The Rough Cut

by Douglas Corleone

  During the drive, though shivering, I studied Ethan’s profile, his features like cut glass. Despite his significant build, he didn’t strike me as a tough guy. His music certainly didn’t suggest it either. If anything, soft rock and acoustic indicated he was sensitive. Maybe as sensitive as Brody. If true, then Ethan was right; he couldn’t do any significant amount of time in prison. Frankly, I wouldn’t expect Brody to last a night.

  Shame suddenly turned my blue face crimson. Everything falling into place? An old friend of mine was dead. The man in the passenger seat of my Wrangler was about to be charged with her murder. His life was on the line and he appeared as paralyzed with shock, as delirious with fear, as anyone I’d ever seen. Did it matter whether I believed in his innocence? I didn’t think so, not at the time. Because Church was right: unless I could portray Ethan Jakes as a sympathetic character, wrongly accused of a heinous crime, I had no movie at all. Fuck objectivity. I was part of the defense team, and I decided then and there to buy all in.

  A half-hour later, we pulled off H-1 into Ko Olina. As we approached the gatehouse to the resort, I studied Ethan’s face again. He looked somehow different after this ride. Like a child who’d just comprehended death for the first time. Tears formed in the corners of my eyes as we pulled into the Four Seasons garage.

  I wanted to comfort him but couldn’t.

  I wanted to kiss him but couldn’t.

  I wanted to film him.

  So I removed my iPhone from my back pocket and shot.

  PART II

  Visual Evidence

  FOURTEEN

  I like getting lucky. Like winning the jackpot, hitting Blackjack, rolling the dice just right. Like getting my favorite table at Buzz’s, my favorite stool at Da Big Kahuna. I like close parking, open roads, green lights. I like having been born into America’s middle class while there still was one. I like that I met a man I love, that I landed a professor like George Leary. I like that Brody and I moved to Hawaii and lived it up those first few months.

  But I also like that I knew Piper Kingsley when she was alive, that I got in touch with Ethan when I did. I like that Church had just wrapped up a major case when I called, that the defense encountered such a twisting and turbulent investigation. I like that there was such a compelling trial, a riveting showdown between two world-class lawyers. I already like the movie this tragedy will become. I hate only that I feel fucking terrible for it.

  We got lucky. There’s no other way to say it, no sentence that will soothe the sentiment that we experienced good fortune as far as our documentary went. Although I don’t dwell on it now, I knew that Ethan’s story could end at any time. There were so many unknowns, so many possible outcomes that could have sunk my film. Had Ethan suicided, had he been found incompetent to stand trial, had he accepted a plea deal – in all those scenarios I could have kissed my film goodbye.

  Church knew our respective objectives didn’t necessarily coincide, knew he was creating a de facto conflict of interest when, under the pretext of expanding Ethan’s attorney–client privilege, he placed us on the defense team. I think I knew it too. Knew that Brody and I were nothing more than Church’s Plan B, that one day, if Ethan were convicted, he’d turn the case over to another lawyer who’d use our presence, our words and actions, our movie, as a basis for appeal. In the meantime, Church would have us cheering from the sidelines, documenting the events he wanted documented, while simultaneously arguing his case before Judge Hightower and the Court of Last Resort. I knew it at the time, but I didn’t much care. All I cared about was my movie.

  In the editing room, I suck up the remnants of another Diet Coke. I’ve been here all day, all night, trying to decide how to show the arraignment. On the wall to my right are fifty-six three-by-five index cards, twenty-eight for Acts One and Three, twenty-eight for Act Two, each with a brief overview of events. The card marked ‘Arraignment’ is highlighted yellow, meaning I’ve deemed it a master scene. But now I’m not so sure.

  ‘If you’re going to work in an established genre like true crime,’ Professor Leary told me during my first year, ‘you’ve got to set your movie apart from the rest. Don’t make your film a straight procedural. We’ve seen all that shit before. Show people the shit they haven’t seen.’

