Jones nodded but didn’t say anything. The guards around Jones glared at him, looking like they wanted to kill him on the spot.
O’Sullivan nodded in the direction of Dennison, who looked freshly barbered and shaved, ready for his close-up. “If you are ready, Mr. Dennison, you may proceed.”
Dennison stood, buttoned his double-breasted jacket, smoothed his hair, which didn’t need smoothing, and gave a confident smile. “Good morning, Your Honor.” He nodded his perfectly coiffed head in the direction of the District Attorney and her assistant DAs. “Good morning to the District Attorney and the court.”
He looked down at the sheets of paper on the lectern but I got the impression he knew this argument cold. “Your Honor, we are here today to take the position that the letter Mr. Jones wrote is subject to attorney-client privilege and should therefore not be admissible as evidence by the prosecution.” Dennison’s velvet tones washed over the courtroom. “The law, in this regard, is well settled and has been clear from the beginnings of these American states: the confidential communications between an attorney and his accused client cannot be disclosed or used against the accused. Under any circumstances. Ever.”
From where we were sitting, I could see the DA frowning as she scribbled away on a yellow legal notepad.
Dennison continued, “Attorney-client privilege is one of the oldest privileges known to our system, Your Honor, and for good reason. No less than the U.S. Supreme Court has held that attorney-client privilege assures confidentiality and helps accused persons make full and frank disclosure to their legal counsel. In that way, we are able to represent our clients and give them candid advice.”
Dennison reached to the side of the lectern and picked up a thick stack of papers. Jaw squared, expression firm, the lawyer held it up long enough to ensure that the media sketch artists would be able to capture the dramatic moment. “This,” Dennison said finally, “this document is indisputably protected by attorney-client privilege. It bears those words at the top of the very first page: ‘PROTECTED BY ATTORNEY-CLIENT PRIVILEGE’. Below that, Your Honor, it reads, ‘DEAR MR. DENNISON.’”
He paused for dramatic effect, but it wasn’t really necessary. It already was dramatic: if that was what it said, and that was what attorney-client privilege meant, then — to my legally untrained ears, at least — the DA was fucked. Without quoting any cases or statutes or any of that crap, David Dennison already seemed to be winning.
Dennison looked at the judge, who had his head bent over his desk and was scribbling away. To lawyers, X’s dad had told us, this was always a good sign. It meant the judge was listening and was taking note. Literally.
“Those words were written by Mr. Jones,” Dennison said, returning the manuscript to its spot beside the lectern. He picked up another thinner document. “And we have three reports by handwriting analysts who attest to the fact that those critically important words were written by Mr. Jones and no other person. I submit those reports as exhibits one, two, and three.”
Dennison’s assistant walked over to Bobby Edwards and gave him the reports from the handwriting experts. He then walked to DA Martin’s table and with a big, cocky smile that could not be seen by the judge, he handed her the reports, too.
“The exhibits are so entered,” O’Sullivan said. “Exhibits one, two, and three.”
It was going to be a long day for the prosecution.
CHAPTER 40
Special Agent Laverty reread the letter several times. The two prison guards on duty had found it on the bed beside the body of Thomas M. Jones. In Jones’s hand was a stamped, self-addressed envelope addressed to a Mr. John Smith.
Dear John, the letter read,
Thank you for your many letters. They have been very thoughtful and insightful. As I am sure you know, I am very limited by what I can say. The Maine Department of Corrections looks at all of my mail, and I presume they will look at this letter, too. But as I am sure you also know, words are very important to me. When I was younger, books were my best friends. They were my life. When I read The Patriot Diaries, I was given my life’s mission. It gave me my path.
I must be very careful about what I say about the issue you have been raising with me in your letters. Suffice to say that, when I learned what was happening there — when I learned about the abortuary, a slaughterhouse for the unborn, a war on boys and men — I could not look away. I could not ignore the blood being spilled there.
Words, at a certain point, are not enough. Words must be transformed into action.
I cannot say more, Mr. Smith, but I again thank you for your kindness and fraternal friendship. We will see each other soon, I hope.
Sincerely
The letter had been left unsigned.
Laverty picked up one of the letters addressed to Jones that had been entered into evidence.
Dear Thomas,
We have been following your trial and struggle in the news media, which always gives a slanted and distorted picture of what is going on. Despite that, we know the truth: you have been a soldier in the struggle to preserve the rights and dignity of men.
