I didn’t like the sound of that. Neither did Glee or Lucy, who exchanged an apprehensive glance, then returned their attention to Kaiser.
He concluded, “Get a lawyer, Doug. You’d be well advised to begin preparing a defense. If those tests fail to reveal the presence of nuts in the victim’s belly, Dan Kerr and I will take steps to arrest you. You’ll be charged with the murder of Carrol Cantrell.”
PART FOUR
Prurient Interests
PORN TRIAL SLATED
Jury selection begins Monday in crucial test of county’s smut law
by CHARLES OAKLAND
Staff Reporter, Dumont Daily Register
SEPT. 23, DUMONT WI—DUMONT COUNTY DISTRICT ATTORNEY HARLEY KAISER ANNOUNCED IN A PREPARED STATEMENT LATE FRIDAY THAT JURY SELECTION WILL BEGIN MONDAY IN A CONTROVERSIAL OBSCENITY CASE THAT IS SEEN BY MANY AS A “MUST-WIN” TEST OF THE COUNTY’S LOCAL OBSCENITY ORDINANCE. IN PREVIOUS CASES PROSECUTED BY KAISER, JURIES STUNNED MORALISTS BY FINDING ADULT BOOKSTORES ON THE EDGE OF TOWN “NOT GUILTY” OF VIOLATING THE COUNTY ORDINANCE, WHICH IS PATTERNED AFTER STATE LAW.
When Kaiser first attempted to shut down the porn shops some two years ago, he told the press, “Our county board put limits on this kind of expression because some expressions are intrinsically harmful to society and they should be banned.”
After viewing Rectal Rampage, a tape procured by sheriff’s deputies at a county bookstore, a local jury surprised pundits by finding the video not obscene. Responding to this first of several defeats, Kaiser told reporters, “Maybe I should have spent more time explaining to the jury that normal sex could be displayed in a patently offensive way.”
The new case seeks to convict Star-Spangled Video, another county porn shop, of pandering to prurient interests through the sale of such tapes. Dogged by civil-liberties groups claiming that both the local ordinance and the state law violate First Amendment freedoms, the prosecutor has recruited a series of expert witnesses to bolster his case. They represent the interests of feminist and Religious Right groups.
In yesterday’s statement, Kaiser averred, “This time, we’re prepared. Dumont County will at last score a resounding victory for family values.”
Dr. Benjamin Tenelli, a retired obstetrician and new ally of the district attorney in his campaign to rid Dumont of smut, cautioned the public, “Our county stands at a crossroads. Nothing less than our prospects for future development are at stake.”
Saturday, September 23
PORNOGRAPHY HAD BEEN ON my mind for over a week—in more ways than one. On a philosophical level, smut was an issue that had raised virulent community debate, pitting free-speech advocates, such as Carrol Cantrell and me, against self-appointed defenders of public morals, such as Harley Kaiser and Miriam Westerman. On a prurient level, however, smut was simply smut, and for several days, its erotic power had taken hold of my imagination, producing rich fantasies that were fired by discussion and memories of a fallen gay-porn hero, Rascal Tyner.
It came as no surprise, then, that pornography—as both a political issue and an erotic escape—worked its way into my subconscious and surfaced in another dream.
I’m in a large barnlike room, which is dark, except for an area at one end that is flooded with light. There’s a buzz of activity near the light, with perhaps a dozen men fussing with various tasks. The tone is fast-paced and businesslike. Approaching the activity, I see that the bright light comes from overhead fixtures that are focused on a group of furniture—it looks like a living room. But there’s also equipment scattered about that doesn’t belong in a living room. Thick black cables connect all this gear. They are video cameras. The room containing all this is a soundstage, and the crew is preparing to tape a pornographic video.
A tall figure silhouetted against the light claps his hands, silencing the others. “Let’s get going,” he calls. “Where’s Rascal?”
“Here,” says a voice. “All set.” And Rascal Tyner himself emerges from the shadows. He’s fully dressed—shorts, knit shirt, and those white leather running shoes. The scene will begin with some semblance of a plot, a setup that will quickly motivate Rascal to lose his clothes. He’s ready, picture-perfect, primped and buffed. The crew is hushed and still, starstruck by his presence.
