The Paper Dragon (20 page)

"That's right. And they do."

"The language you referred to in your play was, and I quote, 'How about lengthening that to Lieutenant Mason?' to which Corporal Janus replies, 'Isn't that what I said,
Loot
?' You indicated in your testimony yesterday that the word 'Loot' was stressed, isn't that so?"

"That's absolutely correct."

"Now would you please show me the page in your play where those lines appear."

"They're in the second act," Arthur said.

"Please find the page."

Arthur was angry, and worried, and not a little confused, and very disappointed in Brackman who, he felt, had apologized again rather than objecting, and who had completely missed the point of what was happening, missed the trap that Arthur was sure Willow had baited and somehow sprung, though he still did not know what the trap was. That was supposed to be
Brackman's
job, god-damnit, to see a closing trap and to prevent its jaws from clamping down, what the hell kind of a lawyer
was
he? Angrily, he flipped through the pages, and then suddenly stopped.

"Have you found it?" Willow asked.

"It wouldn't be in this version," Arthur said.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Those two lines were not in the original mimeographed version of the play."

"Am I to understand that there is yet
another
version of
Catchpole
?"

"Not another
version
, actually. But certain line changes were made in rehearsal and appeared in the play as it was produced. These would not be in any of the original mimeographed copies."

"In what copy
can
these line changes be found?"

"I imagine in the actors' scripts, or the stage manager's. The ones that were used during the actual rehearsal of the play."

"Do you
have
any of these copies, Mr. Constantine?"

"No, I haven't."

"Does
anyone
?"

"Not to my knowledge. The members of the company may have retained them, I wouldn't know about that. This was almost twenty years ago."

"In other words, these two lines to which you refer are not to be found in the copy of the play now before this Court."

"That's correct. But the lines
were
spoken on the stage."

"And you heard them spoken?"

"I did. At every performance."

"Am I to understand, then, Mr. Constantine, that with respect to these two lines — which you claim have their counterpart in the book titled
The Paper Dragon
and also the film of the same name — with respect to these particular lines, unless James Driscoll actually saw a
rehearsal
script of the play, he could not possibly possess any knowledge of these lines, is that correct?"

"No. He could have seen the play in performance."

"We have got down to the point, have we not, where in order to show access, we must also show that Mr. Driscoll saw the play during its twelve-day Broadway run. Otherwise he would not have known of these lines inserted during rehearsal, nor would he have known of the division insignia bearing the number 105. Isn't that correct?"

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "I would like to remind Mr. Willow that it is not our burden to prove that James Driscoll actually
attended
a performance of the play, no more than it is the burden of a plaintiff to prove, for example, that a defendant actually
read
a novel he is said to have plagiarized. It is sufficient to show that the opportunity for copying existed. The play
Catchpole
was there to be seen in New York City, and I think we are very very safe in assuming James Driscoll was
also
here in New York City at the time and perfectly capable of visiting the Fulton Theatre to take a look at the play. I would not like Mr. Willow to lead us into believing it is our burden to supply witnesses who actually
saw
James Driscoll entering the theater and taking notes on the play."

"I believe Mr. Willow is sufficiently aware of the meaning of access," McIntyre said. "Please go on, Mr. Willow."

"I have no further questions," Willow said.

"Thank you," McIntyre said. "Mr. Genitori, I know you would like to begin your cross, but I see it's ten minutes to twelve, and I think we had better take a recess for lunch."

"Certainly," Genitori said.

"This Court is recessed until two p.m.," the clerk said.

