Private Screening

by Richard North Patterson

  Taylor sat down again. “DiPalma says otherwise. Who am I supposed to listen to?”

  “Your conscience.”

  Three days later, SNI petitioned the court.

  6

  DI PALMA’S hands were flat on the conference table, his voice precise. “It’s my final offer. Guilty to premeditated murder—life sentence in a maximum security prison. He can die there.”

  “That’s not much.”

  “All you’ve got is a hitch in Vietnam, with no detail.”

  “And you’ve got no motive.” Lord leaned forward. “Where’s the conspiracy, Ralph? Or the money? Even Carson would know he couldn’t use it in jail.…”

  “Doesn’t it ever bother you that it just happened to get ripped off in the confusion, and that Carson had you all picked out? Not to mention the gun.” DiPalma’s eyes seemed flecked with light. “Pleading him insane risks the death penalty without knowing how the judge will rule on SNI’s petition. You may end up on television with your cock hanging out.”

  “And an appeal I can take to the Supreme Court. They’ll admire your use of SNI for leverage.”

  DiPalma turned up both hands. “Your client lives,” he said, “and you get out of Vietnam. Let me know.”

  Lord nodded. “Before the hearing. One way or the other.”

  DiPalma left before Lord could close his briefcase.

  “Twelve hours,” Shriver said, “and Carson can’t or won’t talk about the war, leaving ’Nam, or that poem he finished. But he did open up on the subject of shrinks.”

  They walked in a park near the Berkeley campus. “In what way?” Lord asked.

  “Doesn’t like ’em. ’Cause he’s perfectly sane.”

  “Does he mention politics?”

  “Uh-huh, but I agree with you—he borrowed that somewhere. To give reasons.”

  “If he gives those reasons in court, he’s gone.”

  Shriver ran a hand across the smooth top of his skull. “Unless you find someone to testify about what Carson did in Vietnam, you’ll have a real problem connecting it to Kilcannon, or even knowing what this anniversary thing’s about.…”

  “But?”

  “On his life story he’s a classic stress case—only we’ve got no idea what was happening in his head that night. And that’s where DiPalma nails me and Carson to the wall.” He stopped, looking out at the park. “I can’t say I envy your decision.”

  Lord gave him a crooked smile. “I wasn’t looking for envy.”

  “What about guys who served with him before he got thrown in jail?”

  “Haven’t found any yet. Those names and addresses are fourteen years old.”

  “And Damone still won’t talk to you?”

  “Nope—after I saw him that morning, he just skated away.”

  “And nobody knows what he did in Vietnam, either.”

  “DiPalma may—for whatever reason he didn’t put him in front of the grand jury, where I could get a transcript of his testimony. And I can’t put him on without knowing what he’ll say. As of now, he’s out of the trial.”

  Shriver walked a few steps. “There may be things Damone and Carson want to forget—some pretty bad stuff went down over there.” He folded his arms. “Strange there aren’t any records.”

  “We had a hearing on that last week. The Army swears they don’t exist, and Rainey accepts that. The only way it helps is there’s also no record that Carson was jailed for assaulting an officer.”

  “You won’t try to have him testify, I guess.”

  “Can’t—don’t know what he’d say, either. Besides, the postwar Harry lacks charm.”

  Shriver nodded. “The postwar Harry,” he said, “is a mess. And we both know where he got that way.”

  They stopped at a park bench. On the grass a father played catch with his son; it reminded Lord that he and Christopher had not done so in weeks. He glanced sideways at Shriver. “Were you ever there?”

  “Vietnam?” Shriver stared ahead. “Are you kidding? I was in med school. Incidentally, I see they want to televise the trial.”

  “‘They’ is right. I’m opposing it. But there’s no guarantee I’ll win.”

  Shriver puffed his cheeks. “None of this sounds very promising.”

  “It isn’t.” Lord turned to him. “But if I go ahead anyhow, will you change your mind and testify?”

  “Sure.” For the first time, Shriver smiled. “There was never any question, was there?”

  “Death?” Carson said. “No future in that, man. Life? Another fifty years of this.”

