The Copy (9 page)

CHAPTER TWENTY

"WE MIGHT BE WILLING to consider a deal," said Alton McBride catching James Scott May as he exited the restroom.

May smiled. "Ah," he said, elongating the word for effect, "and how is the old war horse?"

"Who?"

May dipped his head and looked over the rim of his tortoise-shell glasses at the DA. "Let's not play games, Alton," he said, his smile taking on a wry aspect. "We've done this dance too many times to be coy, you and I, don't you think? Dollar gives you ten you went to Minkhaus for an opinion." He raised his eyebrows. "And you didn't like what you heard."

McBride snorted. "I'm confident with my case."

"As you should be. Your cross was precise. Your closing argument elucidative, to be sure. You've certainly shown culpability, commission, and even intent, I don't deny that. But there's a fly in your ointment, isn't there? The sticky little fact that the victim of my client's crime is, by all strictest legal interpretation, no other than himself."

Again May looked over the rim of his tortoise-shells.

"And my money says that's exactly what the old judge told you."

"You can't predict the jury, James," said the DA, breaking eye contact.

"True. But we have the appeals process, which you lack, my friend, in the event of an acquittal."

"Enough," said McBride sharply. "Let's talk resolution."

"Okay. What'd you have in mind?"

"We drop the Murder One and your man cops to Attempted Suicide."

"Suicide? Is that still a crime in this state? I really do need to update my law review subscription."

The DA's eyes flashed steel. "It remains a common law felony."

May pushed his lips out and nodded. "Granted," he said, his head bobbing minutely as he digested the idea. "Sentence?"

"One year. Out in six months."

May studied the DA, running his tongue over the front teeth beneath his top lip.

"Six months, out in three."

"Fine, six months. State mental hospital. He'll be out in four or five."

May shook his head. "No. That's a non-starter, Alton. No psyche eval. No mental health intervention, period. Six months, minimum security. General population."

"Come on James, you know I can't do that. Case like this."

May shrugged. "Okay then. Good talk, Alton." He began to turn in the direction of the courtroom.

McBride stopped him with a palm on his chest. "Wait," he said, taking a deep breath and releasing it through his nose. "Six months, medium-high security. That's the best I can do."

"Medium-low."

McBride's jaw moved laterally, like he was grinding grain between his molars, his eyes focused intently on May's shirt-front. He finally lifted his eyes to meet the defense attorney's.

"Let me run it up the flagpole."

May patted his shoulder. "Better hurry," he said as he started toward the courtroom, "my closing argument is succinct."

James Scott May strode to the jury box and smiled serenely. In his peripheral he watched the DA hurrying down the aisle towards his seat, cell phone being deposited into his inside pocket as he went, and a scowl on his face.

"Ladies and gentleman, let me begin by thanking you for your service. I know these past weeks have disrupted your lives considerably and my client and I thank you deeply for your willingness to serve our venerable justice system."

He walked to the end of the rail and leaned casually on the post.

"I won't take too much of your time. My noble colleague, District Attorney McBride, and his exceptional team have proved beyond all doubt that a body was killed, and that my client did the killing. We do not dispute these facts. They have shown, quite well I might add, that my client had premeditated reason to want to rid himself of this other, and that in a moment of passion he did act upon that inclination. Again, we do not dispute this. They have also been good enough to independently validate the findings of Dr. Stein in proving the identity of the victim to be Mr. Bartell himself, and we thank them for that. There is however one item with which we must take issue."

May paused with an index finger held in the air.

"And that is the question of whether a murder took place."

May spoke to the jury in a subdued, almost familiar, tone. He chose not to pace theatrically nor make use of the grand and sweeping hand gestures to which many of his peers were inclined during closing arguments. He preferred to address the jury in a more intimate manner, as one might a neighbor across a backyard fence.

"Ladies and gentleman, you are here tasked with deciding whether Geoffrey Bartell murdered someone. In fact, with an indictment carrying a single charge: that of First Degree Murder, you are quite literally tasked with that one decision; and that one decision alone. Did Geoffrey Bartell murder Geoffrey Bartell?"

May paused and scanned the twelve faces, making eye contact with those that would engage. Ten of the twelve held his gaze without discomfort. Good odds he thought, allowing himself a measure of satisfaction. He stole a glance at Alton McBride but the DA's eyes were fixed on the table in front of him.

"Murder, as it is defined in our great country and, indeed, in every civilized nation on Earth since antiquity, requires by its very definition the taking of a life of another person - that is a person distinct from one's self. Suicide, by contrast, is defined as the taking of one's own life. We have to now ask ourselves whether the act of murder and the act of taking one's own life can stand together - legally, morally, or even logically. And I submit to you that they cannot. I submit for your consideration, gentle people of the jury, that the two are mutually exclusive."