  The arraignment lasted all of twenty minutes and was about as dull as a visit to the DMV. The evidence against Ethan, which I’d learned about from Church the previous evening, was laid out in lackluster fashion by a young male assistant prosecutor, rather than the dynamic Naomi Lau herself. Church, too, merely rambled off the standard arraignment spiel – ‘no prior record … not a stranger-to-stranger incident … confident my client will be vindicated …’ etc. etc. – then waxed poetic on the logistical difficulties of fleeing a jurisdiction that also happened to be the most remote archipelago on the planet.

  When Church finished speaking, a surge of panic ran through me like an electrical current. This was Ethan’s only genuine opportunity at bail, and I’d recommended this shyster who had arrived in court this morning reeking of cigars and Wild Turkey. Ethan couldn’t do time, I knew, certainly not months – it would decimate him. To the local population (i.e. every potential juror), it would also assign Ethan a presumption of guilt. His imprisonment would hinder his defense, complicate the investigation, make communication with his attorney onerous at best. Worst of all, Ethan’s being inside through the trial would be absolute shit for my film.

  As Judge Hightower ruminated over the prosecution’s recommendation of remanding the defendant without bail and Church’s endorsement of releasing Ethan on his own recognizance, it appeared His Honor was leaning toward the former, and would either deny bail altogether (for which Ethan’s tardy surrender made a powerful argument) or set bail so high he might as well deny bail altogether. As the judge cleared his throat to issue his decision, Church popped up from his seat.

  ‘May we approach, Your Honor?’

  Hightower, a bear of a man with a thick beard and rich baritone, lifted his eyes from his paperwork and eyed Church like a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his sandal. He motioned Church and the assistant prosecutor forward.

  From my vantage point, Church delivered what appeared to be a humdrum argument, certainly not the emotional appeal I’d hoped for and expected.

  With Church away from the defense table, I was better able to observe Ethan, who was still dressed in the tangerine jumpsuit issued to him the previous night at the station. I sighed heavily. If the dark rucksacks under his eyes were any indication, Ethan hadn’t caught a single Z since I last saw him. He looked as though he might slump over at any second.

  Next to me, I could almost hear Brody’s blood pressure rising. Hightower had prohibited us from recording audio during sidebars, a restriction that would become increasingly irritating later, over the course of the trial, as Church requested sidebars more and more often. On the rosy side, we did capture the images, and the court stenographer did take down the discussion, the transcript for which is sitting on the console in front of me, dotted with soy sauce.

  CHURCH:As an officer of the Court, Your Honor, I would be remiss not to mention that in my extensive experience with high-profile cases – which this case certainly has the potential to become – an incarcerated defendant will dramatically reduce the public’s interest in the case.

  JUDGE: I’m not quite sure where you’re heading with this, counselor.

  CHURCH:I’m merely saying, Judge, as a friend of the Court, that in my experience, a free defendant only adds to the mystique and intrigue. I think that when making this decision, Your Honor, it’s only fair that you take into consideration the fact that my client’s release will very likely turn this island into a media circus, with Your Honor the ringleader. We wouldn’t want that now, would we?

  Hightower glanced at the assistant prosecutor, perhaps expecting some objection, some rebuttal, some retort. But the assistant remained silent, so Hightower shooed the lawyers back to their tables, marked
up a page in front of him, and again cleared his throat.

  ‘Bail is set at one hundred thousand dollars or ten percent bond.’

  In other words, a meager ten thousand, less than a tenth of what Church had told Nate to set aside for a bail bond.

  Hightower slapped his gavel.

  Brody swung his head in my direction. ‘What the hell just happened here?’

  For the first time that morning, I smiled. Said, ‘Hightower just got taken to church.’

  It would become a familiar scene: the five of us – Ethan, Nate, Church, Brody and myself – sitting around the conference table in the penthouse suite. Today, a trio of cameras stood at painstakingly adjusted angles to record the first postarraignment meeting of the defense team.

  ‘Before we start,’ I said for the benefit of the camera, ‘mind filling us in on what transpired at the arraignment this morning?’

  ‘Jesse?’ Church said.

  ‘Yes, Nick.’

  The voice startled me. I’d forgotten all about the speaker in the center of the table, as I would consistently over the next few weeks.

  ‘Jesse, do you want to tell Riles here what happened at this morning’s arraignment?’

