Leap Year (25 page)

“No.”

“I have no further questions. Your witness, counsel.”

“Thank you, Ms. Menzies,” said Ned Best. “Good morning, Mr. Parish.”

“Good morning,” said David.

“I’d like to begin by asking you to tell the jury what your marital status is.”

“I’m divorced.”

“So can we assume, then, that you were at one time married?”

“I was.”

“Do you have any dependents?”

“I have one child.”

“Is the mother of this child your ex-wife?”

“That’s correct.”

“Can we safely assume, then, Mr. Parish, and I here use Ms. Menzies’ terminology, that you had a ‘sexual relationship’ with your wife?”

“I did.”

“Can we assume, then, Mr. Parish, that you are bisexual?”

“You can assume whatever you want.”

“I’d like a yes-or-no answer, Mr. Parish. Are you bisexual?”

“Your Honor, I object. I fail to see what relevancy Mr. Parish’s sexual orientation has to this matter. I’d also argue this cross goes beyond the scope of my original examination of the witness.”

“Your Honor, I disagree. Mr. Parish has testified as to Mr. Jackson’s sexual orientation. I’d argue that his seeming confusion as to his own has bearing on that testimony.”

“I think you’ve made your point, then, counsel. Please move on.”

“Mr. Parish, during the time you had this ‘sexual relationship’ with Mr. Jackson, were you involved with anyone else?”

David didn’t answer. He remembered that March night: Lillian’s party, the cab ride through the dark park, Loren’s hair in his mouth, the ringing telephone. “It depends what you mean by involved.”

“I’ll rephrase my question. Did you have sexual relations with a person other than Heath Jackson between January and July of this year?”

“I slept with my wife.” David looked at Loren as he said this. She was looking down at her hands, studying them, turning them over in her lap.

“I assume you mean your ex-wife.”

“I do.” Loren looked up at him. Her face was expressionless.

“So concurrent with your
homo
sexual relationship with Mr. Jackson you were also involved in a
hetero
sexual relationship with your wife?”

“It was just one night.”

“The duration of your sexual encounters does not interest me. Tell me, Mr. Parish, is it possible that Mr. Jackson had a similar heterosexual relationship?”

“Anything’s possible.”

“I suggest to you that anything is not possible, Mr. Parish. Fish do not fly. But some things are possible, and I ask you, most specifically, if it is possible that Heath Jackson had a relationship with Solange Shawangunk between January and July of 1988?”

“It is possible,” David answered, trying to chose his words carefully, “But I don’t believe he did. I believe, without a doubt in my heart or my mind, that Heath Jackson—”

“What you believe does not interest us, Mr. Parish. We’re interested solely in what you know, which does not appear to be much.”

The nearer the end of the trial came, the less real it all seemed to Heath. One testimony clashed with another, and by the time he was called to the stand, on the afternoon of the trial’s final day, the events of that long-ago July evening had taken on the patina of a dream.

But as Colette asked him question after question, details from that bizarre night swam slowly back into focus. He could see it all: the crowd in the gallery, his photographs lined up around the walls, the bare, tanned skin of the beautiful laughing women, the light sparkling in the glasses of champagne.

“Mr. Jackson,” Colette finally said, “did you accompany Mrs. Solange Shawangunk into the gallery office at approximately six-fifty on the evening of July thirteenth, 1988?”

“I did.”

“What was the gist of your conversation?”

“Mrs. Shawangunk tried to warn me about Amanda Paine. She told me Amanda was using me for her own purposes. That she had offered me the show to ridicule the gallery. I was very confused. I didn’t really understand what Mrs. Shawangunk was trying to say.”

“Did she have a chance to explain herself?”

“No. We were interrupted by Amanda Paine and Anton Shawangunk.”

“Tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Jackson.”

“Well, as I said, Mrs. Shawangunk and I were talking. There was a knock on the door, and then Ms. Paine and Mr. Shawangunk came in. Ms. Paine went over to the desk—she was wearing gloves—and took a gun from the top desk drawer. She pointed it at Solange and fired. Solange fell to the floor. Amanda threw the gun at me and then disappeared.”

There was the briefest moment of silence before someone started shouting in the rear of the courtroom. It was Amanda Paine. “It’s a lie!” she shouted. “He’s lying! He’s a sick little murdering liar!”

