“Well,” said Wise, “now you’ve done it. We might have come to some resolution here, but you keep making him think you want him for murder.”
“I want him to know she’s dead because of him,”
said McCoy.
“Bob is just an innocent pawn in Redux’s business.
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My guess is, you won’t even be able to prove that Redux is a fraud, even if he cooperated with you. But the plain and simple of it is that he believes that cooperating is admitting he did wrong.”
“My guess is that a jury will change his mind,” said McCoy.
Wise picked up his briefcase. “And my guess is that the dealing’s over,” he said. “Just between you guys and me and the wall, I’ve been fooled a few times but this one I really believe is innocent. I’ll give you a hell of a scrap on it.”
“Didn’t you tell me and the wall that you believed Bill Burnington was really innocent?”
Wise shrugged. “And I gave you a hell of a scrap, didn’t I? So I was wrong. This time I’m not. See you in court.”
When Wise closed the door, McCoy threw his pencil on the blotter. “Well, that didn’t work worth a damn.”
“Give him time to stew,” said Southerlyn. “If Rosserman thinks he might get stuck—”
“It was bad strategy,” said McCoy. “It would only work if he feels guilty about her. We should have just pushed for him to give us the McDonalds.”
“I’d hate to let him off the hook,” Southerlyn said.
“He doesn’t believe he did anything wrong,” said McCoy.
“Nor does Wise,” said Southerlyn, “At least in legal terms.”
“Which is all that matters,” said McCoy.
“By the way,” Southerlyn asked, “who was Bill Burnington?”
“A carjacker,” smirked McCoy. “Burnington’s serving seven to ten.”
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“This one may be tougher,” said Southerlyn.
“Amen,” said McCoy, raising his eyebrows.
198
SUPREME COURT
100 CENTRE STREET
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 18, 11:02 A.M.
McCoy held up a letter on Redux stationery. It was enclosed in a plastic holder. “And this is the letter you received?”
The witness, Colonel Mark Aalborg, USAF Retired, slipped on his reading glasses and scrutinized it. “Yes, sir. I received it about a week after Mr. Rosserman turned down my book.”
“Move to enter into evidence, people’s 75,” said McCoy to Judge Samuels.
“No objection,” said Wise.
“No objection,” said Herlihy, the McDonalds’ attorney.
“And what does this letter say to you?”
“It says that Mr. Rosserman recommended my book to them.”
“Objection,” said Herlihy. “The jury doesn’t need Colonel Aalborg’s interpretation when the letter is available.”
“We can read it out loud,” said McCoy.
Samuels pursed her lips and looked over the top of her reading glasses. “If the defense would agree to stipulate…”
“Certainly, Your Honor,” said Herlihy.
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Wise took the letter and read it carefully. “Yes, it’s the same as the others.” He handed it back to McCoy.
“But I don’t know what’s served by going over this again and again.”
“What’s served is demonstrating how many times the defendants engaged in this activity.”
“Go on, Mr. McCoy,” said the judge.
“So,” said McCoy to Colonel Aalborg, “would it be fair to say that this letter encouraged you about your memoir, I Reached Out and Touched the Face of God?”
“Yes,” said the colonel, “it said that Mr. Rosserman had mentioned to Avery and Monica McDonald that I had sent him a very interesting manuscript. It offered their editing services at a ten-percent discount because of the manuscript’s promise. I called them the next day. I got Monica McDonald. She acted like we were old pals or something. I—”
“Objection,” said Herlihy. “He’s characterizing.”
McCoy glanced back at the defense to let the jury know he didn’t like being interrupted. Sometimes juries would interpret objections as an attempt to conceal important details from them.
“Just stick to the facts, Mr. Aalborg,” said the judge.
“What did you say? What did she say?”
“I’m just saying the way she acted.”
“I’m sure you remember the old Dragnet, Colonel Aalborg,” said Samuels. “‘Just the facts,’ right?” The colonel sat stone-faced as someone chuckled.
“And what did she tell you, Colonel Aalborg?”
asked McCoy.
He coughed. “She told me it was clear that my story needed to reach the public. She asked me if I were the kind of man who would feel comfortable doing talk shows and radio interviews.”
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“Talk shows and radio interviews?”
“She asked if I was free to travel to book signings.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said I’d been to hell and back and thought I could survive a book tour.”
“Was money mentioned?”
“Eventually. When I first brought it up, she asked me a few questions about my retirement income. She suggested I must have a pretty good retirement after thirty-five years of active duty. I told her I wasn’t rich, but had as much as I needed.”
“And then?”
“She suggested they could do a thorough editing job to prepare it for submission for five thousand dollars.”
“Did you accept this?”
“I asked if that amount included the ten percent discount. She then said that based on Mr. Rosserman’s recommendation, she might reduce the fee by another two hundred and fifty.” Aalborg cleared his throat. “I said I’d have to think about it. She said she wanted to talk to her husband and see what he said.