  ‘We simply did our homework.’

  ‘And what did we learn?’ Church said, as though speaking to a child.

  ‘That Barry Hightower has stars in his eyes and an ego nearly as big as Nick’s.’

  ‘Just provide the play-by-play, Jesse. I’ll handle the color.’

  ‘So we decided on simple reverse psychology. Blatant reverse psychology, because we knew it’d be too tempting for Hightower not to take the bait.’

  ‘Plus,’ Church said, ‘we feared subtlety might be lost on Big Barry.’

  ‘Just what did you glean about him?’ I asked.

  Jesse said, ‘With the aid of the internet and some very basic social engineering, we learned that Big Barry Hightower is, among other things, an aspiring novelist.’

  Church said, ‘He cites as his inspiration that judge who wrote Carlito’s Way.’

  Jesse added, ‘So we knew he’d want maximum media coverage.’

  I said, ‘I don’t see the connection. Maybe he just enjoys writing. Not all novelists write to become rich and famous.’

  Church smirked. ‘Seriously, Riles? What if I were to produce a good, honest, custom hat-maker who will testify under penalty of perjury that, on average, compared to us normals, novelists’ heads are literally three times the size?’

  ‘What are you even talk—’

  ‘Money and fame drive everything, Riles. Certainly, the Arts. Hell, it’s why you and BQ are making this film in the first place.’

  Brody said, ‘I beg to differ,’ but went ignored.

  Church said, ‘What else did we learn about Hightower, Jesse?’

  ‘We learned that nearly eighty-five percent of the photographs posted to his social media accounts are of himself.’

  ‘Average Facebook user’s much closer to eighty percent,’ Church threw in.

  ‘We also learned that Barry somehow stuffs himself into a Porsche nine-eleven every morning to drive to the courthouse. And that he’s the second-most thin-skinned person on Twitter.’

  I said, ‘And all that told you …’

  ‘All classic symptoms of egotism,’ Jesse said. ‘The photos demonstrate he’s a narcissist. The Porsche is clearly attention-seeking behavior. And his thin skin, well …’

  ‘Well, what?’

  Church winced.

  ‘Hightower’s thin skin is a double-edged sword,’ Jesse said. ‘It’s kind of Nick’s Achilles heel. Thin skin is a narcissistic trait, but in a judge like Hightower, it also means he’s quick to pull the trigger on holding lawyers in contempt.’

  Church nodded in concession. ‘Contempt citations make up ninety-five percent of my overhead.’

  ‘But the assistant prosecutor,’ I said, ‘what if he’d called you out on all this? It would have hurt your position, right?’

  ‘The assistant prosecutor wasn’t going to call me out on anything,’ Church said flatly. ‘First, the kid looked like he’d just run over from his swearing-in ceremony. He couldn’t so much as look me in the eye. Second, even assuming he had the balls to object to my aside, he wouldn’t have. Because the prosecution wants Ethan out nearly as badly as we do.’

  I said, ‘What? Why? How do you know?’

  ‘We did our homework on Naomi Lau too,’ Jesse said over the speaker. ‘She has her sights set on the governor’s office. Based on our information, she’s already decided to run. She thinks she has a slam-dunk conviction here, and she’s well aware that this case only stays in the news statewide if Ethan is out on bail. If he’s locked up, the story dies, at least until trial.’

  ‘Wait,’ I said, ‘that’s why she didn’t handle the arraignment herself?’

  ‘Bingo.’ Church touched his nose. ‘She can’t throw it, that would be bad politics. So she figured she could get what she wants just as easily by sending in that humu-nuku fish against a Great White like myself.’

  ‘Humuhumunu‌kunukuapua‘a,’ Jesse corrected.

  ‘Thanks, but when I want the opinion of the centerpiece, I’ll ask for it.’

  ‘So,’ I said, ‘you guys did a lot of homework on the judge’s personality traits. How is he professionally?’

  ‘Depends on your perspective,’ Church said. ‘His knowledge and application of the law are lousy. But for our purposes …’

  ‘For our purposes?’ I said. ‘Do we not want a good judge?’