May looked once again to the prosecution table. The DA stared straight ahead, his brow lightly furrowed, but wouldn't meet his gaze. So be it then.

"If the facts show that Geoffrey Bartell did indeed take a life, and I believe the prosecution has quite competently proven beyond a reasonable doubt that he did so, then I also believe it is incumbent upon you to find that no murder took place."

May straightened and took three steps so that he stood in the center of the jury box. He faced the twelve with a look of somber affection.

"Ladies and gentleman, I said earlier that you had but a single decision to make. Let me modify that now, as I believe this to be truly the only question which must be answered: did Geoffrey Bartell take a life? Because if the evidence shows that he did, then that same evidence also shows clearly that the life he took was his own."

James Scott May bowed his head.

"Thank you for your time and attention."

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

BY 8:30 AM the courthouse steps were already a zoo. James Scott May fought his way through a writhing mass of journalists, microphones bristling at him on every side as he made his way to the sanctuary of the police line. Once upon the summit, and behind the barricade of helmeted officers, he turned to survey the scene.

A carpet of news anchors covered the lower steps, delivering preamble to the camera in contrived poses of sober professionalism. Cameramen vied for position trying to line up their shots, jostling this way and that in pursuit of the perfect angle to the impending spectacle. Further below, covering the sidewalk and spilling into the street, protestors marched, some in support of the accused, others decrying him. To one side May saw a sign reading "Bartell is going to Hell", while not ten yards away another proclaimed "Make clones, not war".

James Scott May checked his watch. Thirty minutes and it would be over. He lifted his gaze out over the city and took a few cleansing breaths. Spring was making an early bid and the air was brisk but not cold. An achingly blue sky was laced with fading sprigs of coral pink. Its lower edge, where it met the city skyline, was being steadily infused with a growing grey smudge.

Returning his attention to the scene below him he tried to remember exactly when human travail had become good television. Then he shook his head sadly and turned toward the courthouse doors.

At 9:00 AM Judge Lemar's courtroom was electric with anticipation. The gallery was filled to capacity with reporters, leaving not a square inch of space for the general public, save for Camilla Bartell and a handful of law students and undergrads who'd been ushered in ahead of the masses. The spaces beyond the bar were, however, empty. No briefcases or legal pads gave testament to occupation of either the defense or prosecution tables. The court reporter station stood vacant of even the stenotype machine. Of singular exception in the space was the old bailiff who somberly held his post by the far door leading to the chambers beyond.

By 9:30 AM the electricity had escalated into a near frenzy. Law students debated excitedly the possible conclusions. Reporters yammered into cell phones as they interpreted, in weighty words, the sheer sense of foreboding emanating from the silent courtroom.

At 10:05 AM the door opened and the District Attorney stepped through, closely followed by his deputy, then James Scott May and Geoffrey Bartell. A smaller door opened on the far side of the bench and a middle-aged woman hurried through clutching a stenotype under one arm. She settled in to her station, adjusted the height of her machine and then, with fingers poised on the keys, went completely still. A few moments later the chamber door opened and the bailiff bellowed, "All rise for the Honorable Grayson Lemar!"

The judge assumed his bench and looked out over the room with a sense of finality. He cited the case number and convened court with a tap of his gavel - but did not call in the jury. Instead he inclined his head at the DA, who rose and strode quickly to the bench and handed up papers. The stillness in the room was absolute as the judge perused the small sheaf. When he spoke, he addressed Geoffrey Bartell directly. Bartell and his attorney both came to their feet.

"Mr. Bartell, the prosecution has filed an information charging you with felony count of attempted suicide. You are aware of this?"

"Yes, Your Honor, I am."

"And, Mr. Bartell, you are also pleading guilty to this one-count information as you are in fact guilty of the crime charged here?"

"Yes, Your Honor."

"All right. Prosecution please state the factual basis for the offense."

Alton McBride stood. "Judge, we believe that has been established by evidence as presented in this trial and believe the defense will concur." McBride turned his head to James Scott May, as did the judge.

"The defense will stipulate that factual basis for this charge has been established, Your Honor."

Judge Lemar nodded at him. "Mr. Bartell, do you agree with Mr. May on that?"

"Yes, Judge."

"All right," Lemar said, looking back at the papers in front of him. "This has been an extremely complex case and I believe the resolution presented here to be just and within the definitions of the law."

He set his hands flat atop the papers and straightened to his full height.

"The court accepts the plea of defendant Geoffrey Bartell the Third to one count of felony attempted suicide. The indictment of murder in the first degree is hereby dismissed with prejudice. Mr. Bartell, you are hereby remanded to the custody of the State Department of Law Enforcement for a period of six months. Court adjourned."

