment Church was retained (though I suspect even sooner), to monitor whatever evidence was discovered in real time.

  ‘I’m eventually entitled to it anyway,’ he said. ‘It’s called the Brady Rule.’

  Every courtroom junkie was familiar with the Brady Rule. It held that the prosecution has an ongoing duty to turn over any exculpatory evidence they discover to the defense.

  ‘If I remember correctly,’ I said, ‘the Brady Rule does not entitle the defense to hack into the government’s servers to extract the information themselves.’

  ‘Not explicitly, no. But I need to go on the offensive. There are too many shady prosecutors out there.’

  ‘Says a member of the defense bar?’

  Church’s brows shot up. ‘Would you agree that there are a great many shady defense attorneys, then?’

  ‘In my experience, yes.’

  ‘Well, there you have it. Half of the defense bar is comprised of former prosecutors.’

  Nate finally called Church back at around one p.m.

  Church put him on speakerphone, said, ‘Tell your brother to pack a toothbrush and meet me at my suite at the Four Seasons no later than three this afternoon.’

  ‘What’s happening?’

  ‘Great show, but let’s get serious for a minute. Ethan’s going to be charged. Tell him not to worry. We may have a strong shot at bail.’

  ‘That doesn’t sound very reassuring.’

  ‘Is your brother with you now?’

  ‘He just went for a walk around the neighborhood.’

  ‘Which neighborhood?’

  ‘Hawaii Kai.’

  ‘That’s on the east side of the island, we’re on the west. You’d better get moving. If we’re late, the penalty is a perp walk, and the last thing we want is for our prospective jurors to see Ethan on the cover of the Star-Advertiser in handcuffs.’ He glanced in the direction of Brody and the camera. ‘Not to mention, local TV will have a field day with it.’

  Three o’clock came and went. So did four. Ethan hadn’t shown and Church was pacing the room, vocally beleaguered by his client’s stupidity. He repeatedly called Nate’s phone, but all calls went straight to voicemail.

  At 4:15 in the afternoon, Fukumoto phoned Church, who put the call on speaker for the benefit of the camera.

  ‘Mr Church, why do I not see anyone standing in front of my desk?’

  ‘I don’t know, are your eyes open? That often helps.’

  ‘Mr Church, this is no time for jokes.’

  Church smiled; this time it was the real deal. ‘Oh, you’re gonna love me in court, then.’

  ‘Mr Church, are you, or are you not, going to produce your client?’

  Just as swiftly, Church wiped the smile from his face and cleared his throat. ‘Yes, Detective, I apologize, for both my tardiness and my flippancy. The goodbyes are taking a bit longer than expected. But we’ll be walking out the door at any minute.’

  Church disconnected the call and eyed Brody, then me.

  ‘Well, don’t just fucking stand there,’ he said. ‘You’re part of the defense team now. Help me find our client.’

  TWELVE

  I hate sleeping alone. Maybe because I’m an only child who never shared a room with someone – never shared a bed until my third year at college. My father didn’t believe in sleepovers: ‘What are you going to do there that you can’t do here?’ Didn’t tolerate overnights after prom: ‘You think I’m stupid, Riley?’ Didn’t even allow me to sleep on campus during my first two years at Oregon State: ‘If I’m paying the bills, I’m making the rules.’ I knew all his rules had a singular purpose, even if left unsaid. It was all about sex – his hang-ups, his double standards, his innate possessiveness. It was about protecting his daughter’s virginity, her purity. So intent was he on safeguarding my cherry that he continued to safeguard it several years after it popped.

  Because, despite Dad’s obsession, despite years of Sunday School, and quite possibly because of the purity vows so popular at the time, I had sex at sixteen. Sex with a guy just home from his first semester at UPenn. Shagged him in his father’s Camry’s backseat, twice in one evening. Because, believe it or not, Pops, you needn’t be out of the house the entire night to get laid
. You needn’t wear provocative clothes. You can do it with a purity ring around every finger, with a rosary in your pocket, and a crucifix at your throat. You can do it stone-cold sober, with the lights on or off, with the door open or closed. You needn’t have any makeup or piercings or lingerie. Needn’t have easy access to condoms or sex education or birth control. You needn’t have parental permission, needn’t have explicit images or vulgar language on television. You needn’t watch X-rated movies or listen to dirty song lyrics. You needn’t even have a bed.

  There’s a rap on the editing room door. Then a key turns in the lock.

  ‘I have Leonard’s tonight,’ Brody chimes as he steps inside.

  His face is clean shaven, he’s gotten a haircut. He’s dressed in a new Tommy Bahama T-shirt and cargo shorts and smells like coconuts.

  ‘Why did you knock?’ I say, though I’m still processing the image before me. Brody looks the way he looked when we first met in film school, when I still thought he was a bit of a dork.

  He says, ‘Because I don’t want to, you know, just walk in on you.’

  ‘What the hell did you think I’d be doing in this shitty little editing room? Throwing an orgy?’

  ‘Nah, you know.’

  Yeah, I know, but I suddenly have a potent desire to bring color to Brody’s cheeks, finally liberated as they are from his two-and-a-half-year winter beard.

  Placing my weight on my toes, I lean in toward him. Kiss his bottom lip long and slow.

  ‘For the malasadas,’ I say.

  ‘I shiver to think what would have happened had I bought the full dozen.’

  ‘What made you shave?’

  He takes a step back and grins, his right hand stroking his chin as if he’s experiencing the texture of human skin for the first time.

  ‘I just feel like we’ve reached a new chapter, you know? I feel hopeful again.’

  I’m so thrilled to see him happy, and know I should just let it go, but I’m curious. When you know someone as well as I know Brody, you think you can interpret his every expression, you think you can decipher his every thought, you think you can read between the lines of any page he writes. You regularly take the power for granted, yet on the rare occasions you can’t read him at all, you suddenly need to know his every thought.