Self-Defense (55 page)

He cleared his throat, flirted briefly
with the camera. For a moment I thought he’d call for the makeup girl.

He said, “I am
not
nor have I
ever
been a murderer, nor do I condone the act of murder. However, I am in
possession of information that came my way, by means of no criminal activity on
my part, that if pursued competently could lead to the criminal prosecution of
another individual and/or individuals for violation of California State Penal
Code 187, first-degree murder. I am willing to offer such information in return
for compassionate consideration of my current status including immediate
release from prison, under reasonable bail, to my family and loved ones, and in
return for reduction of present and pending charges.”

Folding the paper.

Looking up.

Bleichert addressed MacIlhenny. “Okay,
it’s on the record, now let’s talk reality.”

“Sure,” said MacIlhenny. His voice was a
bullfrog croak and his eyebrows tangoed when he talked. “Reality is, Mr. App is
a prominent member of the business community and there’s no rational reason to
confine him—”

“He’s a flight risk, Land. He was
apprehended just about to board a helicopter with a connecting flight to—”

“Tsk, tsk,” said MacIlhenny, very gently.
“Not apprehended.
Surprised.
At that point in time, Mr. App was aware of
no criminal investigation of any sort. Surely, you’re not saying that absent
such information he wasn’t free to travel at will, like any other United States
citizen?”

“With his money, he’s a flight risk,
Land.”

MacIlhenny patted his melon paunch. “So
you’re saying that Mr. App’s wealth allows you to discriminate against him.”

“I’m saying he’s a flight risk, Land.”
Bleichert’s face was round and grim and pinched and he had a five-o’clock
shadow. His navy suit really was cheap.

“Well,” harumphed MacIlhenny, “we’ll
pursue that with the appropriate authorities.”

“Be my guest.”

MacIlhenny turned to Leah. “Hello, young
lady. UCLA, class of... around five years ago?”

“Six.”

“I lectured to your class. Admissibility
of evidence. You sat right up in front—wore blue jeans.”

Leah smiled.

Bleichert said, “We’re all impressed with
the Mr. Memory bit, Land. Now, is your client going to poop or get off the
pot?”

MacIlhenny put one hand to his mouth in
mock horror. The other shielded Leah’s eyes.

“Tsk, tsk. My client is willing to read a
prepared statement.”

“No questioning?”

“Not at this time.”

“That’s not very forthcoming.”

“
That’s
reality.”

Bleichert looked at Leah. Nothing visible
passed between them. He said, “Read at your own risk.”

“Release on bail.”

“Special holding at Lompoc.”

“That’s still prison.”

“It’s a country club.”

“No,” said MacIlhenny. “My client already
belongs to a country club. He knows the difference.”

Leah said, “With everything your client’s
charged with, he’s lucky to see fresh air. And why should we bargain with him when
he’s already lied to us, trying to palm off Karen Best on Trafficant. We know
from other sources that Trafficant had no involvement in that.”

“Tsk, tsk,” said MacIlhenny. “There are
sources and there are sources.”

Through it all, App sat, looking bored.
The inanimate calm of the true psychopath.

Bleichert said, “Transfer to Lompoc and
that’s it.”

“It’s quite a story,” said MacIlhenny.
“First-rate drama.”

“Sell it to the movies,”

MacIlhenny smiled and pointed a finger at
App.

App smiled and took out another paper.

After clearing his throat, he began.

“I became acquainted with the
writer/artist Morris Bayard Lowell, hereafter to be referred to as “Lowell’ or
“Buck,’ at a party in New York in the summer of 1969. The party I believe to
have been at the Greenwich Village townhouse of Mason Upstone, editor of the
Manhattan Book Review,
though I can’t be sure. Lowell and I struck up a
conversation, during which I told him I greatly admired his work. Subsequent to
that, Lowell and I began a friendly relationship that culminated in my
optioning a book of his, a collection of poems entitled
Command: Shed the
Light,
for development as a motion picture. In addition to the advance
payment for this option, I advanced him money to purchase land in Topanga
Canyon to develop a personal residence and to build an artists’ and writers’
retreat he called Sanctum. I did these things because even though Lowell had
experienced a long hiatus in creative output, his previous accomplishments in
literature and art led me to believe he would regain his creative powers and
resume his place as a major American writer.”

Sniff. He touched his nose.

“Unfortunately, this was not to happen.
Command: Shed the Light
received highly excoriative reviews and was a
commercial failure.”

Rattling the paper.

“As part of my relationship with Lowell, I
also became acquainted with various artists and writers. Among these was a
British sculptor, Christopher Graydon-Jones, whom I aided in attaining
employment in an insurance company in which I am a substantial shareholder, and
whom I believed, at the time, to be a major talent and of excellent personal
character. Likewise, a writer, Denton Mellors, whose true name I have since
learned was Darnel Mullins, an African-American novelist, for whom I found
employment in the business affairs office of my motion picture production
company and, when he proved to lack skills in that area, as a manager of
several motor inns that I own.”

Throat clearing. “I might add that I am
also a substantial contributor to the United Negro College Fund.”

MacIlhenny arched an eyebrow and handed
him a glass of water.

He drank and read. “Another individual I
met through Lowell was a writer named Terrence Trafficant. Trafficant had spent
time in prison and wrote about his experiences in a prison diary entitled
From Hunger to Rage.
Lowell took Trafficant in, as a protégé, helped him
get paroled, and aided in getting the diary published. It became a best-seller.
At Lowell’s urging, I read said book and optioned it for development into a
motion picture, advancing money to Terrence Trafficant.”

Staring at the camera, as if trying to
convince it of something. Sniff.