  Church rose from his chair, buttoning his suit jacket in one fluid motion. He said, ‘I believe it was Homer who once opined, “If judges were any good, they would be lawyers.”’

  As he turned from the table, I asked, ‘Homer the poet?’

  ‘Better,’ he said, unzipping his fly on the way to the bathroom. ‘Homer the Simpson.’

  FIFTEEN

  It’s roughly two a.m. when Brody and I step out of the editing room and start the three-block walk to the garage where we park the Jeep for an exorbitant monthly fee. As I’m reminded daily, there’s no free parking in paradise.

  While we walk, even in the anemic glow of the streetlamps, I can’t help staring at Brody’s clean-shaven cheeks. The beard never really bothered me; much to Brody’s delight, facial hair is even in style these days. But recently it’s as if Brody, for the first time since the early weeks of film school, is suddenly making an effort again. Making an effort for me.

  As I gaze at the stars, I say, ‘Sometimes everything seems preordained, doesn’t it? I mean, when you look at time as just another dimension. Everything has already happened and we’re all just waiting to find out what it is.’

  Brody shakes his head. ‘Time’s not the fourth dimension, not in the way you’re thinking of it. Not in the way Einstein thought of it. Time is simply a numerical order of change that exists in our third dimensional space.’

  ‘In English?’

  ‘Time itself has no physical existence; it has only a mathematical value.’

  As we walk, I pull out my vaporizer and power it up again. ‘So there’s really no future to travel to, then? No timeline for Captain Picard to explore?’

  ‘Why, had you planned on going somewhen?’

  I suck in a lungful. ‘How do you know all this random shit?’

  ‘It’s not random, it’s physics.’ He holds out his palm. ‘Mind if I take a hit?’ He stops, pulls on the vape pen and blows out a cloud of … A cloud of what? Vapor, I guess? ‘I like physics,’ he says. ‘You know that.’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, as we move on, ‘I see the books lined up next to the toilet. You like physics – quantum and Newtonian. But you also like law, politics, history, mathematics, medicine, computers …’

  ‘What are you saying, Rye?’

  The words jump from my mouth before I think them. ‘Is filmmaking even in there anymore?’

  He looks genuinely shocked. ‘How can you ask me that?’

&nb
sp; ‘It’s just …’ In for a penny and shit. ‘Your lack of interest in postproduction concerns me.’

  Following several seconds of thoughtful silence that make me feel like utter shit, he says, ‘You’re right. I’m sorry. I think I just needed some time to unwind after the trial. In the morning, we’ll come down to the editing room together. I’ll stay as long as you’d like.’

  Could it be that I’m the asshole in this relationship?

  ‘I would appreciate that,’ I say curtly. ‘You know—’

  From out of the recesses of a dark building on South King leaps a tall, slender figure who halts directly in front of us, impeding our progress. I eye his long, bony fingers in an attempt to ascertain whether he’s holding a gun or a knife or both. He has this Jack-O-Lantern grin on his face and he reeks of cheap alcohol, urine and body odor – not necessarily in that order.

  He points to the sky behind us. ‘Look!’ he shouts. ‘It’s a bird! It’s a plane! It’s … Homeless Man!’ He swings his ratty trench coat around like a cape. ‘Fighting off starvation, addiction, mental illness, and all that rotten shit in the streets!’

  Brody claps his hands together, a wide smile across his face. While I mentally try to determine the extent of damage to my underwear, the homeless-man-slash-performer takes a theatrical bow. I don’t need to look to know Brody’s hands are in his pockets following the enthusiastic applause. He hands the man two twenties. Says without the slightest hint of irony, ‘Thanks, man. We needed that tonight. We’re also trying to break into the entertainment industry.’

  After receiving terrifically awkward hugs and some, let’s say, unconventional blessings from our new friend, Brody and I continue to the garage in silence. I didn’t say anything when Brody made good friends with a mentally ill homeless man named Roy near our apartment building in Waikiki. Didn’t say anything when he started giving Roy our unfinished joints and blunts. I didn’t even say anything when he started inviting Roy upstairs for a weekly shower. Now, however, I want to say something, need to say something. Yet any way that I try to put it, I’ll come off like the asshole.