Like you, we believe in men going their own way. Those like us will not surrender our will to the social expectations of women and society, because both have become hostile against masculinity. To feminazis, for all intents and purposes, our kind of man does not exist. An urbanite might keep to his own apartment, while some men like us may simply head into the wilderness and go off the grid.
We understand that is what you did, and we greatly admire you for it. If you want to talk about your experience in the glorious and solitary wilderness, please use the enclosed envelope.
Yours sincerely,
John Smith
X and I were in the Upchuck sisters’ basement. I was on the old couch with Patti and Sister Betty. X was standing over by the old drum kit and amps, looking down into a box marked “DEPARTMENT OF CHEMISTRY, UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN MAINE.”
“He’s really dead?” Sister Betty said, sitting on the edge of the couch, looking a bit pale. “You’re sure?”
X didn’t look at her. He was still looking inside the box. “Yes,” he said. “It’s not on the news yet. But there are lots of ambulances and cops on Federal Street. They’ve cordoned off the courthouse.”
“How do you know?” she asked. She was leaning forward, her knees tightly together and her hands clasped on top of her knees.
“My dad,” X said. “He was in the courthouse library when word started to spread. He called me.”
“Did he commit suicide?” Sister Betty asked.
X looked right at her. “He didn’t commit suicide, Betty.”
“Good riddance,” Patti said. She was smiling, happy. “This is awesome! Whoever did this deserves a fucking award.”
“Right,” X said, his face blank.
Patti may have been happy, but I wasn’t. Sister Betty didn’t look like she was, either.
Patti looked at the rest of us, frowning. “I don’t know why the rest of you look so morose. I think this calls for a toast,” she said, standing up. “Who wants an RC Cola? Kurt? Betty?”
I said sure. Betty nodded. Patti left to get the drinks from upstairs.
X waited until she was gone, then walked over to Sister Betty and crouched down in front of her. She avoided his eyes. “Betty,” he said.
She didn’t respond.
He said her name again and put one hand on her shoulder.
When she finally looked up, she looked scared. I slid over and put an arm around her shoulders. She avoided our eyes but started speaking in a low monotone. “I couldn’t take it anymore. All the death and destruction he caused. The little kids he killed. Eddie and Nagamo. The women and girls. Jessie …” She paused, and her body heaved, like she was going to throw up. “So much youth, wasted.”
We waited.
“It was easy,” she said. “I just started writing him letters, talking about hating women. I knew that was what made him do it, from what Jessie told me.”
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“Using that typewriter?” X said, softly, indicating the one against the wall. The one the Punk Rock Virgins used to hammer out their song lyrics.
Sister Betty nodded.
“Kurt and I will get rid of it tonight,” X said. “But …”
“Don’t worry,” Sister Betty said. “I wore gloves when I wrote the letters. The envelopes I sent him were addressed to a P.O. box that doesn’t exist. And I sprayed the tops of the stamps with this sealant, so the postal cancellation marks wouldn’t stick. So, they won’t know where the letters came from.” She glanced up at X but quickly looked away. “I didn’t need him to mail anything to John Smith. I just needed him to try.”
X had told me what he suspected before we got there, but I still didn’t understand how she’d done it. Couldn’t really believe she’d done it at all, actually.
“Sister, how …?”
“Over there,” she said, pointing at the box in the corner marked “DEPARTMENT OF CHEMISTRY, UNIVERSITY OF SOUTHERN MAINE. TTX.” She gave a tiny smile. “‘TTX’ doesn’t just stand for ‘True to X.’ Sorry.”
We paused and listened to the footsteps above us. Her sister was still upstairs in the kitchen, but she’d be back down soon.
“TTX,” Sister Betty said, like she had been preparing for this moment. “A bit of it was in the box from my dad’s lab. TTX is from this cute little fish, the puffer fish. They carry a super-deadly neurotoxin called tetrodotoxin. It’s in their livers and skin.”
We said nothing. I was in shock, I think.
“TTX weakens and then paralyzes muscles, really fast,” she said. “It hits the respiratory system and kills you in less than an hour. It’s a thousand times more poisonous than cyanide.” She paused. “There’s enough TTX in one puffer fish to kill thirty adult humans. There’s no antidote.”
