Age of Unreason

by Warren Kinsella

  But Betty didn’t bother to argue: the three thugs who had attacked her were idiots. Instead of saying anything, she pulled out the Swiss Army knife, quickly pried open the four-inch blade, and slashed at Short Stocky. A gash opened up on the top of his hand, and the blood started to flow.

  “You bitch!” he screamed over and over.

  At that point, there was little doubt the three of them would have jumped Sister Betty and hurt her badly — even killed her. But X and I had heard Short Stocky yelling as far away as Congress Street and came running. We used the same shortcut to get to Gary’s pretty often, too.

  In an instant, X had a short length of lead pipe in his fist. I reached down to pick up a brick from beside a Dumpster. It didn’t take long.

  We stopped only when we started to hear sirens.

  The three guys were alive, but they lay crumpled on the ground, unconscious — or close to it — and bleeding all over the place. X, me, and Sister Betty took off and jogged the rest of the way to Gary’s and went in the back way.

  We never saw Short Stocky and his friends again.

  CHAPTER 37

  Judge O’Sullivan, as Chief Chow had warned them, was pissed. Really pissed.

  From his perch behind the big wooden desk in courtroom one, he glared down at the DA and the prosecution teams. The chief and FBI special agent Theresa Laverty sat behind them in the front row of benches. Nobody said a word. None of them moved a muscle.

  O’Sullivan’s clerk, Bobby Edwards, sat rigid as a stone to O’Sullivan’s left.

  X’s column in the newest issue of Creem magazine had likely been read by all of the big-shot reporters in the major newspapers and TV networks, but so far none of them were reporting on it. But that hadn’t mitigated any of Justice O’Sullivan’s anger.

  “Can anyone explain to me how confidential matters that were discussed in my chambers found their way into this … this … rag?” O’Sullivan said, waving a copy of Creem in the air. Laverty noticed that the cover featured a picture of Debbie Harry and Chris Stein of Blondie.

  As O’Sullivan had asked the question a half-dozen times, in a half-dozen different ways — each attempt eliciting silence from the assembled group — the judge’s scalp became progressively redder. Laverty thought that O’Sullivan was edging perilously close to having a stroke.

  O’Sullivan then focused his attention on Jones’s lawyer, who he clearly regarded as the likely culprit. “Mr. Dennison,” he said, his voice low and menacing, “leaking such information to the media would be an excellent way to obtain a mistrial, wouldn’t it?”

  Dennison leapt to his feet, arms and hands gesturing in all directions, like a marionette in a fancy suit. He looked completely panicked. O’Sullivan may be a judge in what Dennison probably regarded as an inbred judicial backwater, but Dennison must have known that O’Sullivan was no fool, either, and not ever to be trifled with. He stammered and waved his hands.

  “Your Honor, under no circumstances would the defense ever do such a thing!” He looked over at his assistant, who had suddenly taken considerable interest in the pattern of the wood grain on the defense table. “My associates and I would never leak such information to the media —”

  O’Sullivan cut him off with the wave of a hand. “Oh, really?” he said. “I had been under the impression that you and your associates were entirely too fond of your press clippings, Mr. Dennison. Was I mistaken in that?”

  Laverty raised a hand to her mouth to hide a smile.

  Dennison’s response was characteristically cocky. “Your Honor, it would not be in the interest of the defense to seek a mistrial in a prosecution in which we expect to be successful,” he said, regaining some of his composure. “As you know, we are ready to argue the merits of our motion to exclude Mr. Jones’s privileged communications. And we expect to be successful on that motion.”

  “So, this magazine article claims,” O’Sullivan said, holding it up again, “that they know all about your defense strategy, Mr. Dennison. I find that most interesting.”

  Dennison looked distraught. “Your Honor, I swear to you as an officer of the court that we did not communicate in any way with this person, whoever they are. We want to win in court, not in the media.”

  “That’d be a first,” O’Sullivan said dryly. He then turned his attention to the District Attorney. “Ms. Martin.”