This will be one of Rascal’s legendary solo scenes—no man on film has ever found his own heated company more gratifying. The scene has never been rehearsed. Everyone already knows how it will end, but getting there, that’s the fun. Rascal asks to review a script, so the tall guy, the man in charge, steps into the light and offers Rascal a look at his clipboard. The star says, “Thanks, Carrol.”
And I realize that Carrol Cantrell has been present throughout—he’s alive and well. Hot Head Video is his own production company, and he’s here to direct the young discovery who shot to stardom, taking the studio with him. Carrol Cantrell, the man behind the scenes, and Rascal Tyner, the porn god, owe their success to each other. I wonder if Rascal is Carrol’s lover. Then I recall that Rascal is straight, acting a role. This is business, nothing more.
“There’s music throughout,” explains Carrol, “but we’ll dub it in later. In the early part of the scene, we’ll be recording your half of the phone call, so keep it all in character. Once you’ve got your clothes off, though, only the dubbed music will be heard on the finished tape. During the jackoff, I’ll give you directions, and you be sure to tell us when you’re ready to come, so we can zoom in for it…”
As Carrol reviews this plan, I’m getting aroused just hearing about it. Stepping closer, I get a better look at Rascal. His subtly pumped physique shows just enough edge to remind us that he’s not a boy anymore. Otherwise, he projects a softness suggesting he has not lost touch with his youthful vulnerability. He’s a boyman, a living apparition of a best-of-both-worlds ideal, a dream come true.
Without hesitation, I slip out of my clothes and stroke myself to full erection. Then I notice that I’m not the only one inclined to get comfortable. Most everyone on the crew has kicked out of his clothes. Some wear jockstraps. Some wear biker’s boots or other bits of leather. But most are totally naked, all fully aroused.
All, that is, except Rascal and Carrol. Rascal is still clothed because the script begins that way. Carrol remains clothed by choice. He wears a beautiful gray silk suit (probably Armani) with a T-shirt (very California), similar to the outfit he wore on the morning when he arrived in Dumont. In a pair of soft leather loafers (no socks), he glides about the set, adjusting furniture, tidying props.
“There!” he says, surveying his work. “Places, everyone.” Rascal leaves the set and stands outside the door to the fake living room. The crew members take their positions. Backing off the set, Carrol says, “Whenever we’re ready—action.”
The onstage phone rings. A key rattles in the lock, the door flings open, and Rascal bounds into the room. Cameras swing to focus on him. He drops a stack of books on the coffee table and stretches across the sofa to grab the phone. “Hello?” Banal, perhaps, but the mere sight of the guy sets an intensely erotic mood.
Rascal converses with his imagined phone buddy. “Hi, Aaron. Just got in from class. Glad I caught your call.” Pause. “I’ve been thinking about you too!” With a laugh, he slips out of his shirt, managing not to tangle it with the phone cord.
He continues to talk, but I don’t hear his words. I’m focused instead on the sight of him, chest bared. Idly, he traces a finger across the ridge of his pectorals, plays with a nipple. I mimic his actions, imagining that my hands are his. Moving closer to the set for a better view, I park next to a console where a naked but jackbooted technician sits on a stool, watching a set of meters. I name him Jack.
By now, Rascal has stepped out of his shorts—the shoes will stay on. With one foot on the coffee table, he continues to yack on the phone while using his free hand to tickle his testicles. He watches, amused by the bobbing of his penis.
Mesmerized by this, I haven’t noticed Jack, who’s steppe
d over from the console and now brushes up behind me. He traces a fingertip down my spine, slipping it between the crack of my buttocks. “Squat,” he commands quietly.
Eyes on Rascal, I obey Jack’s order. He hunkers down with me, squeaking his boots. Feeling my anus, he taps the perimeter, teasing with the threat of entry. “Not yet,” I tell him. I’m masturbating in earnest, enjoying the ride.
Ditto for Rascal. “There’s something I need to take care of,” he tells Aaron, hanging up the phone, spreading himself on the sofa. With both hands free now, he can really go at it, fingering himself from behind while pumping.
Carrol calls over the action, “Take it home, Rascal. The scene’s all yours now. Somebody, give him some music—he needs to hear the beat.”