The snow on the ground before the federal courthouse seemed an extension of the white steps themselves, blanketing sidewalk and street, blurring the denning lines of the five concrete islands that formed Foley Square. The largest of these islands was directly opposite the courthouse, across a narrow stretch of pavement that seemed more like an expanded footpath. Duane Street on the left of the courthouse, and Pearl Street on its right bracketed the building and pierced the square which was not a square, Duane continuing west toward Broadway, Pearl abruptly ending against a long green fence behind which construction was in progress, the fence surrounding a barren lot where pile drivers, tractors, and trucks were inactive during the lunch hour. The benches on the island opposite the courthouse were lightly dusted with snow, as were the green shrubs backing them. The steps leading down to the BMT subway were similarly covered with snow, and a man coming up from underground looked skyward as though surprised to find it was still snowing, and then hesitated at the top of the steps to adjust his muffler and to put on his gloves. The area from Reade Street north was dismally gray except for the bright orange sign of the Nedick's on the corner of Duane. There was another touch of color looking south, where a tall building on Centre Street rose out of the swirling snow, its red brick and green trim lending a festive look to the area.

There were two good restaurants on Duane near Broadway, both of which were habitually frequented by the men whose business was the law — Gasner's, and slightly further west, Calate's. In addition, there were dozens of small coffee shops and cafeterias, delicatessens and hamburger joints, a Schrafft's on Park Place, and a Long-champs on Murray Street across from the statue of Nathan Hale. The restaurant Sidney chose was on Reade Street, closer to the courthouse but not as popular as Gasner's. Mother Sauce's featured an authentic Jewish cuisine and a proprietress named Martha Schwartz, who had earned her nickname, or so the legend went, the afternoon she drank three off-duty detectives from the D.A.'s office clear under the table and almost through the floor. Sidney could not vouch for the authenticity of the legend but he recounted it nonetheless to Arthur as they entered the place and waited for Mother Sauce to seat them.

She was a woman in her late sixties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, wearing a white apron over a severe black dress, and moving around her small crowded restaurant with uncanny speed. The place had been designed with total architectural disregard, its low ceiling supported by a myriad of wood-paneled columns and partitions, tables and booths shoved into niches and nooks or built around posts and into crannies and cul-de-sacs, jutting from behind paneled walls, angled against sealed doors, nestled against windows. In the midst of this monumental disorder, Mother Sauce moved swiftly from table to table, around column and post, into paneled alley and byway, along a labyrinthine route to the kitchen, haranguing and harassing her waiters, circuitously back to the cash register, carrying a menu to a hidden booth, rushing toward the paneled bar, coming again to the door, where she greeted Sidney by name, beaming a smile, and then leading them to a booth at the rear of the restaurant, partitioned on each side to conceal the booths flanking it. Sidney excused himself at once — "A courtroom is bad on a man's kidneys," he explained — and left Arthur alone at the table. A waiter appeared immediately and took his order for a Dewar's on the rocks. Mother Sauce handed him a menu and then hurried away. The booth was small and cozy, upholstered in rich green leather like the table-tops in the courtroom. A pair of small shaded lamps hung on the wall over the booth. The tablecloth was spotlessly white, and the drink when it came was more than generous. Arthur felt himself relaxing for the first time that day. Grateful for Sidney's absence, he studied the menu in silence and with increasing appetite, only vaguely aware at first of the voices coming from behind the paneled partition on his left.

"… in command of the situation, I would say," a man's voice said.

"Are we?" a woman asked.

"Yes, I would say so."

Arthur glanced at the partition, and then studied the menu again. He was ravenously hungry, and everything looked good, the consommé with noodles and matzoh balls, the borscht.

"I don't think we have anything to worry about," another man's voice said. "We're not going to let them get away with anything."

"Except maybe Dris's reputation," the woman said.

"No, not that either," the first man answered, and Arthur suddenly recognized the voice as belonging to Jonah Willow.

"We won't let them get his reputation, either, don't worry," the other man said. "Only a miracle could convince McIntyre there was any plagiarism here."

"That's right," Willow agreed. "In fact, this case should never have come to trial."

"Then why did it?" the woman asked. She had been speaking with a Southern inflection that suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a voice honed razor-sharp.

"An offer to settle would have been an admission of guilt," Willow said.

"Even a token settlement?" the woman asked.

"
Any
settlement. Besides, these people aren't looking for tokens. They've asked for damages and an accounting of profits."

