Reckless Disregard (39 page)

There are only two small bumps. He disagrees when I suggest that
The Boatman
was a depiction of Bradley Kelly’s founding of the Church of the Sanctified Assembly, and he blurts out that, as a four-year-old, I was in the movie. “You were a very cute, well-behaved little boy, Mr. Gerald,” he says unctuously. “I thought you were dead, the victim of foul play.”

I try to ignore this and move on, but the judge has to silence the laughter.

Throughout my direct, Bishop has repeatedly whispered in Frantz’s ear, and Lovely has typed feverishly into her computer. When I pass the witness, Frantz stands and says, “Just a couple of questions, Mr. Ettinger. You worked on a movie called
The Volcano Paradox
, didn’t you?”

“I produced that movie,” he says.

“Isn’t it the case that you weren’t the producer but actually received only a minor co-producer credit?”

He puffs out his chest and pulls at the lapels of his coat. “I was cheated out of my rightful credit. I produced that picture, but the head of the production company stole it and invited me to sue him. Of course, I couldn’t afford to defend myself. But the IMDb credit is correct.”

“You don’t like Mr. William Bishop, do you, Mr. Ettinger?”

“I wouldn’t . . .” he shifts his eyes toward Bishop and then looks at me. I won’t meet his glance. “No, I don’t like him, but not because he fired me. It was because his father threatened to harm me if I revealed anything about
The Boatman
, and the son embraced the threat so he could hide the embarrassing things he did on that movie. I’ve been frightened ever since—until today, when I decided to stand up to him.”

“In 1982, didn’t Mr. Bishop fire you off a movie project called
The Wailing Saint of South Philly
?”

Ettinger looks at the judge. “Your honor, I think this trial has exposed Mr. Bishop as a pathological liar. As to
The Wailing Saint
, he didn’t fire me; I quit when he took over the studio because I didn’t want to work with a man who’d threatened me, a hypocrite who projected this clean public image and all the while cheated on his wife and hid what he’d done on
The Boatman
. It was just as well. He would’ve turned
The Wailing Saint
into schlock, anyway.”

It’s not precisely what Ettinger said when we first met in his office, but he wasn’t under oath then. Now, it’s the perfect answer, and for one of the few times ever, Louis Frantz doesn’t have a quick rejoinder. He asks a few questions trying to attack Ettinger’s answer about the
Wailing Saint
, but Ettinger remains firm. The testimony wasn’t perfect, but almost.

“Anything further, Mr. Stern?” the judge asks.

I’d like to be able to call Poniard, Bud Kreiss, the full cast and crew of
The Boatman
, but all I can say is, “The defense rests.”

The judge asks Frantz if he plans to put on a rebuttal case, and when he answers in the negative I expect him to begin closing argument, but instead he says, “Your Honor, the plaintiff moves that judgment immediately be entered for the plaintiff and against the individual known as Poniard. We’ve shown that there is absolutely
no
admissible evidence that Mr. Bishop had anything to do with the disappearance of Paula Felicity McGrath.”

“That’s absurd,” I say. “We’ve proved that Bishop had a motive for the kidnapping—covering up his humiliating involvement in
The Boatman
so he could save his career and his marriage, and secretly pimp for the Church of the Sanctified Assembly.”

An otherwise impassive Bishop rocks forward and back in his chair.

“I object to that foul language,” Frantz says.

“What’s your client going to do,” I say, “sue me for defamation?”

“That’s enough, counsel,” the judge says. “Were you finished, Mr. Stern?”

“No, I was not. We’ve established that Bishop was cheating on his wife with McGrath, that they were still spending time together in Venice in eighty-seven just before McGrath disappeared, that she wrote letters to Scotty referring to Bishop as her insurance policy. Then there’s Bud Kreiss’s report of what Luther Frederickson told him, which given what’s happened in this courtroom you shouldn’t discount even if it is technically hearsay. Not to mention that Bishop perjured himself ten times over.”

“Mr. Stern, I have a question for you,” the judge says. “Other than knowing about the Scotty letters, was your client aware of any of these other facts when he released his video game?”

“He knew that . . .” What did Poniard really know? I have no answer.

“I didn’t think so,” she says. “Here’s how I see this case. Despite Mr. Bishop’s shocking behavior in this court—”

“It’s not just shocking, it’s perjury,” I say.

“That may very well be, counsel, but let me finish. Despite the plaintiff’s behavior, there’s still no evidence that he had anything to do with McGrath’s disappearance. The fact that he knew her doesn’t prove it, taking acting classes and working on a film with her doesn’t prove it, the fact that his father threatened people doesn’t prove it, and even lying in court doesn’t prove it. So you haven’t shown that Poniard’s statement is true. And you’ve just admitted to me that we don’t know Poniard’s state of mind when he released the video game. All he’ll admit to knowing about are those letters, and they don’t provide a basis for the accusations against Mr. Bishop. So how can we say Poniard acted with anything other than reckless disregard for the truth?”

Though everyone in court now must believe that Bishop had a role in Felicity’s abduction, the judge’s legal analysis isn’t wrong. Some judges would ignore the technicalities and seek to do justice, but not this judge. Her crush on Parky Gerald only goes so far.

I’m desperate. And sometimes an ember of understanding smolders beneath the slag of defeat and reveals itself in the sheer act of pleading for mercy. “Anita—sorry, I mean, Your Honor—there’s one more avenue I just realized I can pursue. How about giving me until Monday to bring in additional evidence of Mr. Bishop’s role in the Felicity McGrath disappearance? We’d be missing only two court days. It’s the fair and just thing to do after Bishop’s behavior.”

