Private Screening

by Richard North Patterson

  In the periphery of his vision, Secret Service leapt onto the stage. Five more seconds. He stared into Kilcannon’s face.

  Three seconds.

  A flashbulb exploded. Kilcannon’s face became a faceless head, crowned by a blond nimbus.

  Time circles back to you

  A bullet through the head.…

  Carson took one last step forward, and fired.

  The gun recoiled in his hand. The head snapped back; the screams that followed were white noise to him.

  He turned to the catwalk, guards running behind him. His route was still open.

  He started toward it.

  Sliding onto the stage, a cameraman aimed at Carson.

  As if from muscle memory, Carson knelt and pumped three bullets into the camera.

  The cameraman fell sideways, unhurt. Carson could not recognize him.

  He could not remember his escape route.

  Turning, he stared back at the stage.

  The guards were about to reach him; Stacy Tarrant knelt over his target.

  Kilcannon, he thought dazedly, and heard the shrieks.

  As Carson dropped the Mauser, they hit him from both sides.

  It had happened so fast.

  The touch of Jamie’s fingers was cool, electric. He stepped forward; she gave him her microphone; cheers washed over him.

  She looked up at the screen.

  Head cocked back, Jamie smiled as if at her. As the picture widened to show her answering smile, she saw the man behind them.

  He raised his gun.

  The crowd shrieked. It was as if she were watching a movie; she could not turn, and make him real.

  Jamie spun.

  As she cried out to him, the hair on his crown seemed to rise.

  He crumbled, falling on his side, then his back.

  Stacy dived to shield his body.

  Skidding on the stage, she sprawled across him. Cries split the air; she closed her eyes, waiting to be shot. Beneath her, his chest rose and fell. As she touched his head, she felt warm dampness on her fingers, his breath against her cheek. There was no second shot.

  She looked at him.

  His face was unmarked. His eyes fluttered, then opened.

  With her fingertips, she brushed the forelock of hair away from his eyes.

  His lips parted. Weakly, he murmured, “Is everyone all right?”

  Oh, God, Jamie, she thought. But she nodded for him. “I think so.”

  His eyes moved toward the top of his head; Stacy could not be sure whether he had seen or heard her.

  “Such a joke,” he whispered. “But what does it mean?”

  There were tears on her face. Stunned, she looked for help.

  Security men pushed back the crowd. Between their legs, a camera pointed its lens at Jamie.

  “Clear the way,” Damone was screaming.

  She turned to his voice; Damone and two cops reached her. Paramedics ran behind them with a stretcher.

  Kneeling on the other side, Damone looked down at Jamie. There was a pool of blood beneath his head.

  Their eyes met above his face. Damone was pale. “Harry,” he said.

  “Tony!”

  Lord ran from the shower.

  Naked from their lovemaking, Marcia sat upright in bed, pointing at the television. “Look,” she demanded shrilly. “Look at what they’ve done.”

  Lord turned to the screen.

  Kilcannon lay on the stage, blood glistening beneath his head. Stacy Tarrant touched his forehead; her lips moved, then his. Their words were lost in chaos.

  “Oh no,” Lord groaned. “That can’t be.”

  Marcia turned, as if he were not entitled to speak.

  Silent, Lord sat on the edge of the bed.

  The film zigzagged wildly.

  In the background, a T-shirted man stared at Kilcannon as if appalled at what he saw. A gun fell from his hand; he did not struggle.

  “I hope they kill him,” Marcia hissed.

  They let her in the ambulance. She huddled in one corner as paramedics bent over Jamie. They did not speak; their eyes spoke for them. The siren’s shriek reverberated.

  Vaguely, she remembered riding down the freight elevator; somewhere she had lost Damone. Her ribs and elbows felt raw.

  She shivered.

  They stopped; the door burst open. As they unloaded the stretcher, she saw Jamie’s hair falling back across his forehead. Someone had opened his shirt.

  “He’s still alive,” a paramedic called.

  Cops flanked the path to a double door. Its neon sign read “Emergency.”

  They rushed the stretcher toward it. From behind the police, flashbulbs spat, and then Jamie disappeared inside.