One of the stagehands clicks on a tinny boom box, which blasts some cheesy disco hit, all percussion and brass. This isn’t the music that will be heard on the finished tape—it’s only being played to give Rascal a background thump for his jackoff finale. He captures the beat with fervor.
“Other hand,” Carrol calls to him. “Everyone wants to see that, Rascal.”
Lying there, grooving, Rascal laughs with abandon, switching hands.
Rascal’s not the only one working his way toward orgasm. Jack has slid beneath me on the floor to slurp at my groin. Other stagehands are grinding away as well, alone or in pairs. Everyone’s getting into it. Everyone’s getting close. Everyone, that is, except Carrol Cantrell, who continues to coach Rascal, asking him to prolong the frenzy for another minute—just another minute. And the beat goes on.
Pound-pound-pound-pound-POUND.
What was that? It wasn’t the disco tape—same rhythm, but out of sync, way louder, from the far side of the room. Rascal heard it too. Distracted, he’s lost the beat. Muttering an apology, he redoubles his efforts and attempts to save the scene—without a good come shot, the whole day’s work is lost.
Pound-pound-pound-pound-POUND.
“Jee-sus Christ!” shrills Carrol. “What the hell’s going on?”
“There’s someone at the door, Mr. Cantrell,” a stagehand shouts to him.
“Fuck! Keep shooting. Rascal, keep it up—bring it home. Let’s get this wrapped!” Carrol bounds away from the set to the other end of the soundstage, where the pounding reverberates from a huge metal door. He yells, “We’re working!”
Muffled voices bellow something from the other side. The whole crew has turned to watch this encounter as Rascal dutifully tries to regain his momentum.
“Not now!” Carrol howls to the intruders. “Go away!”
“Mr. Cantrell!” cries Jack, who has returned to his console. Tapping one of the meters, he announces, “Rascal has lost his erection!”
There’s a collective gasp from the crew. (Do they have the kid’s dick wired?)
Carrol roars, “What!?” Pacing a few steps in front of the door, he tells everyone, “That’s fabulous—simply peachy. Well, damn it all, where’s Rascal’s fluffer?”
All heads turn to me. Jack grins. “You’re on, Mark. Have fun, buddy.”
Huh? “Carrol,” I call across the room, “I was just visiting. Really, I don’t—”
“This is no time to quibble—Rascal lost his hard-on. Get busy!”
The music is still thumping, the door is still pounding, but the room seems to fall silent for a moment. I turn from Carrol at the door to Rascal on the set. Sprawled on the sofa, legs spread wide, he glances at his crotch. “Actually,” he tells me, chagrined, “I could use some help with this.”
Duty calls. Without further protest, I stride onto the set. Kneeling at the feet of the porn god, I tell him, “I can’t make any promises, but I’ll sure as hell try.”
And I do—to the applause of the crew. Carrol has resumed his shouting match at the door, but I’m not listening. I’m focused on the job of fluffing Rascal Tyner. His problem seems to warrant oral stimulation, so I attempt that remedy first (it goes without saying that I myself need no fluffing whatever). Then the shouting grows louder. The door rolls open on its track, admitting a blast of daylight.
There’s a shriek from the crew—“It’s a raid!”
Rascal goes limp in my mouth as I glance to the open door to see two figures hustling toward the set, followed by Carrol. He tells anyone, “Turn off that damn music.” The disco throb is squelched mid-measure. Carrol yammers, “I know my rights. You’ve exceeded your authority. You have no warrant—”
“We don’t need a warrant,” barks one of the intruders. “We have a law.” And who should prance into the light of the fake living room but Harley Kaiser, intrepid prosecutor, poodle on a leash, walking on all fours. “Our county board put limits on this kind of expression because some expressions are intrinsically harmful to society and they should be banned.”
“Heel!” bleats his cloaked companion, snapping the leash like a whip. It is his antiporn cohort, Miriam Westerman. She’s on a mission, and she’s mad. Rattling her necklace of bones, she stomps onto the set, telling the world, “This is perverted. This is disgusting. Pack a room full of penis cultists, and this is what—”
“Hello, Miriam,” I tell her innocently, rising from my task.
She eyes me aghast, her hateful gaze drifting from my face to my still bloated penis. I wag it at her. She recoils, lifting crossed arms.