“How did you get him to ingest it?” I whispered.
Sister Betty shrugged. “Just a few drops on the sticky part of the envelopes and on the stamps,” she said. “It doesn’t have a color or smell when it dries out. The second he licked the envelope or stamp to respond to John Smith, he was already dead.”
X looked into Sister Betty’s eyes, which were still scared. He squeezed her arm. “Kurt and I will get rid of the typewriter and the chemicals,” he said, his voice low. “No one will ever know.”
Sister Betty nodded. X stood up, just as we heard Patti coming down the basement stairs.
“You did the right thing,” he said. “We’ll protect you.” He paused for the briefest moment. “Now, none of us will ever talk about this again. You got it?”
“No words?” she said.
“No words.”
CHAPTER 41
Naturally, the cops and the FBI suspected X and me killed that bastard Jones. I mean, when all else fails, blame a punk, right?
For months, FBI special agent Laverty and Detective Savoie harangued and harassed me and X. They followed us around. They talked to our families. They “interviewed” us and then “interviewed” us again.
But they didn’t suspect Sister Betty. Not once. Not a bit.
A big inquiry determined that the alleged Portland bomber had indeed been poisoned by person or persons who had sent letters to him, posing as fans. A rare and toxic poison had been applied to the part of the enclosed return envelopes, where someone would typically lick and seal it. The poison was hard to get, the inquiry determined, but not impossible. Any university zoology or botany student would be able to get their hands on the stuff.
The inquiry recommended that the deadly fish poison thereafter be subject to strict controls and disclosure. But that was closing the proverbial barn door after the horse had left, I said to X. He nodded.
The inquiry also found not a trace of any clue — no fingerprints, no hair, no tissue, nothing — on the outside or the inside of the envelopes. Zero, zippo, zilch. All of the letters had been composed on a single Olivetti typewriter, they concluded. But they didn’t know where the typewriter was.
I did. We did, I mean. It was at the bottom of Casco Bay, where X and I had deposited it. We’d borrowed Luke’s dad’s little tin fishing boat, and we tossed it over the side the same night Sister Betty confessed to us.
Splash!
But Laverty was smart. Once the inside and outside of the letters and the envelopes yielded nothing, Laverty looked at something else: the words.
The words used in those fake fan letters to Thomas M. Jones revealed a certain style, a certain way with words, dexterity with the language, you might say.
Her suspicion, therefore, landed on X and me. Both of us were writers, or at least aspiring writers. X in the pages of Creem and, before that, the Non-Conformist News Agency in high school. Me in the diary pages that you now clutch in your hands. She put together a team of linguists and English professors to analyze stuff that X and I had written and compare it to the letters sent to Thomas M. Jones.
The experts and the eggheads scrutinized punctuation. They considered grammar and spelling. They peered at sentence structure and spacing and choice of words. All of that crap. Their conclusion: the same person had written all of the letters. But that person was “unlikely to highly unlikely” to be either X or me.
In the final “interview” at Portland police HQ, Laverty was compelled to disclose this to me and X. We were represented at that point by X’s dad, who had threatened to launch a massive lawsuit against the FBI and assorted police agencies if they didn’t stop harassing us, as he put it.
Laverty had stared across the boardroom table at us, clearly incensed. Savoie, hunched beside her, scowled.
“Well, Agent Laverty and Detective Savoie, it would seem that you have failed in every one of your attempts to implicate my son and Kurt,” X’s dad said. “Can we conclude that your investigation of the boys is now finished?”
Laverty stirred. “Yes,” she said, her lips barely moving.
“And there will be no further demands for interviews?”
“No.”
“And you will provide me with the letter that I previously raised with you, declaring that neither my son nor Kurt are suspects in this homicide, in any way, shape, or form?” Our lawyer was clearly enjoying himself.
There was a long pause before Laverty finally spoke. “Yes,” she almost hissed, “we will provide an exculpatory statement.”
“Thank you, Special Agent,” he said, sounding triumphant, as he got up to leave. X and I were already standing. “We wish you the best in your investigation and look forward to receiving your letter. Good day.”
And with that, we walked out of Portland police headquarters. We never went back. At least, I didn’t, anyway. X — having graduated from MSU and now duly employed as an actual, real, honest-to-god roving investigative journalist for various publications, Rolling Stone (god forbid) among them — may have gone back to interview cops about other cases. But me? I never went back. Never needed rehab again either. Not long after we got the letter from the FBI, I came out of the closet. At that point, tempting chemicals became less tempting to me; apart from the occasional beer, I virtually became straight edge, like X.