  The DA rose slowly to her feet. “Yes, Your Honor.”

  “Do you know the person who wrote this article?”

  “Yes, Your Honor, I do.” She held up a thumb and pointed in the direction of Laverty. “I believe my colleague here from the FBI, as well as many in the Portland PD, are familiar with him, as well.”

  “And you have dealt with this individual before?” O’Sullivan asked.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” she said. “Unfortunately.”

  “Why ‘unfortunately,’ Ms. Martin?”

  “Because, Your Honor, this … this young man is —”

  O’Sullivan cut her off. “Young? How young is he?”

  Martin turned to look at Laverty, who shrugged, maintaining her courageous silence. “Not certain, Your Honor,” she said. “But I would think he is in his early twenties. I believe he’s in his first year of the journalism program at the University of Southern Maine …”

  “Wait a damn minute. Are you telling me that this person who has found out highly confidential details about what is arguably the most important criminal trial in the recent history of the United States is … what? A kid, barely out of high school? Is that what you’re telling me?”

  The DA scanned the top of the table, searching for the right words. She came up with nothing. “He is a very resourceful young man, Your Honor,” she said. “He also has an unusually developed knowledge of the extreme right …”

  “He is apparently far more ‘resourceful’ than many of the attorneys who appear before me!” O’Sullivan hollered, slapping the magazine down on his desk. He glared at the DA. “Ms. Martin, I think I need to meet this person.” He tilted his head and looked at Laverty and Chow. “Would the FBI or the Portland Police Department have any difficulty in locating this person? Would that be too much trouble?”

  Laverty and the chief stood up simultaneously.

  “Your Honor, I would recommend against it,” Chow said, calm and cool as ever. “This young man is highly intelligent and will never, under any circumstances, reveal his sources. He’s already quoted the First Amendment to me, in my office.”

  O’Sullivan thought about that for a few moments. “There’s no harm in trying, is there, Chief?” he asked. “All of us have an interest in ensuring that justice is done in this case, do we not?”

  “Yes, of course, Your Honor,” said Chow. “But I again caution against letting this young man turn this very important prosecution into a First Amendment cause célèbre.”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, Chief. I have no intention in letting that happen. But I still want him brought here before me. Understood?”

  Laverty and Savoie nodded and hustled out of courtroom one.

  CHAPTER 38

  When they tracked him down at his folks’ place, X was typically unfazed. Standing at the front door — me looking over one shoulder, his attorney dad over the other — X fastened his uneven pupils on Laverty and Savoie. They told him Judge O’Sullivan would like to speak with him. X looked bored, like he’d been expecting it.

  “Wait a second.” X’s dad stepped forward. “Do you have a bench warrant or a summons?”

  “No,” Laverty said. “We came directly from the courthouse. We have no summons or warrant.”

  “So, this is more of a request than a demand, then?”

  Savoie shrugged. “I suppose so. We could probably get a summons. But we think everyone wants to avoid that. The judge just wants to have a talk with your son … about the column he wrote.”

  X’s dad crossed his arms over his Montreal Canadiens T-shirt. “So, let me get this straight. A superior court judge wants
to have a chit-chat with my son about his article, and we’re not supposed to think that’s significant.” Neither Laverty or Savoie responded. “If he agrees, I’m coming with him,” he added. “He needs representation.”

  Savoie shrugged. “The judge didn’t say you couldn’t come,” he said. “He just said he wanted your son to come.”

  We all looked at X to see if he was going to refuse to go. My money was on him refusing, personally.

  “I’ll go,” he finally said.

  “Fine,” X’s dad said. “I’ll get changed. Can you give us a few minutes, please?”

  “No problem,” Savoie said. “We’ll wait.”

  “You’re welcome to wait inside, officers,” X’s dad said.

  “That’s okay,” Savoie said, looking uncomfortable. “We’ll wait in the car.”