  “Miss Tarrant!”

  Two police reached toward her; she let them lift her down. At the edge of her consciousness, she heard the persistent whir of cameras. More flashbulbs burst in her face.

  “Stacy,” someone shouted. “How is he?”

  Covering her eyes, she found herself in a bleak tile corridor. Someone touched her, Nat Schlesinger.

  “He’s upstairs,” he said. “They’ll operate.”

  His eyes were red and pouchy. Dazed, she stared at his good-luck bow tie. As if answering, he said, “Maybe he has a chance, Stacy.”

  She leaned against him. “To be what?”

  Nat took her to the elevator. Watching its numbers, they rode to the fourth floor.

  A wing was cordoned by police. Passing through them, Nat led her down more tile to a green chair, next to an ashtray she didn’t need.

  “I’ll be back,” he said. “As soon as there’s news.”

  Stacy watched him disappear. The overhead lights seemed pitiless; there was blood on her fingers and sleeve.

  Jamie’s aides appeared, lost young men speaking in low voices. Their footsteps clicked on the tile, aimless and hollow. Stacy could not look at them.

  “Stacy?” a soft voice asked.

  It was Damone, next to her.

  “How did you get here?”

  “No matter. I wanted to be with you.” She leaned closer. “Why did he do it, John?”

  “I don’t know.” Damone looked away. “Stacy, someone stole the concert money. It’s gone.”

  It did not truly register. Staring, Stacy saw the distant figure of Nat Schlesinger at the end of the corridor, coming toward them. His steps were an old man’s.

  “That’s all right.” She said this gently, foolishly, to Damone. “Jamie won’t be needing it.”

  It was 3:00 A.M.

  Unable to sleep, Lord and Marcia watched television.

  In the hospital press room, a weary-faced man in a bow tie began reading from a piece of paper.

  “At 2:17 this morning, June third, United States Senator James J. Kilcannon died from an assassin’s bullet.…”

  Marcia turned to Lord; the man’s voice quavered.

  “The cause of death was a single shot, entering the rear portion of the senator’s skull and passing through the cerebral cortex.…”

  The telephone rang.

  Mechanically, Lord picked it up. “Yes.”

  “Tony, this is Ralph DiPalma.”

  DiPalma’s voice was taut. “Yes,” Lord repeated.

  “I’m at the Hall of Justice. You’d better come down.”

  “For what?”

  “Harry Carson—the guy who shot Kilcannon.” DiPalma paused, expelling one short breath. “He just asked for you.”

  For a moment, Lord was silent. “I’ll be there,” he answered. He was a long time putting down the telephone.

  On their television, Stacy Tarrant left the hospital, circled by cameras. Marcia turned, crying. “What is it?” she asked.

  But Lord did not truly hear her.

  “Psych defense,” he murmured. “It’s the only way.”

  Part 2

  TONY LORD

  THE TRIAL: HARRY CARSON

  June-September, The Same Year

  1

 
; WHAT Lord remembered was the sirens.

  They started as a thin cry in his wind-wing. Block by block, the cry rose in the empty streets, more sirens joining at higher pitches. By the time he reached the Hall of Justice, their shrieks clashed around him.

  A silent crowd covered the lawn and sidewalk as if watching the reflected swirl of squad car lights, red shimmering on black windows. Parking in an alley, Lord saw a Chicano with a tire iron smash the windshield of a TV truck. But the others seemed near shock.

  Reporters waited at the entrance, cordoned from the rest by police. When Lord reached one, angling between a vagrant and a young woman crying, the cop pressed a palm to his chest.

  “Jamie …” the woman sobbed.

  Lord spoke under his breath. “I’m Carson’s lawyer.”

  The cop took Lord’s briefcase and half-dragged him forward. Reporters stirred. “Hey, Tony,” one called. “You defending this guy?”

  Lord kept moving. To the police guarding the entrance, his escort murmured, “He says he’s the shooter’s attorney.”

  A guard signaled another inside the glass doors. Opening them, a black deputy sheriff took Lord’s wallet. Then the doors closed behind him.