  He looked enervated; Lord wondered how many hours of thought had brought him to this mordant formula. “I don’t lightly risk the death penalty,” he answered.

  Carson shrugged. “You won’t be in a cell.”

  “Then let’s talk about your defense, Harry. If I tell a jury you shot Kilcannon for his politics, there is none.”

  “That’s why—”

  “Is that why you slapped Beth,” Lord cut in. “Because she offended you politically?”

  Carson’s mouth opened in a kind of croak. “Oh, man, why’d you do that?”

  “It’s a valid question—”

  “See her.”

  “Because I’m trying to locate a defense. For whatever reason, you picked me as your lawyer.”

  Carson turned sideways. Then, quite tonelessly, he asked, “Is Cathy all right?”

  “Beth says she’s getting along.”

  “Beth—how did she look?”

  “I knew her right away. It was the eyes.”

  Slowly, yet so completely that it moved Lord, Carson slumped, his hands covering his face. “I’m not crazy—I already told the shrink.”

  Lord watched him. “We’re talking strategy,” he said. “If I turn down DiPalma, an insanity plea’s your only choice.”

  Carson’s throat worked. “What happens if …”

  “You get treatment. Years from now, if they decide it’s worked, maybe you’ll get out.” Lord paused. “Maybe you’ll see Cathy.”

  Carson’s body was still. But when he looked up, grasping for a cigarette, his hand trembled. “What the hell,” he said. “Anything beats this.”

  Christopher put his head on Lord’s shoulder. “What are we reading?” he asked.

  Lord could smell fresh skin, clean pajamas. “My favorite poem,” he answered. “Grandpa used to read it to me.”

  “Did you have this book when you were a kid?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “It looks old.”

  “Thanks.”

  Christopher’s eyes were crescents. “You don’t look as old as the book. Just almost.”

  Lord turned in mock disgust. “Are you ready now?”

  “Sure.”

  “That’s a relief.” With mounting drama. Lord began to read:

  “Isabel met an enormous bear

  Isabel, Isabel didn’t care

  The bear was hungry, the bear was ravenous

  The bear’s big mouth was cruel and cavernous

  The bear said, Isabel, glad to meet you

  How do, Isabel, now I’ll eat you.…”

  Pausing, Lord stretched out the surprise:

  “Isabel, Isabel, didn’t worry

  Isabel didn’t scream or scurry

  She washed her hands and straightened her hair up

  Then Isabel quietly ate the bear up.”

  Christopher’s throaty chuckle reminded Lord of how his own father had delighted him with this version of the odds. “Does that mean you’re going to eat me?” he asked Christopher.

  “With peanut butter.” His son’s laughing voice turned skeptical. “Do you think a girl could do that?”

  “At least as well as I could.”

  “Dad?” Christopher turned to him, suddenly tentative. “Mikie said you’re a murderer. I said you’re not.”

  Lord felt a deep, quiet anger. “You were right. ’Cause I’ve never murdered anyone.”

  “But the other man did, an
d you’re helping him.”

  “Yes, because I’m not sure he knows why. Our country sent him to a war, Christopher. I think it messed him up.”

  “Were you in the war?”

  Lord pulled him closer. “No.”

  For a moment, Christopher was silent. “When I’m in school again, will the policeman still drive me?”

  “Maybe. Just until the case is over.”

  Looking up, Lord saw Marcia in the doorway, with a glass of wine.

  “In a minute,” he told her.

  He turned back to his son. “There might be more about this on TV—other people may say stuff. If it happens, tell me, so we can talk.”

  “Sometimes you’re not home.”

  Lord kissed his forehead. “I will be, okay?”

  “Okay.”

  He stayed until Christopher slept.

  Marcia was in the living room. She held the wineglass tightly in both hands.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  Lord sat next to her. “I may decide to plead him innocent, Marsh. It would mean a trial.”

  Her eyes widened, telegraphing astonishment. “Why?”

  Lord hesitated. “I honestly think he’s not responsible.…”

  “My God, are you that eager for the big case?”

  As if hearing herself, she turned, taking a hasty sip of wine. Lord decided to make light of it. “If I start sounding eager for this one, give me a saliva test.”

