by Ray Garton
“You mean he just brought this up out of the blue?”
“Maybe. I guess so.”
“You and your son must be close, then. Are you close?”
“We get along okay.”
“Really? Then why do you suppose he would plant explosives all over your house and try to kill you?”
“Objection,” Lazar said, standing. “Nathaniel Cunningham’s other activities are not relevant to this case.”
Horowitz argued, “If so much weight is going to be put on what Nathaniel Cunningham said to his father, I think they are relevant.”
“Overruled,” Judge Lester said. “Answer the question, Mr. Cunningham.”
“Hell, I dunno why he did that. Who knows why kids do the things they do?”
“Kids? Nathaniel is twenty-nine years old.”
“Yeah, well, he’s still a kid to me.”
“You are telling us that your son just dropped this information into a conversation? For no reason at all? Is that what you are saying, Mr. Cunningham?”
“Yep.”
“That doesn’t strike you as odd?”
“Nope.”
“You passed this information on to the FBI after you were arrested, correct?”
“That’s right.”
“And they made a deal with you in exchange for that information, correct?”
“Yeah, we managed to work somethin’ out. Took a while, though. Probably wouldn’t’ve gotten anything if that dead screenwriter hadn’t been on every TV set in the country.”
“What was the deal you made?”
“I don’t have to tell you that.”
“I am afraid you do, Mr. Cunningham.”
“What’s it got to do with this case?” he asked. “I ain’t the one on trial.”
“But you will be soon, Mr. Cunningham,” Judge Lester said. “And you might even end up in my court. Answer the question.”
He sighed, rolled his head in a put-out way. “What was the question again?”
Quiet laughter rose in the courtroom like dust clouds, disappeared as quickly.
“What was the deal you made with the FBI and the police, Mr. Cunningham?” Horowitz asked again.
“I tell them what I knew about the screenwriter, they’d drop the sex offender charges.”
“Sex offender charges?”
“Yeah.”
“What were those charges, exactly?”
“Hey, I got no law degree. You’ll have to ask my attorney.”
“They were child molestation charges. Correct, Mr. Cunningham?”
“They weren’t children, I can tell you that.”
“Yes or no, they were child molestation charges.”
After a moment, he muttered, “Sex with a minor charges.”
“And your attorney managed to get these charges dropped? The child molestation charges?”
“Yeah. That’s his job. And it’s sex with a minor, dammit! There’s a difference.”
“Is there? I thought you had no law degree. Holding out on us?” Another puff of laughter from the spectators. “In that case, should you move to another town, you would not be obligated by law to inform anyone of your history as a child mol—pardon me, your history of having sex with minors. Correct?”
“Yeah, that’s right,” he said, irritated.
“Is there a chance, Mr. Cunningham, that the deal made by your attorney to have those charges dropped might color your testimony here today?”
He pulled his head back and his face screwed into a befuddled frown. “Huh?”
“You are a career criminal. You sell drugs, guns, you make child pornography, and you have sex with children, also known as minors. Considering the fact that some of your charges were dropped in exchange for the information you offered, why should anyone believe that information?”
Cunningham shrugged and smiled. “I don’t care if you believe it.”
At the prosecution table, Lazar held his pursed lips between thumb and index finger. His head dipped forward and moved back and forth almost imperceptibly.
Horowitz gathered her notes. “Your Honor, I will not dignify this child molester with any further questions.”
Lazar shouted his objection before Horowitz finished her sentence. As Judge Lester sustained the objection, Cunningham shouted, “Hey, I’m not a child molester! I’m a child pornographer!”
“You know better than that, Ms. Horowitz,” Judge Lester growled. She turned to the jury. “You will disregard the defense counsel’s inappropriate parting shot and—”
As the judge spoke, Cunningham stood, put his hands on the front edge of the witness stand and leaned forward. “And you call that fucking hack a screenwriter?” he shouted at Horowitz, then turned to Adam. “You know how many scripts I’ve written? Huh? Over two hundred! Not two hundred, over two hundred! All produced!”