“I’m not lying,” Heath said. “I’m telling the truth.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Amanda said. “I let my outrage get the better of me.”

“See that it doesn’t happen again. Let’s continue.”

“I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Colette said.

“Mr. Best, do you wish to cross-examine this witness?”

“I do, Your Honor.” Mr. Best stood up and looked at Heath for a moment. “Mr. Jackson, have you ever used the term ‘schlitzed’?”

“Maybe,” said Heath.

“If you’re familiar with the term, would you define it for us?”

“If you’re schlitzed, you’re…um…you’re a little wasted.”

“And by wasted I assume you mean inebriated, Mr. Jackson?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to repeat my earlier question, Mr. Jackson, but I’ll be more specific this time. Did you use this term in reference to your condition on the evening of July thirteenth, 1988, while sitting in a car hired from the Vanity Fair Car Leasing Corporation, driven by a certain Mr. Emil Taas?”

“I don’t recall,” said Heath.

“I’m not surprised,” said Ned Best. “I’d be surprised if you could recall anything from that evening. You’d been drinking, hadn’t you, Mr. Jackson?”

“I might have had a drink a two.”

“Would it surprise you that Mr. Taas recalls hearing you say to your companion, ‘I feel schlitzed’?”

“Not really.”

“Did you also smoke some marijuana while in the car, Mr. Jackson?”

“I think I smoked a very small amount.”

“I just have one more question. Mr. Jackson, given your self-described ‘schlitzed’ condition on the evening of July thirteenth, how can you expect this jury to believe your account of what transpired in the office of the Gallery Shawangunk?”

“I may have been a little…inebriated, but I know what I saw. I know a murder when I see one, even if I am a little…inebriated. I saw Amanda Paine shoot Solange Shawangunk. I’m certain of that.”

“You’re certain, Mr. Jackson? You’re sure it wasn’t a pink elephant you saw shooting Mrs. Shawangunk?”

“Objection!”

“Sustained. Mr. Best, if you have serious questions, ask them. Spare us your jokes.”

“I’m sorry, Your Honor. I don’t believe I have any more questions.” Ned Best looked at the jury. “There isn’t a question in my mind,” he said, and sat down.

Heath resumed his seat. The closing statements and the judge’s charge to the jury passed in a blur. He watched as twelve people walked by him, their eyes carefully averted, and disappeared through a door.

Colette turned to him. “Now comes the hard part,” she said. “There’s nothing worse than waiting.”

G
REGORY WAS SUPPOSED TO
meet Loren at the L.A. airport, but he didn’t. She was greeted by a fat blond woman holding a sign that read
LOREN CONNOR PARISH.
This woman explained that Gregory was “detained on location” and drove Loren to the ocean, where a production company was filming a picnic scene on the beach.

Loren took off her shoes and walked around the set. No one seemed to be doing anything, except for one woman who was dismembering a flock of roasted chickens with her bare hands.

“What are you doing?” Loren asked the woman, watching her tear hunks of meat off a chicken and toss them into a garbage bag.

“I’m the food stylist,” the woman said. “I’m making these look eaten: We need one for each take.”

The thought of all that perfectly good chicken going to waste infuriated Loren, but she refrained from commenting. “I’m looking for Gregory Mancini,” she said. “Do you know if he’s around?”

“He’s probably in the trailer trying to get Patti straight.”

“Who’s Patti?”

“The fucking star. With the emphasis on fucking, if you know what I mean.”

“Which trailer?”

“The one with a lot of hysterical crying coming from inside it,” said the woman.

“What about in here?” asked Gregory. They were walking down Rodeo Drive looking for a shoe store. The fat blond woman had driven away with Loren’s shoes and suitcase. Loren was wearing a pair of thongs borrowed from a P.A.

“It looks awfully expensive,” she said. “I just need a pair for tonight. Don’t you know any cheap shoe stores?”

“Not in L.A. I haven’t done too much women’s shoe shopping. Let’s just go in here and get it over with. I don’t want to miss our reservation. I’ll pay. It’s my fault, anyway, for not picking you up.”

They rang the doorbell and were admitted to the shoe store, which looked more like a shoe museum. Inside glass cases, shoelike objects reclined on velvet pillows.