He tapped his gavel once and the room exploded into pandemonium.

As the Sheriff's Deputies approached Geoffrey Bartell he turned to face Camilla across the wooden railing. Words failed him as he fell into her eyes, which were moist yet resolute. She reached out a hand and he touched the tips of her fingers just long enough to feel the warmth of her through the lace glove before they took him by the shoulders and marched him away.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

FOUR MONTHS LATER...

THE aroma of coffee teased Camilla from slumber. Her eyes came gradually open as they adjusted to the dappled sunlight falling across the room. She was clutched by a moment of disorientation at the unfamiliar surroundings. Whitewashed wooden beams spanned the ceiling above her and below it a weathered turquoise-painted fan of indeterminate age swung lazily, its rhythmic muted chirp combining with the cries of gulls that filtered through the louvered window.

Camilla closed her eyes and breathed the air. It was cool and moist and briny and carried the promise of a temperate summer. She let the sounds of the village drift in to her on the breeze: the sing-song of hawkers in the market, the swish of lines being cast off and throaty gurgles of ancient marine engines, and the ever-present clanking of goat bells. From within the cottage came another far more intimate sound: the tinkle of children's laughter. Camilla rolled over to find the bed next to her empty. She stretched, running her hands across the cool wrinkled surface, then wriggled free of the tangle of sheets and got up.

She padded across painted cedar floors following the smell of coffee and the sound of her children's voices. As she approached the kitchen the voices fell to a conspiratorial whisper.

The three of them were crowded around the stove. Lilian held center position, one fist gripping the handle of a large cast-iron frying pan and in the other, a spatula. Patch was on a step-stool to her left, his shoulders - which stood just barely above the stovetop - hunched as he stared fiercely into the pan. Leaning against the counter to their right was Geoffrey. He wore nothing but a pair of boxers, a frayed and faded St. Barts Yacht Club t-shirt, and an expression of amused satisfaction.

Camilla stood silent for half a minute taking in the tableau. Then Geoffrey looked up and caught her eye, and smiled a smile that she felt in her heart.

"What are you maniacs up to?" she said.

Patch's head snapped around, his eyes like saucers. "Mom, we're making Shrek pancakes!"

Camilla smiled. "What pancakes?"

"Look!" he said, pointing at the pan with enthusiasm.

Lilian put down the spatula and used both hands to heft the old pan up on edge. In the pan was one large pancake with two small appendages on top, a shape vaguely reminiscent of the cartoon ogre, and pastel green in color.

Camilla walked over to them and ruffled both of their hair. "I hope you're making enough for me," she said.

Patch stepped down from his stool and bent to peer inside the oven door. He pressed a finger on the glass and said breathlessly, "We've got more."

Camilla laughed and bent to kiss him on the head. Then she straightened and turned to face her husband.

"Tell me you didn't use green food coloring," she whispered.

Geoffrey broke into a lopsided grin and shook his head. He leaned in close and whispered back, "Spinach and kale blended in with the batter." Then he kissed her quickly on the neck below her ear and leaned back with a finger held to his lips. Camilla shook her head at him. Her heart felt so full she feared she might burst into tears. Pushing onto her tiptoes she kissed him on the lips, then went to the coffee maker.

She poured herself a cup and walked back to the door, turning before she exited.

"I'm going to take a quick shower and then I'll be back for my ugly pancake." She waggled a finger at them. "Anyone eats him and they'll get pitchforked."

It seemed to Camilla that she should have felt a sense of loss, or bitter entitlement for the evils that fate had visited upon their family. Perhaps she should harbor some regret for the destruction of her husband's life's work. Or embarrassment at their fall from grace, their faces on tabloid covers as the lawsuits, senate hearings, and bankruptcies fell like so many dominoes in the months following the trial. But as she stood under the shower jets the only thing she felt was contentment.

Camilla leaned her head back into the spray and worked shampoo through her thick hair, enjoying the feel of the hot soapy water down her back and the sound of it cracking in waves against the tile. She looked down to watch the frothing stream eddying around the floor grate before disappearing forever into the drain.

A fitting metaphor.

She straightened and let the water run to ensure a complete rinse. The steam rose off the tiles and the glass began to fog. By degrees she watched a symbol appear at eye level where the oils from an earlier fingertip now denied the steam traction.

A circle with two waves across, and a forward leaning slash intersecting the whole.

A smile flickered across her lips as she ran her fingertips over the mark. She recalled his impish grin the first time she'd asked him about its significance. He'd shrugged and said: 'It's just a cool shape'.

But to Camilla it meant more.

To her it signified the return of the man she had fallen in love with so many years ago. The man that had been lost to her for almost a decade but who had now, by whatever strange twist of fate or science, found his way home.

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