She said they really believed my story needed to come out. Avery McDonald called me on Monday. He said they might be able to do more for me because of their confidence in the book. They said that successful books tended to increase their own reputation in the industry and so they were sometimes willing to take a deeper cut to land a reputation-enhancing job. He said that Mr. Rosserman had told them it was a ‘hell of a book’ with enormous potential. He said he was deeply moved by my manuscript, that America needed to hear about patriots like me. Then he said that he didn’t want to price himself out of such a great job, 201
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so he was offering his absolute minimum, four thousand dollars.”
“And you accepted?”
“I hesitated a bit and then he suggested payments or a credit card, so that they could get started right away. He said some mumbo jumbo about striking when the iron was hot.”
“Objection,” said Herlihy.
“Disregard ‘mumbo jumbo,’” said the judge. She peered over her glasses at the colonel.
“I know,” he said. “Just the facts. I mailed him a check. I should have known what the real motivation was when he said they would have to wait until the check cleared before beginning.”
The judge said, “Colonel…” like a mother growing impatient with a twelfth grader.
“And what was the result of your payment?” asked McCoy.
“After the check cleared, I waited about three weeks, then called. My manuscript, she said—that’s Monica McDonald—was in the mail. It showed up post-marked two days after I called.”
McCoy held up a manuscript with both hands. It was about three inches thick and held together with two rubber bands. “And is this that manuscript, as edited?”
“Yes,” said the colonel. “I had it retyped for submission.”
“But this is the manuscript they returned to you?”
“Yes, sir.”
McCoy asked that it be
entered into evidence. The defense attorneys took a glance at it and agreed.
When the procedure was done, Colonel Aalborg continued. “So I took it to a secretarial service called 202
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Tribeca Professional. I had to go back several times to explain, to try to make sense of the gibberish written all over the pages.”
“You’re referring to the red ink?”
“There were arrows going every which way. Big X’s through things. It looked like they’d given it to a two-year-old to play with.”
“Just stick to the facts,” the judge reminded him.
“But weren’t these markings helpful?” asked McCoy.
“At first glance, it looks very thorough.”
“They were just marks. It made no sense what was slashed. I noticed typos of mine that they hadn’t caught. I had typed ‘President Jones’ once or twice when I meant ‘President Johnson,’ and B, I, E, T-Nam instead of V. They wrote things like ‘strengthen’ or
‘reword’ with no explanation what they meant.”
“And did you confront the McDonalds about this?”
“I left four or five messages, then one day Avery McDonald picked up the phone instead of leaving it to his answering machine. He got pretty huffy and said ‘reword’ meant ‘reword’ and that I ought to know what that meant. Oh, and he offered to do a clean copy for me, typed out with only the corrections for another seven hundred. A full rewrite would cost much more.”
“Did you find, in the entire manuscript, anything helpful?”
“I learned a lesson about being suckered,” said the colonel.
“No more questions,” said McCoy.
It was Herlihy’s turn first. “Mister, excuse me, Colonel Aalborg, do you have any experience editing for publication?”
“I did a lot in the Air Force, every kind of report.”
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“With all due respect, Colonel, I didn’t ask you that.”
“I supervised and corrected many documents and reports.”
“But no books, am I right?”
“No.”
“So you wouldn’t recognize common editing marks, and you might have difficulty with the meaning of certain words commonly used in the book trade.”
“What? Like ‘reword’? I know what that means.”
“Excuse me, Colonel,” said Herlihy with a slight grin, “didn’t you just tell Mr. McCoy you didn’t know what ‘reword’ meant when it appeared on your manuscript?”
The colonel’s eyebrows were twitching and his eyes tightened like they were about to fire rockets. “It means to change the wording. But why reword?
How? To what end? Someone scribbled ‘reword’ on there probably without reading it!”
“That’s speculation, isn’t it, Colonel? What if someone went over the manuscript quite closely and then wrote ‘reword’ on it? Would that look any different?”
The colonel didn’t answer, he just steamed.
“Is it possible that a more professional writer might recognize the problem to which the word referred?”
“I asked him to explain it; he asked me for more money.”
“And the McDonalds’—isn’t their time valuable?
Don’t you believe they should be compensated for their work?”
“Badgering, Your Honor,” said McCoy.
“Sorry, Your Honor,” said Herlihy. “Do you believe they should be compensated for their work?”
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“Yes, but they didn’t do anything. Why should I pay them again? I demanded my money back, but it was never returned.”
Herlihy held the manuscript in front of him and riffled the red-marked pages. “How can you say they didn’t do anything? How many weeks did they have it?”
“One question at a time, Your Honor,” said McCoy.
“Withdrawn,” said Herlihy. “Isn’t this really about your disappointment, Colonel Aalborg?”
“It’s about being lied to,” said the colonel.
“Exactly what lie are you referring to?”
“They said they would edit my book. They said it would be a success.”
“But they did edit your book, didn’t they?”
“No.”
“And they did not ever actually say that your book would be a best-seller, did they?”
“No, but they said it would make a mark!”
“‘Would,’ Colonel, or ‘could’? Isn’t it just possible that you were hearing what you wanted to hear?”
