Private Screening (30 page)

It seemed to startle Carson, then deflate him. As if no one could believe him, he murmured, “I don't know.”

DiPalma's eyes were cold. “Perhaps you know if Senator Kilcannon was blond.”

Carson wiped his forehead with two fingers. “He wasn't.”

“Then did he remind you of Glennon in some other way?”

Slowly, Carson looked up. “I thought about him all the time.”

“Who?”

Carson's tone held sudden returning anger. “Glennon.…”

“You saw Senator Kilcannon backstage, didn't you?”

“Yes.”

“Did you recognize him as James Kilcannon?”

“Yes.”

“Did you know you were at a rock concert?”

Carson's voice began to waver. “Yes.…”

DiPalma moved closer. “Did you mean to kill him
then?
”

A shiver ran through Carson's body. “I don't know.”

“You don't?” DiPalma asked in an incredulous tone. “Then what made you bring the Mauser?”

Kleist leaned forward, waiting. Lord saw Shriver in the gallery, mouth open, as if speaking for Carson. But the witness was mute.

“Mr. Carson?” Rainey asked.

Slowly, miserably, Carson shook his head. “I don't
know
.”

“You—don't—know.” Moving forward with each word, DiPalma stood over Carson. “But after you murdered James Kilcannon, you asked for Mr. Lord.”

Carson's tone was chastened. “Yes.”

DiPalma paused, stretching out the moment. Quite softly, he asked, “Did you think you were in Vietnam?”

Carson's eyes opened. “No,” he said in a clear, quiet voice. “I was in jail.”

DiPalma nodded his satisfaction. “Yes,” he finally murmured. “You did know that.”

Lord rose. “Was that a question?” he asked.

Staring down at Carson, DiPalma gave a small, scornful smile. “I
have
no more questions,” he said, and sat down.

“You also finished a poem that day,” Lord began. “Called ‘Golden Anniversary.' Did it include the line ‘feeding the cameras'?”

Carson stared to one side. “I think so … yeah.”

Lord moved closer. “After you shot the senator, what was the next thing you did?”

“I turned.…” The vague voice grew stronger. “That was when I saw the camera.”

“And what did you do?”

Carson gave a bewildered shrug. “Fired at it.”

“Instead of trying to escape?”

Carson grimaced. “Yeah.”

Lord's expression was quizzical. “For what reason?”

Carson shook his head, as if at his own foolishness. In a parched, embarrassed tone he answered, “I don't know.”

Lord let the three words linger for the jury, half-turning to DiPalma. “Why?” he asked gently. “Did you think you were in Vietnam?”

DiPalma's eyes widened; Carson's closed. “I don't know.” The words held a kind of agony. “I just don't know.”

Lord nodded. “I know,” he answered.

3

T
HE
trial concluded with the psychiatrists. Though their testimony was critical, Carson stared past them, as if he had been leeched of interest in his fate.

“Glennon,” Shriver told Lord, “is the missing piece.”

He had a new assurance, Lord saw. “In your opinion, Doctor, how did Glennon affect Harry's life since Vietnam?”

“He haunted him for fourteen years.” Turning to the jury, Shriver ticked off fingers. “First, Glennon symbolized the horror of what Carson was forced to do—as exemplified by the poem he wrote for Beth. Second, his half-repressed memory of Capwell's death became fused with anger over the death of other friends,
and
guilt that he'd survived without avenging them. Third—and this is important—working for Damone would subconsciously remind him of Glennon.” He paused, touching the fourth finger. “Remember that in Harry Carson's mind, Glennon never died until this trial. That's what ‘Golden Anniversary' is about.”

Kleist listened, Lord noticed, with the air of someone straining to decide. “And what,” Lord asked, “was the influence of Glennon on the shooting of James Kilcannon?”

“Decisive.”

“Even in connection with carrying a weapon?”

Shriver nodded. “That seems a classic instance of the anniversary reaction—compounded by all the drugs he took there, which would operate to repress memory
and
help telescope time. Under those circumstances, Carson wouldn't know why he did certain things in the real world—fight his father, slap his wife, even bring a gun to work.”