Judge Lester pounded her gavel in an apparent attempt to bludgeon the bench to death. To be heard over him, she shouted, “Mr. Cunningham, you will stop this—”
Two bailiffs rushed to the witness stand, clutched Cunningham’s arms and pulled him stumblingly toward the door.
“I write movies for adults about teenage boys havin’ sex!” Cunningham shouted. “That Hollywood bastard writes gory movies with people shootin’ and slashin’ each other and their fuckin’ heads’re explodin’, and he writes ’em for kids! He’s a screenwriter, and what’m I? A fuckin’ child molester! I’m the devil here? I ask you!” His voice faded behind the closed door.
The last bang of Judge Lester’s gavel lingered a moment.
The silence in the courtroom crackled with tension.
Judge Lester turned her stern owl-like eyes up to one of the small remote-controlled television cameras mounted on the wall. “That oughtta boost the ratings,” she said with contempt.
FIFTY-ONE
During the trial, Adam lived for the weekend as he never had before, not even when he was in school. It was a welcome but all too short break from the endless hours spent in the courtroom. Although it gave him some free time, it was difficult to do much with it. In front of his apartment building, reporters continued to wait should he make an appearance. Sneaking out of the building became more and more difficult. They had grown wise to his tricks and were learning fast. Adam and Alyssa had tried to go to a movie one weekend afternoon. Somehow, the reporters had arrived at the theater ahead of them. Adam had told Leo to keep driving.
On Saturdays, they listened to reruns of The Don and Mike Show on the radio. With the trial taking up all of Adam’s weekday afternoons, he had to settle for the weekend “Best of” shows. He found it at once funny and depressing that Don and Mike were the only ones who did not buy the image Horowitz had created for Adam.
“I saw that ball-busting midget lawyer bitch talking to the frog the other night, Larry King,” Don said. “She keeps telling us this guy, this killer, what’s his name?”
“Adam Julian: daddy-killer,” Mike said in a Jack Webb monotone.
“Yeah, damned right. She keeps telling us he’s such a fine boy, he’s so traumatized by all of this, he’s innocent. Gimme a break! I mean, Jesus Christ, isn’t it obvious this kid’s a friggin’ killer? Are we the only ones who see this? Is everybody in the Goddamned world brain-dead?”
Mike broke into a dead-on impersonation of Horowitz: “He’s such a fine boy, he’s a good boy, he’s a kind boy, he’s a—”
Don shouted, “He’s a killer boy, you effing C-word!”
“You know, those lawyers,” Mike said, “you can’t trust ’em as far as you can throw ’em. But the midget lawyers—”
“Oh, they’re the worst, ’cause you can never look the little bastards in the eyes! And speaking of throwing, I could throw her pretty far, you know. I’d like to throw her off a cliff. You hear that, you effing dwarf shyster? Eat me raw with a flavor straw!”
As he laughed with Alyssa, Adam thought, They’re right! It’s a comedy show, but they’re the only ones who don’t believe the sto
ry, and they’re right!
The sixth Friday of the trial, Horowitz invited Adam and Alyssa to dinner. Leo picked them up at Adam’s building and took them to Annie’s, a small Chinese restaurant in a Sherman Oaks strip mall. Max’s Escalade was in the parking lot. He and Horowitz already had a table.
“What’s the occasion?” Adam said as he and Alyssa joined them.
“No particular occasion,” Horowitz said. “We had a good week. I thought you might like to have dinner in a place not filled with celebrities and photographers.”
“No celebrities?”
“Not a single one. So keep it under your hat. If they start showing up, the prices will skyrocket. Did Leo lose the reporters?”
“Like a pro,” Adam said.
Horowitz ordered for all of them.
“If you think the week went well,” Alyssa said, “then it must have been great.”
Horowitz said, “I only meant that we had five good days in a row. It means nothing, really, just a pleasant rarity. Anything can happen, though.”
“Do you say things like that just to make me a nervous wreck?” Adam said.
“No, I say it because it is the truth. A trial is like making a movie. You have no idea how it will turn out until it’s all finished.”