  She put down the glass. “What is it you want?”

  “Understanding, to start.”

  “I can’t be you.” In the way she flung her arms, Lord saw that she had drunk more wine than usual. “I accept what you do. But you expect me to pretend I don’t have feelings.”

  “I don’t. But I have them, too.”

  She shook her head. “Here we go again, Tony—marshaling the evidence, marking our wounds as exhibits. Just like you and DiPalma.”

  Strangely, it made him smile. “Maybe you should go to law school.”

  “With what money?” She made her voice tired. “I remember asking what you wanted.”

  He faced her. “If I plead insanity, we’ll need a second mortgage.”

  “For Harry Carson?”

  “To pay the bills. I’d have another three to four months of not doing much on other cases. There’re house payments, the new alarm system …”

  “For Harry Carson,” she repeated. “I told you this would happen the day you took the case.”

  He gave a broad, helpless shrug. “We’re broke.”

  She watched, silent, until Lord’s arms fell to his side.

  “You’re right,” he said finally. “Domestic arguments begin sounding like trials, where nothing that’s said is quite true or quite fair. Maybe it’s that we lead such different lives.…”

  “Oh, Tony, please—it’s so hollow when you turn philosophical. It’s not you. The man I live with burns to achieve, no matter what it costs.”

  He made himself wait to answer. “If I end up disappointed with my life,” he told her, “it’ll be because of what I’ve done, not failed to do.”

  “Then do it.” She stood. “Go ahead, Tony. I’ll sign the mortgage and watch you.”

  She walked briskly to the shower, as Lord had known she would.

  Lord sat on the floor in a work shirt, blue jeans, moccasins. It was ten-thirty; his office was dark.

  Silent and silver, Harry Carson shot Kilcannon like a robot. He fell, and then Stacy Tarrant was touching his forehead. Lord could feel the look she gave him.

  “Doesn’t it ever bother you,” DiPalma had asked, “that Carson had you all picked out?”

  Lord put on the second film.

  Escaping, Carson saw the camera and knelt to fire. When he rose, it was not to run, but to stare at his hands. As he turned toward the fallen man, mouth opening, Lord froze the videotape.

  If DiPalma knew the reason Carson gave was politics, he would win. Divorced from tactics and obligation, Lord knew, the morality of what he might do required a client who had acted alone, too deranged to understand his motives.

  Staring at Carson, Lord pondered his own motives.

  He sat there for moments. When he went to the telephone and dialed, Carson’s dazed expression still filled the screen.

  There were five rings and then a deep voice answered, “Yes?”

  “This is Tony Lord.”

  There was a pause. “How did you get this number?”

  “I went to court. I have to plead him tomorrow.”

  “I know.” The voice was so flat it was hostile. “I watch TV. I even read your letters.”

  “Look, I need you to tell me what happened to him there.”

  “Ask the Army.”

  “There aren’t any records—not for the last few months.”

  Damone paused again. “Then,” he answered quietly, “you should ask yourself why.”

  “It doesn’t matter—I have to know.” Lord used his final, empty threat. “I can always subpoena you.”

  There was another, longer silence. Then, very softly, a click.

  Lord watched Carson, until he heard the dial tone.

  Four assistants flanked DiPalma. The five watched Judge Rainey as if Lord no longer existed.

  “Case number 84-762,” the clerk pronounced, “People versus Harry F. Carson.”

  There was the peculiar silence of massed bodies, poised for when the silence was broken. Rainey, a white-haired politician so concerned with appearances that Cass had dubbed him “The Great Oz,” straightened as if posing for a portrait.

  “Mr. Carson,” he intoned, “the state charges that on June second of this year, intentionally and with premeditation, you shot and murdered United States Senator James J. Kilcannon. What is your plea?”

  Carson gave Lord a tentative glance. “Not guilty,” Lord responded. “By reason of insanity.”

  There was an intake of breath. Rainey slammed his gavel. “Very well. Trial will commence November first.

  “The plea,” he continued in a rich bass voice, “requires the court to rule on the petition of Satellite News International to televise these proceedings. We share Mr. Lord’s concern that such broadcasts not prejudice the defendant’s right to a fair trial, and take note of SNI’s willingness to restrict itself to a single camera, without close-ups of any witness.