“No.”
“You’ve served your country for more than three decades, at the end of the Vietnam conflict, in Desert Storm. You worked your way up the ranks, and America owes you a great debt of gratitude. You have a lot of things to say that need to be said. Is that a fair assessment of your feeling?”
“I’ve been there and back,” said the colonel.
“Did you ever consider hiring a ghost author?
Someone who was capable of actually expressing what you wanted to say?”
McCoy shot to his feet. “Your Honor!”
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The colonel caught the implication of the question and lost the fire in his eyes.
“No more questions,” said Herlihy.
Wise rose and spoke quietly. “Colonel, I just have a few questions for you and then you’ll be on your way. Did you ever talk to Mr. Rosserman directly?”
“Not face-to-face.”
“And how many letters did you receive from him?”
“Just the rejection letter after he turned down my book.”
“And did his letter mention the services of Redux?”
“No,” said Aalborg. “It said that if I felt my project was important enough to pursue, I might consider professional editing services.”
“So you received just that letter from Mr. Rosserman, and he did not specifically mention the McDonalds?”
“No. Their letter followed his by the end of the week. It said he, Rosserman, had mentioned my book to him. The old one-two. Set ’em up. Knock ’em down.”
“I can see how that might seem to you, with your disappointment, Colonel, but did you actually have any contact with Bob Rosserman after that rejection letter?”
“Not directly. I called, said that I appreciated his recommendation to the McDonalds. He thanked me for calling, but that was before they did, ah, what they did. Later, when I saw what I’d got for my money, I tried to call him back. I thought he might intercede for me to get my money back. I thought he might explain exactly what the McDonalds were up to.”
“So,” said Wise, “even after your experience with 206
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the McDonalds, you were willing to consult Mr.
Rosserman?”
“I thought he might know what to do.”
“Colonel Aalborg,” said Wise quietly, “you were seeking Bob’s advice. Doesn’t that mean you trusted him?”
“No, it means I didn’t know where to turn. I didn’t know they were paying him.”
“You weren’t aware that a small referral fee was involved?”
“No.”
“And would you have called him after you received the edited manuscript, if you had known about the fee?”
“Of course. I was desperate. I’d have thought he ought to feel responsible for getting me into it.”
“Doesn’t that imply that you trusted him?”
“Asked and answered,” said McCoy.
“I won’t bother you any further, Colonel,” said Wise, “and may I add I hope to be reading your memoirs soon.”
“Throw a little salt in his wounds,” Southerlyn whispered.
“Notice that Wise is cutting Rosserman away from the McDonalds,” he said in her ear. “He’s pretending he hardly knew them.”
“Mr. McCoy?” asked the judge.
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SUPREME COURT
100 CENTRE STREET
&nbs
p; TUESDAY, NOVEMBER 19, 10:01 A.M.
The bushy hair, now silvery, had been a familiar sight on the New York literary scene since the late 1950s. Martin Post had burst onto the best-seller list at the age of twenty-five with what was then a shock-ing novel about the fighting in Burma during World War II. Later, there were novels about the waterfront, an airline mogul, and a corrupt boxing promoter, among others. He also wrote controversial nonfiction, particularly The Race Game and Manchildren, which angered liberals and conservatives alike. If there were anyone in the city who was known as the writer, love him or hate him, it was Martin Post. His name was known even by people who hadn’t read him.
McCoy had considered whether the anger Martin Post sometimes inspired might actually hurt with one or more members of the jury and whether he was as loose a cannon as his reputation, but the Author’s Guild had offered to file an amicus curiae brief on behalf of the state, and Martin Post had led the fight for it. Arthur Branch had recommended that a couple of expert witnesses might be needed to enlighten jurors about the book trade and to clarify how crooked 208
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the McDonalds were. When McCoy telephoned Post, the writer was delighted.
When McCoy called Post to the stand, most heads in the courtroom turned to watch for him. The eminent novelist strode to the witness stand and took the oath with a clear voice. He was the kind of person who is always aware he is on a world stage. Judge Samuels even brought herself to nod appreciatively.
“How are you, Your Honor?” said Post.
“Very well,” said the judge. “I’ve enjoyed your work.”
“Thank you, Your Honor,” he said, as if surprised.
“Mr. Post,” asked McCoy, trying to establish Post as a legitimate expert witness, “could you summarize your career as an author for anyone who may not be familiar with it?”
“That’s more people than I care to think about,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “I’ll try not to testify all night.”
McCoy could see that Post had immediately won over the jury, which was more than you got out of the scientists or physicians usually used as experts.
Post’s summary was like his writing, direct and clear, and though some of his most recent novels were a good three inches thick, he finished in a few seconds.
“Thank you, Mr. Post,” said McCoy. “Might you mention some of the awards you have won as a writer?”
Post mumbled them as if he were reciting a rap sheet. “Pulitzer, Cassis Prix de Roman, National Book Award, Casa d’Oro prize, et cetera. There was that Oscar, too, for the screenplay. But that’s not real writing. Movie writing’s not real writing.”
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