Lord felt the gallery, the camera, the jury watching. “And what about the actual moment of the shooting?”

“Harry reacted in terms of his training—to shoot specific people in the head. In his mind, the chant Miss Tarrant started—‘Kill-cannon'—became a summons to kill Glennon.” Pausing, Shriver gave Carson a pensive look. “It's tragic, really. Harry Carson shot the wrong person, on the anniversary of trying to kill the right one.”

Carson touched his mustache. He did not look up.

“When we first met,” Lord said to Shriver, “I asked how vets can live part in the everyday world, and part in their memories of war. Do you recall the example you gave me?”

“Yes.” Shriver took out his glasses case. “It was the vet who commandeered a woman with a station wagon, then told her to go fast enough to escape the Viet Cong but not so fast the cops would stop them.

“He was charged with kidnapping. His psychiatrist's opinion was that the crime had no rational explanation—that the veteran had coalesced real and unreal. The jury agreed, and acquitted him.”

Lord paused. “After that,” he asked at length, “what did the veteran do?”

Shriver glanced at Carson. “He hung himself.”

“I'm curious,” DiPalma began, “how you explain the rational things
Harry Carson
did up to the moment he shot the senator?”

Shriver frowned. “I can't, really, beyond what I've already said—that stress victims can function with apparent normality.”

“I note the word
apparent
.” DiPalma placed both hands on hips. “Isn't it also possible that Carson came to work planning to shoot the senator, and succeeded?”

“That,” Shriver said in a dubious tone, “is always a possibility.”

DiPalma's voice rose. “And isn't it further possible that in the execution of a preconceived plan, Carson had some temporary confusion with certain details of a Vietnam experience?”

Shriver hesitated. “It's conceivable, yes.”

“Even that he made the whole thing up?”

Shriver's tone sharpened. “Conceivable, but unlikely.”

“But possible?”

Shriver gave a reluctant nod. “Yes.”

Glancing sideways, DiPalma underscored Carson's averted gaze. “No further questions.”

Dr. George Ford was a blocky man with black hornrimmed glasses, a square face, and lips he pursed to show authority. He taught at Berkeley, wrote articles, and had a thriving practice; his brusque tone suggested that he was being inconvenienced.

“In
my
opinion,” Ford said briskly, “there is no basis for isolating the murder from the rational conduct which preceded it.”

DiPalma nodded. “Even in light of Vietnam?”

“Yes.” Ford looked toward the camera. “Don't misunderstand me—part of Mr. Carson's service there was unfortunate, even unfair. But lots of people lead unfair lives, and remain capable of making rational decisions.” Turning to the jury, Ford concluded, “Put bluntly, I do not believe that a fourteen-year-old trauma made him kill a well-known stranger at a concert he helped set up.”

DiPalma raised an eyebrow. “What about the ‘anniversary reaction'?”

“Certainly, intense memories
do
follow traumatic incidents.” Ford pursed his lips. “It's the notion that this one would seize him from morning to night, causing him to carry a gun, which strikes me as fantasy.”

“Even at the moment of the shooting?”

Ford gave a heavy shrug. “Oh, he might have had associations then. But how did he
get
that far?” Another pursing of lips. “Here is a man with experience in killing those he'd planned to kill, hours or days before. I don't view this as some sustained mistake.”

He was good, Lord thought—Kleist had begun taking notes. “Can you enlighten us, then,” DiPalma was asking, “on the motives common to assassins?”

“Objection,” Lord cut in. “The question asks Dr. Ford to speculate on the motives of others, using them to tar Harry Carson.”

“I'm soliciting an observation,” DiPalma retorted crisply, “not unlike Dr. Shriver's on the veteran who killed himself.”

“Overruled,” Rainey said.

“Motives other than money?” Ford answered DiPalma. “Fame is one, political differences another. However disagreeable killing may be to most of us, these are clearly understood motives, common to many assassins.”

“Even if the assassin never states them?”

Ford examined Carson. “Absolutely.”

“Thank you.” With an air of satisfaction, DiPalma turned to Lord.

Standing, Lord watched Ford until he felt the jury's anticipation. “How would you describe your practice?”