  X’s dad closed the door. “You sure about this?” he asked. “You’re under no obligation to go, you know.”

  X shrugged. “I’m not concerned. It’ll give me more material for my next column, if nothing else.”

  X’s dad laughed, then looked at me.

  “I’m coming, too,” I said, before anyone could say I wasn’t.

  X’s dad smiled and put a hand on my shoulder. “I expected nothing less, Kurt.”

  Judge O’Sullivan squinted over the top of his reading glasses at X. Everyone in the courtroom looked nervous, especially the judge’s clerk, Bobby Edwards. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. The clerk was doing his very best to render himself invisible, to avoid the gaze of his boss, me, or X, who he had foolishly agreed to speak to in exchange for a few free beers. So he kept reading and rereading the same paragraph in his well-thumbed copy of the Maine Rules of Court.

  X and his dad — now sporting a jacket and tie — were sitting across from Edwards, at the DA’s table. DA Martin and her assistant DAs had been very happy to relinquish the table, so Justice O’Sullivan could get mad at someone else for a change. They were now seated in the first row. Jones’s lawyer, David Dennison, was there, too, along with his assistant. Both were watching the exchange with great interest.

  I, meanwhile, sat between the two groups of attorneys, slouched on the uncomfortable wooden pew. I looked at Judge O’Sullivan, the only judge those of us in the X Gang had ever encountered, really. He had presided over the trial of the skinheads who had killed our friends. That trial had been a total train wreck, but O’Sullivan had left the X Gang with the impression that he possessed a certain amount of integrity and intelligence. To us, most members of the establishment usually lacked both.

  At the moment Justice O’Sullivan was evaluating X, apparently trying to figure out how to get him to talk without, among other things, turning their little informal chit-chat into a full-blown First Amendment constitutional challenge. Which, according to X’s dad, they were quite prepared to do.

  The judge tried again. “Young man, I don’t think I have to tell you how critically important this trial is,” he said, his voice low. “One hundred and twenty-one men, women, and children were killed in the Portland YWCA bombing, and three times that number were critically hurt.” He paused. “I understand you even had two friends among the dead?”

  I could see X’s profile and could tell he was clenching his jaw. But he remained silent.

  “You have a constitutional right to write what you please,” O’Sullivan continued. “But reasonable limits have been placed on that, to ensure that the constitutional rights of Mr. Jones, and others, are protected.”

  X finally spoke, his voice quiet. “What about the constitutional rights of a rape victim?” he said, staring at O’Sullivan.

  “You know that I cannot discuss individuals, particularly on the eve of trial, son,” O’Sullivan said quickly. “The allegations with respect to Ms. Jett are just that, for now. Allegations.”

  X said nothing.

  “Can you tell me how you came to be in possession of the information you disclosed in your article?” the judge asked for the third time.

  “No,” X said.

  “Statements made in a judge’s chambers are highly confidential, you know,” O’Sullivan said, trying again. “What you published can have an impact on the trial. I possess the authority to have you held in contempt, young man.”

  X’s dad started to say something, but X interrupted. “I know you do,” he said, “but the minute you do, it will prove what I wrote was true.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “None of the regular media are following up on what I wrote,” X said, crossing his arms. “But they definitely will if you throw me in a cell.”

  The judge stared at him, marveling at his arrogance or his intelligence. Or both. “Perhaps,” he said. “But perhaps a bit of time cooling your heels in a cell will persuade you to co-operate with the court.”

  X’s dad tried to ease the tension. “You don’t know my son, Your Honor,” he said. “His mother and I can tell you that grounding him hasn’t ever worked. It makes him even more stubborn.”

  At that, Judge O’Sullivan actually laughed, then everyone else did, too — except X, of course. He just sat there, arms crossed, expressionless.

  “Yes, my daughters are like that,” the judge said, smiling. “I think I know what you mean.” He then made a point of frowning, as if trying to regain control. “But your son must appreciate the difficulty he has created for this court.”