  The lobby was a dim, echoing capsule. Checking Lord’s briefcase for weapons, the deputy telephoned DiPalma, then led him to the elevator. As it rose, Lord tried to absorb that Kilcannon was dead.

  On the seventh floor, the deputy unlocked a barred door, the first of several. Lord heard ringing telephones, voices.

  They came from a squad room filled with cops and plainclothesmen. At its center, three homicide detectives briefed the district attorney. DiPalma’s too-bright eyes flickered from one to the other, then stopped at Lord.

  The detectives left.

  DiPalma began tapping a pencil against his teeth. “How does Carson know you?”

  “He doesn’t.”

  DiPalma’s eyes shone. “I hear you had words with Kilcannon.…”

  “Cut the crap. I want to know what he’s said.”

  “Nothing.” Pressure seemed to make DiPalma speak too quickly or not quickly enough. “Kept repeating his name and address.”

  “What was the weapon?”

  “Mauser. A perfect assassin’s gun.”

  Lord felt himself squint. “On television, it looked like he came from backstage.”

  “He’d hired on with Tarrant.” DiPalma glanced at the room, then sharply at Lord. “His motorcycle was at the loading dock. It’s a rational, premeditated hit.”

  “In front of twenty thousand witnesses? What’s his motive?”

  DiPalma’s smile was a tic. “While he shot Kilcannon, someone robbed the concert money. Over four hundred thousand, her manager says.”

  In his surprise, Lord realized that his skewed mental reflexes mirrored DiPalma’s. “Are you charging conspiracy?”

  “As soon as we find the money—or his friends.”

  “Assuming there are any. And assuming he lives.”

  DiPalma’s eyes became slits. “He’s in the Dan White cell—no cellmates, no sheets or belt to hang himself. I’m not going to lose him.”

  Lord nodded. “What did you find besides the Mauser?”

  “A duffel bag—cigarettes, newspaper, a diary.”

  “I’ll need to see those.”

  “I’ll consider it.” DiPalma jammed the pencil in his coat pocket. “If you defend him.”

  “Maybe,” Lord responded, “I should talk to him first.”

  DiPalma stared at him. “When you do, ask about his friends. His best hope of living is to trade someone.”

  Lord’s eyes met his. “I’ll consider it,” he answered softly.

  But DiPalma’s stare had moved past him. Turning, Lord saw the mayor, the police chief, the United States attorney. It struck him that DiPalma, cursed with a heavy beard, had shaved before arriving. “If Carson has co-conspirators,” DiPalma said in a lower voice, “he’s headed for the gas chamber. You could look like an asshole in front of God and everyone.” He hurried toward the others, glancing to each side.

  Lord bought cigarettes from a machine. Then he followed the deputy through more locked doors, to a bare white cubicle.

  Carson wore a prisoner’s orange jumpsuit. When the door closed, sealing Lord inside, he did not look up from the table.

  Sitting, Lord saw a ropy-looking man with a blond mustache and greyhound eyes.

  “I’m Tony Lord.”

  Carson half-nodded.

  “Cigarette?”

  The eyes flickered. Carson took one, twisting off the filter and tapping one end on the table. As if in disbelief, Lord said, “They tell me you shot Kilcannon.”

  There was a slight, second nod.

  The meaningless confirmation jarred Lord; Carson had murdered someone he had faced nine hours before, ironic and alive. Lord lit his first cigarette in years, then Carson’s.

  “Why did you ask for me?”

  “Today …” Carson took a puff. “I read your name in the paper.”

  His tone of voice made this seem a distant memory. “Did you think you’d need a lawyer?”

  There was no answer, nothing in the eyes. Lord wondered if this were selective.

  “When did you first decide to shoot Kilcannon?”

  Dully, Carson shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “Then what do you remember about the shooting?”

  “Screaming.” Carson sounded oddly detached. “I looked down, and saw his face.”

  “Do you recall firing at the camera?”

  A slight flush. “Uh-huh.”

  “Why didn’t you try to get away?”

  Carson’s stare became fixed. “He was filming us.”

  “Us?”

  “All of us … there—”

  “How did you get there?”