Harley yips at Carrol, “You’ll answer to the law for this!”
Carrol tells him dryly, “You’ll need to convince a jury first.” Laughing, Carrol adds, “Your record’s abysmal.”
Kaiser crouches on his haunches, whimpering, “Maybe I should have spent more time explaining to those juries that normal sex could be displayed in a patently offensive way.” He rests his snout on the floor.
“There now,” Westerman consoles Kaiser. Squatting, she pats his fluffy head and unhooks his leash. Rising again, she confronts Carrol. “This is your doing.” Menacingly, she loops the leash around her fist. “You should be disciplined.”
Carrol laughs. “Hey, lady, don’t blame me.” He reminds her, “I’m dead.”
Stepping forward, I tell her, “And there’s a good chance, Mizz Westerman, that he’d still be alive if someone hadn’t laced his cake with nuts.”
Spinning toward me, cloak furling, she raises her fist and snaps the leather leash at my groin. “I’ll lace your nuts!” she cackles.
As the whip smacks its target, I scream.
And I awoke.
Normally the weekend breakfast scene in the house on Prairie Street was relaxed and unstructured, but this Saturday morning was hardly the start of a normal weekend. Neil and Thad were busy setting out the boxes and bags that would provide our “continental” breakfast. Doug Pierce had already arrived, fresh from the health club, hair still wet. Also present were my two editors, Lucille Haring and Glee Savage—I’d asked them to come over that morning so we could have a brainstorming session there in the kitchen.
The pressure was on. Toxicology results and the coroner’s final report were due by the following morning. If the tests provided no new evidence that Carrol Cantrell had died from an allergic reaction to nuts, Sheriff Pierce would in all probability be unjustly accused of the crime. He stood to lose everything—freedom, career, dignity. As a friend (and also as a journalist on the scent of a great story), I’d agreed to help him solve the mystery of Cantrell’s death. During the early days of our behind-the-scenes investigation, the puzzle had gripped me as an intellectual challenge. Now, with only a day remaining to prove Pierce’s innocence, the same challenge took on an urgency that was deeply emotional—was I up to the task?
Thad was buttering toast, piling it on a plate. When he finished, he took two or three slices for himself and spread a thick layer of peanut butter over the transparent sheen of the melted butter. Clanging his knife in the jar, he said, “We need more peanut butter.”
“Already?” I asked. Neil had bought some a week ago.
“It’s on the list,” Neil told Thad.
I menti
oned, “As long as we’re taking inventory, put Chee-Zees on the list.”
The room fell dead silent. “What?” asked Neil, who’d never seen me eat such a thing—and clearly didn’t approve.
“Actually,” I tried to explain, “they’re not bad.”
“They’re pretty good,” agreed Glee.
Lucy shook her head, unwilling to admit her own acquired taste for them.
Pierce broke into laughter.
Thad brought the plate of toast and a glass of milk to the table, pulling up a chair, wedging himself between Pierce and me. The table was designed for four, but all six of us had now managed to crowd around it. Coffee and juice were already poured. On his way from the gym, Pierce had picked up a chocolate-slathered kringle—a large horseshoe-shaped pastry, something of a Wisconsin specialty (so much for Pierce’s workout). Glee had brought doughnuts; Lucy, a bag of beautiful cantaloupes and honeydews. All this bounty was spread before us, combined with the usual cereals and pastry from our own cupboard, creating an impressive selection for a household not prone to cook breakfast.
The table was further ladened with newspapers—there were at least four copies of that morning’s edition of the Register with its front-page story about jury selection for the obscenity trial, a story that carried the Charles Oakland byline. Also displayed there was Glee’s follow-up on the miniatures show, due to open that morning. The remainder of the front page was devoted to the murder.
Swallowing half a wedge of toast, Thad asked, “So the guy who got strangled—he might have been poisoned?” His eager tone suggested that this development was way beyond cool.
It made me uncomfortable that he seemed to dwell on the murder, though who could blame him? I’d assembled a mob in our home for breakfast, and our purpose was obvious—we hoped to snare a killer. Still, I didn’t want to discuss our hunches in unvarnished detail in front of Thad. So I shifted the topic, saying to everyone, “Speaking of poisoning, does everyone know that Thad landed a role in his school play?”
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