“I was to find out, subsequently, that I
had been defrauded by both Mr. Lowell and Mr. Trafficant, in that
Command:
Shed the Light
had been written not by Mr. Lowell but by Mr. Trafficant and
passed off by Mr. Lowell to the artistic and literary community, and to the
public at large, as an original work. I learned this in conversation with Mr.
Trafficant, who showed me his original handwritten notes for the book and gave
them to me for safekeeping in exchange for a sum of money. I remain in
possession of said notes and am willing to offer them as evidence in the
prosecution of Mr. Lowell for the murder of Mr. Trafficant, a crime I have personal
knowledge of because Mr. Lowell confessed it to me, several days after the
deed, when I confronted him with the evidence of his plagiarism and fraud.”

Deep breath.

“That’s all I have to say at this time.”

MacIlhenny smiled. Bleichert frowned.

Leah said, “So you want to trade Lowell
for everything you’ve done.”

App folded the paper.

“All we’ve got on Lowell,” said Leah, “is
your word for it.”

“And the notes,” said MacIlhenny.

“If they’re authentic. And even if they
are, all
they
prove is fraud. On a dead victim. So big deal.”

“A murdered victim.”

“I haven’t heard any evidence of murder
except Mr. App’s say-so.”

“Would a body help?”

“Depending on whose it is.”

“Tsk, tsk, young lady. Let’s not be coy.”

Bleichert said, “Whose corpus, Land?”

“Speaking theoretically? Let’s say Mr.
Trafficant’s.”

“Where is it?”

MacIlhenny smiled and shook his head.

“Withholding information on a homicide
case, Land?”

MacIlhenny looked down at his chest rolls.
His breasts were as big as a stripper’s. “I have no personal information, Stan.
All my conversations with Mr. App have remained on a strictly theoretical
basis.”

“Is this body theoretical, too?” said
Leah.

MacIlhenny winked but ignored her. “I’m
offering you a gift, Stan. Wrapped and ribboned. This could be your biggest
case: internationally acclaimed author, major fraud, plagiarism, bloodshed.
We’re talking
Time
magazine cover and you write the true crime book.”

Leah said, “As opposed to
your
client the piker, with multiple homicides and enough dope to stuff half the
noses in Hollywood.”

“My client never won the Pulitzer.”

“Your client murdered more than one
person.”

“Tsk, tsk.” MacIlhenny laughed softly.
“Slander and libel. Where’s your proof?”

“I’ve got eyewitness testimony.”

“Tainted witness. Long history of drug
abuse, and your own case against him for attempted murder gives him an obvious
motive to lie. His word against my client’s?”

“Biggest case of the year,” said Leah.
“Does Mr. App get to buy the film option?”

MacIlhenny gave her a pitying look. “Mr.
App will no longer be engaged in the motion picture business. When the dust
clears, Mr. App will be retiring.”

“When the dust clears?” she said. “I see
dust storms on the horizon. Tornadoes.”

MacIlhenny turned away from her and back
to Bleichert. App remained silent and motionless.

“You’re offering squat, Land,” said
Bleichert.

“On the contrary, I’m offering you fame
and fortune and the chance to put an icon on trial in return for dropping all
charges on a couple of diddly cases you don’t stand a chance of proving.”

“If you think we’re so weak, why bargain?”

MacIlhenny pulled shirt fabric out of a
fold of flesh. “In the interests of justice and efficiency. Mr. App is no
youngster. Every day spent away from hearth and home wears on him severely. He
recognizes he has certain... personal problems due to chemical dependency. He
is willing to undergo medical and psychiatric treatment for these problems as
well as to offer his considerable talents to the community in exchange for no
jail time, beyond what’s been served, and no full-court attempt to employ the
confiscatory powers of the RICO statutes.”

“Betty Ford and community service for
multiple murder and dope laundering?” said Leah. “When do you take this act to
Vegas?”

Bleichert said nothing. She tried not to
look at him, but failed.

MacIlhenny was looking at him, too.

“There has to be some time served,” said
Bleichert. “But I can conceive of its being at Lompoc or somewhere like that.
As far as RICO, you know that’s not our bailiwick.”

“I’ve already talked to the DEA, Stan, and
they’re willing to go along with partial confiscation in return for some
valuable information about foreign narcotics commerce currently in my client’s
possession. The hang-up’s these alleged homicides. They don’t want to be put in
an awkward position.”

“Like going easy on a multiple murderer?”
said Leah.

Bleichert raised an eyebrow at her. She
crossed her legs and looked away. MacIlhenny allowed himself a tiny smile.

Bleichert said, “Some jail time. I mean
it, Land.”

MacIlhenny glanced at App. “I suppose we can
live with that. At a federal facility, protective custody.”

“So what happens on Mellors and Barnard?”
said Leah, looking at MacIlhenny but addressing Bleichert. “Talk about being in
an awkward position. Especially when Lowell’s case hits the fan. We’ll never be
able to keep it quiet. The minute
his
attorney finds out about the deal
and squawks, we’ll come across softer on crime than the ACLU.”

“Tsk, tsk—”

“She’s got a point,” said Bleichert.

“Come on, Stan,” said MacIlhenny. “What
kind of crime are we talking about? A scumbag private eye blackmailer and the
scumbag motel manager who killed him? Weigh that against the chance to try
Lowell.”

“Afro-American
scumbag motel manager,” said Leah. “Trading black life
for white life? Can’t you just see the NAACP having fun with that? And let’s
not forget, Lowell’s victim was no choirboy, either. Is anyone going to care
what an old man did twenty years ago?”

“There’s a substantial difference, young
lady.”

“Sure, someone else’s client’ll be facing
the heat.”

Bleichert chewed his lip. App looked at
him. First interest he’d shown in the proceedings.