“Wide.” A tacit gibe at Shriver. “And varied.”

“Varied enough to include veterans of Vietnam?”

“Of course.” Ford looked nettled. “In my career, I've treated veterans of four different wars.”

Including the Crimean? Lord considered asking. “For stress?”

“Their problems may
include
that—people can be quite complex.”

Lord gave him a quizzical look. “In the midst of all this complexity, have you also found time to testify in criminal cases?”

Ford paused. “On occasion.”

“How many occasions?”

“I'm not sure.”

Lord tilted his head. “If I said fifty-six, would that seem wrong?”

Ford's lips pursed. “It may have been that many.”

Lord smiled faintly. “Perhaps it would be simpler to count the times you've testified for defendants.”

“It wouldn't, actually.” Ford began sounding nettled. “As you suggest, I'm quite busy.…”

“Try seven.”

Ford stared at him. “You've obviously counted—”

“What did they have to do to impress you?” Lord broke in softly. “Bark like dogs?”

“Objection!” DiPalma snapped. “Harassing the witness.”

Lord turned on him. “Let him answer,” he shot back. “Lots of people lead unfair lives—”

Rainey pounded his gavel. “Mr. Lord, I'll thank you to restrain yourself. Objection sustained.”

But the jury was riveted. “Isn't it true,” Lord demanded in a low, angry voice, “that four of those defendants were previously diagnosed as paranoid schizophrenics?”

Ford sat straighter. “Paranoid schizophrenics,” he intoned, “are a particular interest of mine.”

“But not Vietnam veterans.”

“No.” The quick, curt answer was that of a man eager to be rid of someone. “Not as such.”

Lord's smile returned. “Thank you,” he said politely. “No further questions.”

They recessed before closing arguments.

Lord sat alone at the defense table. “Hi,” Cass said behind him.

“Hi, yourself. And thanks for the stuff on Ford.”

“I saw your cross,” she said, sitting. “That was some fine indignation.”

“Had to make him look bad.” Lord felt himself coming down fast. “I knew couldn't shake his opinion.”

Cass contemplated him. “You know,” she said, “the first time I saw a psych defense, I kept waiting for
the
answer. There never is one, is there.”

“No.” Lord gazed at the jury box. “Finally, they just vote.”

The jury waited, opaque but for their nervous attention.

Rising to face them, DiPalma held an open magazine.

“Ladies and gentlemen, it is the aim of the defense you've witnessed to make Harry Carson seem the victim. But the victim is not here.” Pausing, he flipped the magazine to its cover. “
This
was James Kilcannon.”

Hair tousled, Kilcannon grinned from the cover of
Newsweek
, poignantly alive.

“For millions of his generation, and millions more from every race and circumstance in life, he was the last best hope in a dangerous world.”

As the jury watched, DiPalma placed the magazine face down.

“In one brief moment,” he said softly, “Harry Carson changed that.

“For fourteen hours, he had waited with a concealed weapon, hiding his intentions by going about his normal work. And when his moment came, he walked onstage, took one step forward, and murdered James Kilcannon with a single perfect shot.”

DiPalma stood straighter, as if to rein in his emotions. “Mr. Lord,” he said, “must ask you to believe—must
prove
to you—that this rational moment, the climax to all those other rational moments, is one of stark insanity.

“Well, Mr. Lord has surely proven that his client is far from perfect.” DiPalma turned to Carson, voice etched with scorn. “And the surest proof we have is that Harry Carson failed to escape.

“But even then, did
reason
fail him?

“No—he called a lawyer whose name he'd memorized from the morning paper, fourteen hours before. And now this lawyer asks you to believe his client killed because of what he'd suffered in Vietnam, fourteen
years
before.”

Once more, DiPalma faced the jury. “This incredible suggestion slanders every other man who suffered there. But even slander will not save him, for the question is not whether Mr. Carson's service there is worthy of our sympathy, or even whether it changed his mental makeup or the stability of his life. For as the judge will tell you, Mr. Lord must now have proven that, at the moment he shot James Kilcannon—not some other moment—Harry Carson did not understand what he was doing
and
that it was wrong.