We look at each other, and while a few years ago it would’ve been an awkwardly brutal stare-down between bitter adversaries, now it’s a kind of reconciliation.

“You can have until Monday, counsel,” she says. “We’re adjourned until then.” She leaves the bench so hurriedly that she far outdistances Lou Frantz’s angry bark of protest.

I don’t know whether Anita Grass has done me a favor or called my bluff. I am sure that she wouldn’t have given me the extra time if she didn’t have an abiding affinity for Parky Gerald, child star.

The media starts shouting questions at Bishop and me, so both sides remain sitting at the table until the bailiffs clear the room. My opposing counsel and their client walk not toward the front door but toward the jury room. Before Bishop exits, he stops in front of me and says, “Stern, you don’t know what troubles you’ve stirred up for everybody.” His words snap whip-like, ominous.

“Communicate with me through your lawyers,” I say.

Brenda isn’t as restrained. “Don’t you dare threaten us,” she says, a newfound ferocity in her tone. Her shoulders hunch in an angry shrug, and she clenches her fists. “Look where your threats and your crimes have gotten you, Mr. Bishop. Your life as you knew it is over—your empire will crumble, your squeaky-clean reputation has been exposed as a fraud. What’s your oh-so-loyal wife going to do when she hears about you and Felicity?”

“Stop now, Brenda,” I say.

Bishop towers over her, and now he leans over and comes within six inches of her face. She doesn’t recoil.

“You may be right about what I face, young lady. But what does or doesn’t happen to me is the least of my worries right now.” He straightens up, tugs at his lapels, and walks out.

Once the jury room door closes, Brenda starts gulping for air, almost hyperventilating. Her chest heaves with each breath. She lowers her head and raises her dark eyes to look up at me, a show of contrition. She wraps her arms around herself and visibly shudders. “That was
so
scary.”

“You brought it on yourself,” I say. “You should never engage the opposing party like that, and certainly not someone as dangerous as Bishop.”

“Maybe so,” she says, dropping her hands to her sides. “But it felt wonderful.”

As soon as Brighton gets home from the
Poniard
trial, he goes to his computer and logs onto
Abduction!
, more out of habit than of interest. Luckily, the HF Queen hasn’t gotten back from court.

In the past week,
Abduction!
hasn’t offered anything new, just repetitive cutscenes and old levels. Maybe it’s because the trial is an adventure, role-playing, and strategy game all rolled into one. The judge and the witnesses are obstacles and level bosses. The lawyers are both characters in the game
and
the game players. He now understands better why the HF Queen says she loves practicing law, though no one likes to get pounded the way she did today. But maybe she isn’t beaten after all, because in the end the judge said she’d probably rule in the Queen’s favor—unless Stern succeeds in his quest to bring in more evidence. Poniard was right about one thing—William the Conqueror is a big fat liar—worse than a liar, Ed said in the car driving home, though he made Brighton promise not to repeat that to the Queen. Which means that the Queen is on the wrong side of the case, but Brighton doesn’t blame her for it. It seems that the legal profession is like chess—sometimes you play white and sometimes you play black.

Brighton makes a couple of cool mouse maneuvers, and a new stage of the game appears on his monitor. It’s the courthouse, but it’s less a higher level than some kind of dead-end mod, a simplistic
beat
’
em up
game featuring bloody fistfights among Stern, Frantz, Bishop—and the HF Queen. The player can choose to control one of the lawyers or Bishop but can’t control the judge, who resembles a giant crow with a skinny face, massive beak, and black wings made out of her judicial robes. The crow-judge squawks at the lawyers and from time to time hits them with a huge gavel for no reason. Brighton’s stomach has been rumbling for an hour because the trial was too exciting for him to take time to eat lunch, but when he sees his mother get hit in the face and suffer a broken nose, his guts twist like an over-coiled spring and his appetite vanishes.

But it feels to Brighton like something’s missing from the scene—what, he can’t say.

According to John 8:32, the truth shall set you free, but the truth threatens to make me a prisoner. Yesterday after court, the media followed me home and tried to get past security and into my parking lot. It’s still early in the morning, but the tabloid reporters and paparazzi are already milling around the front gate. They all want to interview Parky Gerald all grown up.

Last night, I spoke with Harry Cherry’s wife Sonja, begging her to bring Harry to court to testify about William Bishop and
The Boatman
. “We’ll deal with the Alzheimer’s,” I said. When she refused, I asked to meet Harry at their home. When she said no to that, I foolishly threatened to subpoena the old man. She made a rude comment about Parky Gerald’s acting ability, told me to “fuck off,” and hung up the phone.

Despite the phone call with Sonja, I have to find a way to see Harry Cherry and pick at the slivers of his shattered memory. So at a little before nine o’clock, I drive out of the building in my neighbor Amber’s Toyota Prius—it’s a good thing that as a little girl, Amber loved Parky—and set out on the drive to Palm Desert.

It takes me three hours to leave the smog of LA for a dry desert heat that taxes the air-conditioner on my neighbor’s hybrid. When I reach Ontario, I input Brenda’s number, intending to tell her where I’m going, but I abort the call. I’ve already exposed her to enough danger, and if I get the information I need, things will be even more risky. I don’t want Brenda to end up like Philip Paulsen.

I turn onto the Cherrys’ street and start to pull up to the house, but then I see Sonja walking toward her BMW. I speed past and tour the cookie-cutter neighborhood—admittedly, they used a high-class cookie cutter—and return to the Cherrys’ place five minutes later.