  If he did, X didn’t acknowledge it. Instead, he decided to turn Justice O’Sullivan’s interrogation of him into an interview of Justice O’Sullivan. He looked directly at the judge and asked, “So, is it true that you are prepared to keep the DA from using the killer’s confession in the trial?”

  The judge blinked several times, then said carefully, “Son, you know quite well, I think, that I am not permitted to answer any such question outside the context of the trial. Until I do so, any document offered by either side is just paper. It is just words.”

  X nodded. “Words,” he said, with emphasis. “Words have power.”

  O’Sullivan’s frown deepened. “I’m sorry. I’m afraid I don’t understand your point.”

  X pointed a thumb at David Dennison and his assistant. “That’s what they want to argue,” he said, “that words are just words. That they don’t matter.”

  Justice O’Sullivan must have known, at some level, that he should not be drawn into a protracted back and forth with this rather odd young man with the long hair and the earring and the punk rock outfit. But he was anyway.

  “What is your point, young man?” he asked, as if genuinely curious.

  “All of what happened that day in April,” X said, one hand up a bit, sort of looking like a preacher or something. “Everything that has happened since. Even everything that is happening here today.” He paused. “It is all about words,” X continued. “Words have power. Words were what found the killer, and shaped him, and sent him out to kill all those people. Not a person. Just words on a page.” X paused, waiting for the judge to stop him, perhaps. But O’Sullivan didn’t stop him. “Words are all that he cares about. They’re everything to him. If you eliminate the words, if you exclude the book he wrote — and if you ignore the other book, the one that changed him — you will be left with nothing. And he will go free.”

  Judge O’Sullivan looked at Dennison. He had probably expected the lawyer to object to what X was saying. But none of it was on the record. The questioning of the Creem magazine writer was a bit like a voir dire — where the admissibility of a witness’s evidence is considered in the absence of the jury. Except it wasn’t voir dire. And X wasn’t even a witness. It was … off the record, I guess.

  So, Dennison wisely kept quiet.

  I knew at that point that X wasn’t going to be thrown in a jail cell, and that O’Sullivan wasn’t going to get X to spill the beans on Bobby Edwards, either. Edwards probably sensed it, too, because he looked as if he had started to breathe again.

  “Words turned him into a killer,” X said, “and who he
wanted to kill, more than anything, were women.”

  CHAPTER 39

  The hearing to present the motion to prevent the prosecution from relying on Thomas M. Jones’s manuscript got started on a Monday morning in courtroom one. Initially, Judge O’Sullivan — likely concerned about the sort of mistrial-inducing journalism X had indulged in — had wanted to exclude the media from attending the hearing. But when a trio of lawyers from the New York Times filed an emergency motion to permit reporters to attend, O’Sullivan gave up trying to manage the media. Reporters would be permitted to cover David Dennison’s motion.

  X and I were there, along with a horde of print, TV, and radio reporters, and a crowd of other citizens who had lined up early to get a seat. While the attorneys scrutinized their papers and spoke to each other in whispers, everyone else was watching Thomas M. Jones.

  Four burly courthouse security officers surrounded the prisoner. But the likelihood of Jones making a run for it was pretty small. He was chained at his wrists and feet. His head had been shaven while he was in custody, and it made him look older, less like an all-American boy. Weeks in a cell in solitary confinement had erased the tan he’d had when he was arrested on the banks of the Androscoggin River. He looked less fit, too. The muscular, lean Thomas M. Jones from his aborted bail hearing had given way to a slightly gaunt look.

  “All rise!” Bobby Edwards called out abruptly as Judge O’Sullivan walked briskly through the door with a “NO ADMITTANCE” sign on it. We all rose, Jones included. O’Sullivan stepped up to the elevated platform on which his desk and chair had been placed and sat down. He invited everyone else to do the same.

  “Good morning, everyone,” he said. He looked over at Jones, who was staring straight ahead. “Good morning, Ms. Martin and Mr. Dennison. Good morning to the accused, as well.”