The Rough Cut

by Douglas Corleone

  ‘We did it a couple of years, then one night, right after our set, Nate said he couldn’t do it anymore, that he needed some stability in his life.’ Ethan threw back the last of another pint. ‘No surprise that was around the time he met Cheyenne. Few weeks later, they packed their bags one night, took off for Vegas to elope. Never even told me. Whole time he was gone, I didn’t know whether he was ever coming back.’

  ‘Happens to a lot of artists,’ I said. ‘Their friends start making money, getting married, buying houses, they get scared and bail.’

  His eyes locked on mine. ‘Is it going to happen to you?’

  Probably.

  ‘Never,’ I said.

  Two pitchers later, I reached for a napkin and our arms touched and I felt the same shock I’d felt when I intentionally stuck my pinky finger into an open electrical socket in the bio lab, sophomore year of high school.

  I thought about Brody back home, by now bingeing BoJack Horseman on Netflix.

  ‘I think it’s time for me to head back to Waikiki,’ I said.

  ‘Why don’t you come back with me, get some coffee in you first. My place is right down the street.’

  ‘I can’t …’ I started.

  He immediately went to: ‘You think I did it, don’t you?’

  ‘Nooo,’ I said, with no small amount of indignation.

  ‘You do. You believe the police. You think I killed Piper.’

  ‘I dooon’t,’ I said.

  All right, now I just sound downright ridiculous.

  ‘You’re afraid to even be alone with me.’

  ‘The hell I am.’

  ‘Then why not just come back for coffee.’

  ‘Fine,’ I tell him, ‘but only for coffee, and I can’t stay long. And I don’t drink coffee.’

  The moment we stepped outside into a light rain, I hiccupped, because, hey, I’m a human being, OK? And because I was sort of a bit really stupid drunk.

  We were staggering down the wooden steps when Ethan said, ‘Whoa, neither of us are driving right now. We’ll Uber it over to my place.’

  As we walked he took out his new phone. A few seconds later, he said, ‘“Randy” is on his way in his white Civic. Should be here in nine minutes. While we wait, mind if we run to my truck? I have a radio in there I don’t want stolen.’

  Ethan’s blue pickup was parked away from the others at the far end of the lot. In the dark and from a distance, a group of people appeared to be boogying around his truck.

  ‘Who are they?’ I said.

  ‘I don’t know. Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.’

  The light pole over this part of the lot was dark.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Ethan said when we reached them, ‘we just need to get through to my truck.’

  One of the five stepped up to him, looked up at the sky, and held out his large arms as though embracing the soft but steady rain. ‘Know why I didn’t bring an umbrella tonight?’

  ‘I asked you once nicely,’ Ethan said.

  ‘Because I didn’t know the fucking weather.’

  ‘I’m asking you again,’ Ethan said. ‘Don’t make me ask you a third time.’

  I couldn’t help but think Brody would have flashed the guys a peace sign by now, maybe offered them a few bucks in exchange for safe passage through the lot.

  ‘What? You gonna do to us what you done to that poor redheaded girl?’

  I grabbed Ethan’s arm, said, ‘Let’s go back inside.’

  He pulled away from me.

  The next sixty seconds seemed to play in slow motion, but only because Ethan moved so fast. I watched as he took the first out with a straight left to the jaw, the second with an elbow to the throat. The third earned a devastating side kick to the chest, the fourth a disciplined right hook to the ear. The fifth, the biggest of the bunch, actually got off a haymaker, but Ethan wasn’t fazed. He jabbed him in the eyes, struck him with an uppercut, swept his leg as he tried to scramble away. He then grabbed him by a fistful of hair and was about to smash his head to the ground when I screamed, ‘No! Don’t!’

  He didn’t.

  But by then I had learned a few things.

  One, Ethan had a temper.

  Two, he knew how to fight.

  And three, he could become violent. Especially when drinking.

  ‘Come on, let’s go,’ he said. ‘We can hoof it. I’m right down the road.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I can’t go with you.’

  He looked genuinely hurt. ‘You saw it, Riley. They attacked me.’

