Private Screening (19 page)

“
Oh, Tony
.” Cass shook her head, half-laughing. “I don't believe it.…”

Lord turned, stung. “DiPalma was screwing us.…”

“This is Rachel Messer, TV–6,” she finished, and then Lord switched off the television.

Cass was no longer laughing. “He'll screw you back,” she said.

“It can't get much worse, Cassie.”

When Lord's telephone rang, he answered.

“Tony?” a male voice boomed.

“Uh-huh.”

“This is Hart Taylor.” Chairman of SNI, he didn't need to add. “I've just been watching you. I think it's time we met.”

Taylor's private dining room topped the SNI building, overlooking the bay. It was lined with photographs of Taylor on a polo pony, at the crest of Mount Whitney, with two ex-presidents, a film actress, and his football team. In every shot he grinned like Errol Flynn's kid brother.

He grinned the exact same grin at Lord. “Sure tucked it to DiPalma, Tony. That was shrewd PR.”

Lord finished his Bloody Mary. “I'm just trying to catch up.”

“Still a ways to go, what with Kilcannon dead and Tarrant in seclusion.” His grin narrowed in rueful sympathy. “It's the first time since Jehovah that someone's made such an impression by not being seen.”

Lord swirled his drink straw. “I doubt she's given that much thought.”

“Don't be sure. Can you imagine Stacy's impact when DiPalma calls her as his final witness?”

Where, Lord wondered, was this going? “It's crossed my mind,” he answered dryly. “Once or twice.”

“And that's exactly why I asked you here.” Leaning forward, Taylor said in a caressing drawl, “We can put that moment in perspective, Tony.”

“How?”

The grin returned full force. “By televising the entire trial, nationwide.”

Lord felt like a fool. “You'd need the judge's approval.”

“I think we'll get it, Tony—
if
both sides agree. And you lost your virginity last night.” He grinned again. “This morning, Ralph DiPalma signed on.”

Lord fought to control his anger. “That's because it helps him. Imagine you're a juror, Hart, with cameras watching. How easy would it be to return an unpopular verdict in front of the entire country?”

“It's your chance to tell them Carson's story.”

“All I want is twelve people I might get to understand. Whatever else Harry is, he's not very promising for television.”

Taylor shrugged. “Gary Gilmore was no charm boy either, and look what they did with him.”

“Those were actors,” Lord retorted. “Gilmore's dead.”

Taylor stopped grinning. “What other problems do you see?”

“Witnesses. Cameras will encourage theirs and intimidate mine. DiPalma knows all this.”

“He knows a whole lot else, too.” Taylor stood, extending one arm to the window. “I don't want to sound cynical, Tony, but do you know what moves America in the nineteen-eighties?
Fame
.” His voice took on a rolling cadence. “Once you're famous, you can go from being a football player to actor to broadcaster and even to the White House. If you're a mass murderer, they time the paperback of your life story to come out with the miniseries; if you're a famous young lawyer, you might become a senator, even more.
DiPalma
,” he repeated, “knows all that.”

“He also knows the judge is up for reelection.” Lord's voice softened. “He may even know that you lost money last year. Because of low ratings.”

Taylor scowled. “The way I look at it, the bigger audience the better—for us, Carson,
and
the judge. The Dan White verdict was unpopular because people didn't understand it.”

“If you televise, there won't
be
an unpopular verdict.” Lord paused a moment. “What I'm telling you, Hart, is that you'll be throwing the switch.”

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

“Your conscience.”

Three days later, SNI petitioned the court.

6

D
I
P
ALMA'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, and 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.”