“How much longer, do you think?” Adam asked.
“Ah, the big question,” Max said with a chuckle.
“Another month, maybe six weeks,” Horowitz said. “How are you holding up, Adam? I have been too busy to chat lately. Are you sleeping well?”
“Counting the hours I sleep in court?”
“Very funny.” Her voice was chiding, but her eyes smiled.
“Yeah, I’m sleeping fine. I prefer it to being awake these days. I’m developing calluses on my butt from sitting in the courtroom.”
She turned to Alyssa. “I suspect I will be calling my first witness early next week. Are you ready to take the stand when your turn comes?”
“I’ll take the stand and recite Portia’s quality of mercy speech from The Merchant of Venice in Esperanto while standing on my head if it’ll help get this thing over with.”
“Justice cannot be rushed,” Horowitz said.
Max nodded. “It can be obstructed, miscarried, withheld, and bought. But not rushed.”
Alyssa marveled aloud at Horowitz’s ability to eat so gracefully with chopsticks and actually get food into her mouth. Horowitz spent a few minutes trying to teach her, but without success.
“Tastes just as good on a fork,” Max said. “This walnut shrimp is makin’ my mouth awful happy. How come you never brought me here before, Rona?”
“It has been my little secret until now.”
A cellphone chirped, and Max and Horowitz reached for their pockets.
“It’s mine,” Max said. He opened the phone, put it to his ear. “Vantana.”
They continued eating as Max listened, frowned, sucked his teeth. “Okay, be right there,” he said. Scooted his chair back as he returned the cellphone to his pocket. Leaned toward Horowitz, said, “We got ’em,” and stood.
Horowitz pushed away from the table and stood with him. Food still in her mouth, she said, “We have to go. You two finish your dinner, take your time. The bill is taken care of. I am going with Max. Leo will drive you home.”
They rushed out of the restaurant.
“What was that all about?” Alyssa asked.
“Who cares?” Adam said, grinning. “Can you believe it? We’re in a restaurant together, and we’re alone!”
For the rest of their meal, Adam almost felt like a normal person.
* * *
Lazar was to call his final three witnesses on Monday of the trial’s seventh week. He called to the stand first Detective Wyndham of the Marina del Rey Police Department. He had headed the investigation into the murder of Michael Julian and had helped search Adam’s house after his arrest. One of the items found was Adam’s story “Father’s Day.” Lazar introduced it as evidence and instructed Detective Wyndham to read it aloud.
Adam was mortified. It was the story he had written in Mrs. Boam’s class. It was terrible, one of the worst things he had ever written. He was surprised it still existed, regretted not burning it years ago. On top of being such a bad story, it simply did not look good for him.
When Detective Wyndham was finished reading the story, Lazar questioned him about the contents of Adam’s bedroom.
As the detective answered Lazar’s questions. Judge Lester became increasingly restless on the bench. Normally, the old woman hardly moved, and sometimes her magnified eyes closed behind her thick glasses. Horowitz had assured him that Judge Lester was always quite alert, but Adam wondered if she sometimes slept in court. She would rest her chin on her knobby knuckles and her large round eyes would stare at nothing in particular. The already sagging lids would lower gradually, almost imperceptibly, until they were closed. There she would sit, motionless, eyes shut, until someone said, “No further questions,” or objected. Then she would sit up, eyes attentive, as if that had been her posture all along.
But during Detective Wyndham’s testimony, she fidgeted and sniffed, shot repeated glances to the back of the courtroom. Her behavior led Adam to the conclusion that she had to go to the bathroom.
Horowitz looked casually over her shoulder. Only for an instant. When she faced forward again, she appeared quite satisfied. Lazar said he had no further questions, and Horowitz stood, went to the lectern.
As Wyndham droned in response to her questions, Adam looked to the back of the courtroom, disguising the movement as a restless shift of position. Jack Nicholson was ducking into a seat, trying not to draw attention to himself.
While Horowitz questioned Wyndham, Judge Lester continued to squirm and fidget. Adam decided either her bladder was about to burst or she had crabs.