  ‘It’s not that,’ I said. And it wasn’t.

  It was that part of me had decided I couldn’t betray Brody.

  Another part of me was too sick with regret for not capturing the graphic violence on film.

  But mostly I couldn’t go with him because I was wholly and unreservedly turned on – and I truly hated myself for it.

  When ‘Randy’ finally arrived in his white Civic, Ethan ushered me into the backseat.

  ‘Take her to Waikiki,’ he told the driver, then kissed me on the cheek. ‘Goodnight, Riley.’

  ‘My Jeep!’ I cried.

  ‘Give me the keys. I’ll have my friend Chuck drive it back before dawn.’

  I tossed him the keys and told him the address was saved as ‘Home’ on my GPS.

  He kissed me on the cheek again.

  ‘But this is your Uber acc—’ I started, before he stepped back and closed the door.

  Randy slowly pulled out of the parking lot and made a right. In his rearview I could see an HPD squad car speeding toward Breakers, all red and blue lights.

  Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, I thought. Brody is going to find out who I was with tonight.

  TWENTY

  I like the rough stuff. Love it, in fact. Leaning back in my seat in the editing room, I lace my fingers behind my head, cross one leg over the other, and sigh in pure satisfaction. Because Brody has accomplished a brilliant feat, truly outperformed all expectations. The footage is even more thrilling than the events as I remember them – and yeah, that’s saying a lot.

  From the 911 call to the crime scene through the next-day news footage and introduction of Church, this material, if edited right, will make as dramatic an opening as any recent documentary I’ve seen. Ethan’s run and subsequent surrender, the revelation of Piper’s pregnancy, the sparks between Nate and Church – all of it was captured with such magnificent precision, it’s difficult – yet wildly exciting – to imagine what Brody might be capable of with a full-time four-man crew.

  Tonight, I primarily played with Church’s tearful tale about the prosecution of Roderick Blunt, because it’s one of my favorite scenes. Even though it so flagrantly links this film to The Prosecutor, the Church character is just too broad and dickish without his backstory. That scene, along with Church’s bullshit description of how he selects his clients, creates a magnificent incongruity that I intend to thread throughout the movie.

  Brody, amazingly, is still of the opinion that Church should be the focal point of our film. ‘An anti-hero for the ages,’ as he put it this morning. ‘This tragic character who knows he’s on a futile quest for redemption, yet, no matter how arduous the search, somehow carries on.’

  ‘He also tried to have the courtroom cleared because a young member of the prosecution team farted during Fukumoto’s testimony,’ I reminded him.

  I can only hope it’s his subconscious or his endless search for a father figure that’s fueling Brody’s drive to continue this fight. I’d even accept it if this were Brody’s bona fide professional opinion. Yet somehow I think it’s none of these things; somehow I know it’s nothing but primal, unadulterated jealousy, the fear of losing me, the kind of domestic discontent that eventually took center stage at the Jakes trial in the strangest and ugliest possible fashion.

  Stop it. I’m doing it again, overthinking everything because I’m confined to this five-by-eight editing room that positively reeks of dumplings, eggrolls and sweet-a
nd-sour pork. Trapped in here and, thereby, trapped in my own head. Sure, Brody says, ‘There’s nothing keeping you from stepping outside, getting some fresh air,’ but he knows that’s pants-on-fire false, that the Riley in me who always pays utility bills at least one week ahead of their due date, and freaks when she sees dirty dishes in the sink, won’t permit me five minutes for fresh air. Because those are five additional minutes that could instead be used for the editing of this film, and in those five minutes I may well see something, hear something, come to some profound realization about the investigation, about the trial, about the movie, that I may never have come to had I stepped outside and taken five.

  Deep breaths. Disregard the tightening in your chest; it’s nothing and will only make the anxiety attack worse. Forget the sweat streaming down your forehead, stinging your eyes – it’s just that the thermostat hasn’t been working right since, I don’t know, like, ever?

  Never mind the nausea, there’s a waste bucket if you need it, two feet to your left.

  Palpitations is such a weird word.