  “We are also concerned that this case already has received massive, unavoidable publicity, to which both prosecution and defense have added. Nor are we unaware that in the past, political assassinations have resulted in continuing unhealthy speculation and widespread misunderstanding of verdicts reached in courts of law.

  “Such a result in this case would compound the tragedy which led to it. Therefore, the petition of Satellite News International is granted.”

  The gavel cracked. Rainey stood, and then reporters filled the double doors as if sucked out by a vacuum.

  Carson watched the bench where Rainey no longer sat. Touching his shoulder, Lord said, “I’ll see you this afternoon,” before the marshals led him away.

  From the rear, Hart Taylor grinned at Lord.

  An anger Lord could not control swept him past Taylor, through the corridors, out of the building. And then he found himself trapped with DiPalma on the highest step, facing more reporters, questions, lenses glinting in the sun.

  A flash of superstition ran through him, growing to a kind of awe. Now, no one’s life would be untouched—not his or Marcia’s or Christopher’s, not Carson’s or Beth Winship’s, or even Stacy Tarrant’s. To know this, he thought, and yet be so unsure.

  DiPalma had raised one hand.

  “The people,” he began, in a hard, rising chant, “know the rational, premeditated act of an assassin from the stupor of a so-called flashback. Mr. Carson did not murder at random or by accident. As thousands watched, he stalked a United States senator with a German-made Mauser and put a single bullet through his brain.” He turned to Lord so that the cameras would record this, then
faced them to conclude, “To seek another penalty than death would compound the contempt for reason which has brought us here today.”

  “Mr. Lord!”

  Lord felt doubt and anger and necessity fuse into resolve. If this were to be tried on television, he would give them an opening statement to remember. As he framed his answer, he saw Rachel Messer pushing to be near him.

  “The prosecutor,” he began, “paints Harry Carson as a cold-blooded killer so that no one asks the question, Why? We intend to ask it for him.

  “In 1968, when Mr. DiPalma and I were safe in law school, the government sent an eighteen-year-old boy to fight the most traumatic war in American history. That war returned to us a different Harry Carson. And it is that same war, not a ‘contempt for reason,’ which has brought us here today.

  “If someone were to tie up their pet dog at nine in the morning and start lobbing hand grenades around him, by six that night they’d have a different dog. If, after that, the rest of us spat on the dog for having changed, then that dog would understand more about Harry Carson than either I or Mr. DiPalma.” Facing DiPalma, Lord’s voice was level but quite clear. “And if, after that, we shoot the dog, as the prosecution wishes, then none of us need understand at all.”

  There was a low whistle: as Rachel reached him, thrusting her microphone to his mouth, Lord saw how the news would open.

  “But,” he finished softly, “I believe a jury will.”

  Rachel grinned. Nodding to DiPalma, Lord began moving through the crowd.

  THE TRIAL: STACY TARRANT

  November 1–November 9

  1

  FOR the first two punishing weeks of trial, watching DiPalma prove Harry Carson an assassin, Lord waited for Stacy Tarrant.

  His days ran together. He worked past midnight, awoke to scribble notes, cross-examined on a few hours’ sleep. Through television, he relived DiPalma’s attack in numbing third person.

  Each morning he passed SNI’s forty-foot broadcast truck, its satellite dish aimed at the sky like a silver web, its black cable climbing the steps to the lobby, past the usual shuffling defendants who stole for drugs, battered wives, charge-card deadbeats, jobless men and bag ladies, the half-insane who talked to themselves on the street and erupted into violence. More cameras looked past them, at him.

  The cable ended at the high-security courtroom, bypassing the metal detector and theater-type seats where the press listened to piped-in sound and watched through a ceiling-high sheet of bulletproof glass. Inside, Rainey presided from a raised bulletproof bench. To his right front were DiPalma and four associates; Lord, Cass, and Carson sat nearer the jury to his left. Rainey had placed the camera behind a makeshift wood partition, so that the cameraman shifting angles would not distract the jury. But the effect was of an unblinking eye which hypnotized Carson.