  Carson gazed at the ceiling. “John Damone.”

  Lord tried to sound casual. “Who’s John Damone?”

  “Her manager.” Bending forward, Carson twisted the broken end of his cigarette like a joint. “He hired me.”

  “How did you know him?”

  Carson returned the butt to his mouth. “The Army.”

  “In Vietnam?”

  Surprise appeared on Carson’s face. He nodded.

  Lord spoke softly now. “Did he know you’d shoot Kilcannon?”

  Carson’s eyes went lifeless as nail heads.

  “Damone or anyone?” Lord snapped.

  No expression; it was as if each question pushed Carson further beneath the skin. Then, quite slowly, he shook his head.

  Lord stubbed out his unsmoked cigarette, still watching him. “Did Damone steal the concert money?”

  Carson blinked.

  Lord leaned forward. “The money’s gone—they think that’s your motive. If DiPalma finds it on anyone you know, he’ll use it to get the death penalty.”

  Carson ground his cigarette to a nub. Softly, he said, “I don’t know about any money.”

  “Did someone pay you?”

  Carson stared at the ashtray. “No.”

  “Then why in hell did you shoot him?”

  Carson seemed to steel himself. “He sold out veterans.”

  “In what way?”

  “He wouldn’t help us. During the war—he led demonstrations.…”

  Lord tilted his head. “You must have been in high school.”

  Carson nodded, as if this ancient anger were fresh and reasonable. “Where did you live?” Lord asked.

  “New Jersey.”

  “Did you ever meet him?”

  Carson’s mouth twitched. “Just tonight.”

  Lord gave himself a moment. “Where in New Jersey?”

  “Monmouth County.” It seemed to require thought. “Near Clarksburg.”

  “Is there someone I should call? A wife?”

  A moment’s feeling in the eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”

  The answer sounded more human, even lonely. “She’ll need to know, Harry.”

&nb
sp; Folding his arms, Carson stared past him.

  “I’ve got some advice,” Lord said at length. “You’d better listen.”

  Carson broke the filter off a second cigarette.

  “DiPalma,” Lord began with emphatic clarity, “needs to convict you worse than you can ever know. He’s not above taping you, even though it’s illegal. Don’t say or do anything. Don’t show emotion, don’t trust any other prisoner, because they might slip a spy in on you. Go on like you’re a POW—name, rank, and serial number. And if this is an act, keep it up.” Behind the hand which held the cigarette, Lord thought he saw the shadow of a smile. Softly, he finished, “Except with me.”

  Carson looked away. Lord wondered if he’d imagined the smile because he remembered Kilcannon’s.

  Turning, he waved to the deputy.

  When he glanced back, Carson was holding out the pack of cigarettes.

  “Nonfilter,” Lord said. “I’ll remember.”

  The deputy stepped between them, clapped Carson in handcuffs, and led him away. He did not look back.

  DiPalma was waiting. “Got anything?” he asked harshly. “Or anyone?”

  “Not yet.” Lord hesitated. “Where do I find Damone?”

  DiPalma’s chin raised. “At the Fairmont.”

  “Thanks.”

  DiPalma stepped in front of him. “If I get no help from Carson, it’s a death penalty case.”

  “I’ll hold the thought.” Lord brushed past him, headed for the elevator.

  When he reached the entrance, the crowd remained, though it was nearly light.

  Reporters surrounded him, cameras, flashbulbs. It had happened too quickly, Lord thought, and in the wrong way.

  “Is there a conspiracy …?”

  The question was lost in others. Into the nearest microphone, Lord said slowly and distinctly, “Mr. Carson has asked me to defend him. I intend to.”

  “Fucker,” someone shouted from the sidewalk. “You’ll get it in the back.”

  Scattered cheers arose. Three police formed a wedge, breaking Lord through to the alley where he had parked.

  His windshield was shattered.

  “Thanks anyhow,” Lord murmured. Then he started along the sidewalk, past TV trucks and away from the crowd and cops, rushing toward his office, a mile away.

  Cass was sitting with a newspaper folded in her lap. It was seven o’clock.

  “Sorry,” Lord said. “It took longer than I thought.”