  No, your left arm isn’t hurting, you don’t smell copper or burnt toast, and yes, Brody will find your body before the rats get to it, should worst come to worst.

  Stop it! I glance at my Swatch; it’s still early. Too early to even think of heading home and focusing on the script. Besides, Brody’s supposed to be back in an hour. Maybe he’ll bring malasadas.

  I sit still for a few minutes, breathing in and out (not that I don’t always, I’m just concentrating on it now), conjuring ways to procrastinate but come up dry. Unfortunately, I’ve rid the editing room of all distractions for moments such as this.

  I turn my attention back to editing the movie.

  True, I was part of the story from the very beginning; there’s no denying that fact. But now I’m at the point in the film where I inadvertently enter the case itself. In more ways than just one. How do you, as editor, handle the scenes where the director clumsily stumbles in front of the camera? What do you do? Honestly, I don’t know the answer to this. My presence as a player is crucial to the story, yet completely contrary to my role as director, whose most critical job is to search for the Truth. All I wanted to do at the time was hide it.

  If only I could go back and cut around these parts in real life. If only I hadn’t gone to Breakers that night, if only I hadn’t had blood on me the night Piper was murdered. There are a million if onlys but only one Truth, and it’s not the Truth I want in the film.

  I pop open a Monster Energy Drink.

  If I was going to cut myself out of the footage, I would have done so during my first pass, right? Certainly, by the second.

  Only a few minutes of grainy footage exists of that evening at Breakers, but it’s pivotal to the film, and subsequent events only make sense in full context. Besides, leaving out visual evidence would be tantamount to fraud. That night was, after all, the night things truly took a turn for the worse – at least the worst turn until trial.

  And, quite frankly, it’s stunning to watch; it makes a great visual. I’ll use it to introduce not just myself but the other side of Ethan, the darker side the audience will have only seen hints of before. I take another gulp of Monster and truck onward. No time for panic attacks tonight, no time for crying or self-pity. No time even for malasadas. Time to take on the scenes dealing with Ethan’s second arrest – this time for aggravated assault and attempted murder.

  TWENTY-ONE

  The day after Breakers began like any other, which was to say I was hungover and in a horrible mood, when Brody began poking and prodding me to get out of bed. How I fell in love with a morning person, I would never understand, but it had been a source of tension ever since we started sleeping together, and would be a source of tension until we broke up, or one of us was dead. Frankly, had Brody not so consistently turned so dour during the day, I don’t think I could have stomached him, even as a friend.

  My experience of waking up and forgetting what the hell had happened the previous evening was far more vast than I’d like to admit. My record time for euphorically forgetting what I’d done was just shy of ninety seconds. This time, remembering took only half that. But by then, Brody had stripped off my pajama bottoms, heaved me onto his shoulder, and carried me into the shower.

  ‘What’s going on?’ I shouted, as I was blasted by cold water. I adjusted the temperature as best I could, but this was one of those showers that would remain a mystery long after all the apartment’s occupants were worm food.

  ‘Ethan’s been arrested again,’ Brody said.

  I just barely prevented myself from throwing up. A million half-thoughts staggered through my mind. Does Brody know I was with him? Could Ethan have avoided arrest had I stayed and talked to police instead of hopping into Randy’s Civic and going home? Was it already time to trim down there again – didn’t I just trim that fucking thing last month?

  It goes without saying, these thoughts were all sufficiently lofty at the time.

  ‘What was he charged with?’ I ask incredulously.

  I didn’t want to start lying right out of the box. And I really wanted, OK needed, to know. I swallowed hard and steeled myself for his answer, but the moment Brody told me ‘aggravated assault and attempted murder’, the dam that had been keeping down last night’s super-crispy and delicious French fries – and yeah, four pitchers of beer – finally let go.