“This is absurd,” said Loren.

“I told you I’d pay,” said Gregory.

Something in the tone of his voice silenced her. She explained her dilemma to a saleswoman, who bade them sit, and disappeared into the stockroom, in search of some non-couture shoes.

The store was empty and freezing. “Are you all right?” Loren asked Gregory.

“I’m fine,” said Gregory.

Loren reached out and touched his bare arm. “You’re tan,” she said. She leaned forward to kiss him, but he gave her a strange smile and stood up. He remained standing, examining the caged shoes, till the saleslady returned.

He was odd like that all evening: cordial and distant, as if Loren were a tiresome visiting relative rather than the woman he supposedly loved. At first Loren thought this uncharacteristic coldness was due to trouble at work: Things had been tense on the set. But her presence failed to thaw him. In fact, he seemed to get more tense as the evening progressed, and by the time they had returned to his rented house high in some canyon, she could stand it no longer.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“Nothing,” he said.

“Gregory, something’s wrong. This is hardly right.”

He shrugged.

“Tell me, what’s wrong?”

They were standing on his terrace. There was a glimpse of dark lawn, moonlit pool, palm trees, and garden wall. Someone was watering his lawn, a dog barked. Under other circumstances it would have been beautiful, but to Loren it was all too quiet and so poignantly foreign she wanted to cry. She felt she was at the end of the world. In some abstract, nightmarish way she understood that Gregory had stopped loving her, but she could not believe that. It was impossible to believe. How could the warmth she felt in his presence not be reciprocated? It seemed to contradict some rule of physics, some basic ancient fact about the properties of objects. But the truth is that people fall out of love without the wonderful swooning symmetry that brings them together.

She touched him again, and this time he allowed it. “What’s wrong?” she repeated.

“I think I’m angry at you,” Gregory said.

“Angry? Why?”

“I think, I mean, I feel, I don’t know, that you don’t love me. That you never really did.”

“That’s not true,” said Loren.

“But that’s how I feel.”

“Why?”

“Do you love David?”

“What do you mean?”

He looked at her. “You know what I mean: Do you love David?”

“No.” Loren shook her head. “Not in the way I think you mean. I love you in that way.”

He looked away. “I don’t believe you do.”

“But why? I just said I did. What more can I do?”

“Maybe I don’t believe it,” said Gregory, “because I don’t really love you.”

Loren was silent. She covered her mouth with her hand. A bird swooped low over the pool, ruffled its surface, winged itself away. “Why have you stopped loving me?”

“I’m sorry,” said Gregory.

“But why?”

“When I heard you had left David this time, for a while I was so happy. I know that sounds mean, but, well, that’s how I felt. I thought I had been right to let you go like I did, and I thought it would all work out…”

“And?” said Loren.

“It’s all so shallow,” said Gregory, “how you flip back and forth. It makes your love seem so arbitrary, so inconsequential. It made me sick to think about it.”

Loren sat down. “And you had me fly all the way out here to tell me I make you sick?”

“No,” said Gregory. “I mean, when I asked you to come, I wanted to see you. And then the more I thought, the more I realized how I felt. I couldn’t tell you these things…I felt it was important I tell you this in person.”

“I’ve had a very hard year,” said Loren. “A lot has changed for me, but I…I mean, my God, I’ve finally figured things out, and I know what I want. I know who I love. You can’t just leave me like this.”

“You left me.”

“But I had to do that. You understood. You said you did.”

“I didn’t really, though. In a way I understood, but I was very hurt by that.”

“I’m sorry, Gregory. In retrospect I realize it was the wrong thing to do. But, I mean, I couldn’t have known that then. I didn’t mean to hurt you—”

“I know,” said Gregory, “but you did.”

“And I’m sorry.” Loren stood up. She wanted to touch him, but she was afraid to. “I’ll never hurt you again.”

“I know you won’t,” said Gregory. “I’ll never let you.”

David opened the door to the witness room. Heath was sitting at the table. He was alone.

“Hi,” said David. “Colette told me you were in here. Is it okay if I come in?”

“Sure,” said Heath.

David sat down. “I just wanted to see you—”

“Before they send me up the river?”

“No. I meant…well, I just wanted to see you.”

“It was nice of you to come down.”

“Lillian came too. She said to say hi.”