Hearing that I was glad to be gay, like Tom Robinson proudly sang, my dad hugged me. So did the Upchuck sisters. My mom cried, fearing what it would mean for my ability to get a job.
But I went back to school to take a photography course and actually got a job: the Portland Press Herald hired me as a part-time news photographer. They didn’t give a shit that I was gay. Neither did anyone else, really.
X and Patti moved in together, in this bricks-and-beams loft place down by Casco Bay. We had great parties there. We danced. We played Scrabble (X always won). X wrote for his magazines, and Patti kept going to school at MSU, studying sociology and women’s studies. Patti stuff.
Sister Betty, meanwhile, got accepted to this little university called Harvard to study English. That meant the end of the Punk Rock Virgins, pretty much, but she didn’t want to stick around Portland anymore. Just in ca
se Detective Savoie reopened the unsolved Thomas M. Jones murder investigation, she whispered to me, the hot August night we all gathered at Gary’s to see her off.
X was there, sipping his RC Cola, unsmiling. Patti was beside him, of course, alternately beaming about her little sister’s achievement and tearing up because she was leaving.
Sam Shiller and Luke Macdonald were there, too, with the Hot Nasties’ drummer, Jessie. Jessie was out, too, and no one cared about that, either. Certainly not Sam, who was looking at law schools, or Luke, who was working for his dad. The Nasties, we all decided, were going to go back to what the band had been at the start: not a job, not a ticket to the “big time,” just punk rock fun.
That night, I looked around Gary’s, at the filthy tables, the overflowing ashtrays, the sticky floors. It was still a shithole, this place, but it was our shithole. Our safe punk rock home, like the Clash sang, sort of. I looked around at my friends. We were still punks, we’d always be punks — although, I suspected, marriages and mortgages and even little punk rock babies might be in some of our futures. Not distant futures, either.
Looking at all my friends, I felt emotional. We’d all gone through so much together — the loss of too many friends, the loss of our innocence. As they all chattered amongst themselves, talking about Sister Betty’s adventure, about Patti’s planned graduate degree, about Sam’s plans, and Luke’s, X was looking at me. He cocked an eyebrow above those famously uneven pupils.
“It’s okay,” I said to him, waving a hand. “I was just wondering, as we all get older, if we are ever going to stop being rebels, you know?”
X, my best friend, raised his glass of RC Cola and looked at me. “Never,” he said. “To punk rock.”
And we toasted punk rock and our friends, those who were there and those we had lost along the way.
“To punk!”
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT
Thanks to the following for keeping me moving forward: Ras Pierre and Rockin’ Al; Bjorn von Flapjack II; Snipe Yeomanson; the Hot Nasties; Shit From Hell; Steve Deceive Ladurantaye; Nick the K; Simon Harvey and Ugly Pop; Ron Ruskin; Snowdy; Brian Goldman; the Farber brothers; Michael Kleinman; Darryl Fine and the Bovine; Amrazment; every new friend in Hillier, my true home; Chief Kelly; Dave Plewes; Babs; the amazing Kane Kinsella; Cherry Cola; Flav; Roxy and Joey; Jay Bentley of Bad Religion; Scott Hutchinson, Alex, and everyone at H and H; Allison Hirst and all the great folks at Dundurn; the Bronx; Laura Jane Grace of Against Me; Terry and Chris and the Patrician gang; Scott Sellers; Jim Lindberg of Pennywise; John Tory and John Jr.; my Green Party pals; Don Guy; Rob Gilmour, Logan Ross, Tom Henheffer, Zach Voth, Zack Babins, Katie Watson, and the entire Daisy gang; my political father, Jean Chrétien; John Walsh; my sister Batra and the video visionary Nelson; Melissa Lantsman; Jamie Wallace; Evan Solomon; Karl Hale; Sylvia; Charles Adler; Doug; my departed brother Gordie; Nick Nelson; Mike Bendixen and Jessie and everyone at 1010; Karl Belanger; my amazing ex, Suze, and her partner, Bruce; John Moore; Lorna, my ever-protective mom; and my awesome regular readers, who are totally awesome.
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