The instant Horowitz said, “No further questions,” Judge Lester’s gavel cracked as she stood and said, “Court will adjourn for a fifteen-minute recess.” Leaned forward and said something quietly to the bailiff, then left the bench and disappeared.
“Go ahead and stretch your legs,” Horowitz said as she sat down at the table. “I think you have a visitor.”
Adam nodded, left the table and met Nicholson. “Hi, Jack. What are you doing here?”
“Just thought I’d come over and see how your gig’s going,” he said with a grin. “Got a call from your attorney a few days ago. She said you were feeling a little down and I oughtta drop in on you. Cheer you up.”
Feeling down? Adam thought. What the hell is she up to?
“Thanks, Jack, I appreciate it.”
“Hey, no problem. I expected to see you before this. You should bring your girl over some night. We could catch a ballgame. Take your mind off all this happy crap.”
The bailiff approached them somewhat reluctantly, an embarrassed smile on his ruddy face. “Uh, ’scuse me, Mr. Nicholson?”
“Yeah.”
“Judge Lester would like to see you in her chambers.”
Nicholson’s devilishly arched eyebrows rose. “She would, huh?” He turned to Adam and smirked. “What do you suppose I did?”
Adam shrugged, wondering himself.
“I’ll be right back. You won’t be goin’ anywhere, will you?” Nicholson laughed as he patted Adam on the back. Followed the bailiff to the front of the courtroom and through the door through which Judge Lester had disappeared so quickly a minute earlier.
Adam went to the table, where Horowitz was scribbling on a legal pad. Sat down beside her and whispered, “Why did you ask him to come here?”
“Sorry,” she said. “I thought you two were friends.”
“We are, but I’m not feeling down. Why’d you tell him that?”
“I thought he might take your mind off things.”
“Yeah. And what the hell does the judge want with him?”
“Oh, Judge Lester is a fan.”
“A fan. What’d she do, ask him back there for an autogr
aph?”
“Most likely. And she will probably want to have her picture taken with him. She will frame it and put it on her office wall. If I am not mistaken, Jack Nicholson is one of her favorites. She has a Chinatown poster on the wall behind her desk. Right next to her M*A *S *H poster.”
“M*A*S*H?”
“The Altman movie. She loves it.”
He remembered something Horowitz had said about Judge Lester before the trial began. “You said she had a weakness. Is that it? Movie stars? Is that why you asked him here?”
She turned to him with an irritated tightness to her lips and said, “Adam, I am busy. Take a walk. Get a drink. Go to the restroom. Something.”
He knew better than to leave the courtroom. Reporters and photographers would be on him in a heartbeat. Instead, he waited at the table.
Fifteen minutes became twenty. The chatter in the courtroom grew louder, more restless. Twenty-six minutes into the fifteen-minute recess, Nicholson came out of the corner door grinning and went to the defense table.
“I’m really sorry about that, Jack,” Adam said, standing.
“Hey, no problem at all.” He leaned close and whispered, “Goofy old bat, huh? But harmless. Just wanted a couple autographs and a picture taken, is all.”
“You don’t have to stick around for this. It’s boring beyond belief.”
“Oh, I don’t think so. I’ve been watching at home. It’s a good show.”
“All rise,” the bailiff called.
Nicholson squeezed Adam’s shoulder. “You watch your ass,” he said with a smile before returning to his seat.
When Judge Lester returned to the bench, her cheeks were rosy and she wore lipstick. She smiled at the back of the courtroom as she took her seat.
Adam thought, Unfuckingbelievable, as he dropped into his chair to sit through Raymond Lazar’s last two witnesses.
* * *
Adam awoke to kisses on Tuesday morning. He opened his eyes to see Alyssa smiling at him, her face just a couple inches from his. Her naked body was warm against him.
“I’ve been watching you sleep,” she whispered. “It was nice. But I thought you’d want to get up.”
He looked at the clock and gasped. “Holy shit, it’s late! I set the alarm, why didn’t—”