  Hours later, the usual suspects – Ethan, Nate, Brody and yours truly – were all seated around the conference table in Church’s suite. That’s right – even Ethan. Because by the time Brody and I arrived at the courthouse that morning, Church and Nate had already bailed him out. Poor surveillance footage appeared to corroborate Ethan’s story of self-defense, but the prosecution wasn’t letting this one go entirely, not with stakes this high. The arrest and arraignment of Piper Kingsley’s accused killer would make the front page for two days straight, maybe more, with headlines further linking his name to terms like ‘aggravated assault’ and ‘attempted murder’.

  Despite the seriousness of the charges, both Naomi Lau and Judge Hightower wanted Ethan out of jail. So with nominal haggling between Church and the same sacrificial lamb Lau sent to the first arraignment, it was only a matter of time before Ethan was liberated, albeit with a new ankle bracelet and additional restrictions.

  Church circled us now in the way he did when he was pissed. ‘Do I really need to tell you, Ethan, how monumentally stupid it was to get into a fight?’

  ‘They start—’

  ‘Shut up. I don’t care if they come at you with that shit Cersei used to wipe out the entire fucking House of Baratheon.’

  ‘Wildfire,’ Brody said.

  ‘Shut up, BQ. Ethan, you have one option and one option only in that situation and that is to bend over and permit Hodor to have his goddamn way with you.’

  ‘That makes zero sense,’ Brody said, ‘in any fathomable context.’

  ‘Agh.’ Church waved off the critique. ‘I only saw three episodes in a hotel room in Cleveland; what the hell do you want from me?’

  I was suddenly so nervous that it felt as though something was lodged in my throat, which made me even more nervous; and wondering whether I was visibly nervous made me even more nervous, and on and on until I thought I was about to suffer one of the worst panic attacks of my life.

  Then, just as quickly as he’d risen, Church took a seat.

  ‘That’s the last I’m going to say on the matter.’ He took a long drink of iced water. Said, ‘Unless I think of something else to say.’

  ‘Cigarette?’ Marissa asked, as I stepped onto the wraparound terrace.

  Jesus, Marissa even looked hot smoking, and no one looked hot smoking these days. Not tobacco at least.

  ‘No thanks,’ I told her.

  She held it out to me anyway, in a way that made me wonder whether she owned stock in Big Tobacco.

  ‘It’s not a cigarette cigarette,’ she finally said. ‘It’s a joint.’


  ‘In that case …’

  I still hadn’t grown accustomed to the spectacular vista, to the gentle breezes, to the soothing sound of the tide seventeen stories below. Hadn’t gotten the least bit used to turning to my left and seeing an infinity pool straight off the cover of Condé Nast Traveler magazine. I mean, here I was, sponging this phenomenal view, smoking a J with the single most influential true crime documentarian of our time, while inside I was in the midst of directing my own masterpiece. This was as close to a perfect moment as I could have at this point in my life.

  Whale songs played in my head.

  Four puffs and two passes later, Marissa made conversation. ‘So what do you think of Nick? Is he what you expected?’

  ‘Only more so.’

  Marissa laughed. She had a cute laugh, too; Christ, I could have killed her there and then.

  Quietly, she said, ‘If ever there was someone seeking redemption, it’s him.’

  I turned my head to locate Brody and noticed a slight shift in the position of one of the cameras so that it was facing out the sliding glass door.

  Briefly, I wondered whether I was being set up, whether it even mattered so long as it made good footage. I took the joint from Marissa, took a toke, and said, ‘You think he’ll find it in this case?’

  I was surprised by her answer: ‘No.’ And then: ‘He won’t find it in his lifetime. Not in the form he’s looking for.’

  ‘What form is that?’

  ‘He wants to resurrect the dead.’

  I took another puff, almost giggled and replied, ‘Well, maybe he should get his feet wet by walking on water.’ Mercifully, however, I blew smoke out and kept the bad joke in.

  ‘Blunt?’ I said, and yes, as awful as it was, I so hoped she’d say, ‘No, the joint will do just fine.’

  Instead she said, ‘I’m sure Nick didn’t tell you this, but maybe you did your homework.’ She paused just long enough to make me feel stupid. ‘Since that day he resigned on the steps of the county courthouse, Nick has considered himself responsible for four children: three teenage sons and a twelve-year-old daughter.’