"Will they get it?"

"I've never met a Harvard lawyer I couldn't beat," Willow said.

"I'm a Harvard lawyer," the other man said.

"Yes, but unfortunately you're on my side."

Arthur started to rise. He knew for certain now that one of the men in the adjacent booth was Jonah Willow, and he was fairly confident that the other man was his assistant. In which case, the woman was undoubtedly Mrs. James Driscoll, and Arthur had no right sitting there listening to them talk about the trial. As he rose he wondered whether Driscoll himself was at the table, maintaining a discreet silence, and he suddenly wanted to hear whatever Driscoll might say. Abruptly, he sat, telling himself again that he really should leave, he really should move out of the booth and away from this conversation, but remaining where he was, fascinated, compelled to listen, and actively hoping they would reveal a piece of information that would prove helpful to his case.

"What if they win?" the woman asked. She had to be Driscoll's wife, she couldn't be anyone else. Her Southern inflection had returned, her tone was again calm and reasonable, her voice softly resonant.

"They won't," Willow said.

"But if they do."

"We appeal."

"And if we lose the appeal?"

"We pay the two dollars."

"Yes, and then API and Mitchell-Campbell will turn right around and sue my husband for their losses. Isn't that so, Mr. Willow?"

"Your husband made certain warranties and indemnities in the contracts he signed, Mrs. Driscoll. One of those was that the work was entirely original with him and did not infringe on the rights of any other individual. If we lose this case, yes, API and Mitchell-Campbell would have the right to counterclaim over and4o recover against him, yes."

"Whom would you represent in such a case, Mr. Willow?"

"I'm not sure I understand you."

"My husband? Or Mitchell-Campbell Books?"

"Such a case is an impossibility," the other man said. "We're going to win this suit, Mrs. Driscoll."

"I'm only asking Mr. Willow
suppose
. Whom would you represent, Mr. Willow?"

"I would have to represent Mitchell-Campbell," Willow said. "My firm works for them on a retainer basis."

"And would you then claim, for Mitchell-Campbell, that my husband did indeed steal Mr. Constantine's play?"

"If this court decides…"

"Would you?"

"Mrs. Driscoll, if this court decides against us, we would most certainly appeal to a higher court."

"You're evading my question, Mr. Willow."

"I think I've got
another
Harvard lawyer on my hands," Willow said, and laughed.

"What I want to know, Mr. Willow, is whether you really believe my husband is an honest man."

There was a slight hesitation.

"Yes," Willow said. "I do."

"You don't think he stole that play?"

"I do not," Willow said. "Do
you
?"

"What?"

"Do
you
think he stole it?"

There was another hesitation. Then Mrs. Driscoll said, "Of course he didn't steal it."

"Then we have no problem," Willow said.

Arthur rose suddenly and left the booth, his back to the partitioning wall, his heart pounding. He should not have eavesdropped, he should.have warned them, he should have said Stop, I don't want to hear this, his father and mother in the room next to his, the wind outside and the sound of an occasional automobile in the street below, his father whispering in Italian, whispering, don't let me hear, he thought, don't you know Julie's in the room with you? I do not want to hear. Blankly, he moved away from the booth and into the restaurant, circling the columns, moving between the tables, trapped in a forest of furniture and glistening white tablecloths, the hum of conversation, the brittle sound of laughter and the clink of silverware, where should he go, should he find Mother Sauce and ask her to change their table, where was Sidney, where the hell was the men's room, where behind these columns and walls had Mother Sauce hidden the men's room? He saw the telephone booth and hurried toward it, entering it and swiftly closing the door behind him, hiding, I should not have listened. He dried the palms of his hands on his trousers. His face was flushed and he felt feverish and weak. He sat silently expectant, certain that the phone would ring and expose his hiding place. He caught his breath and looked at the dial. Selig, he thought. He dried his palms again, and searched for a dime, and then he dialed Selig's office number slowly and carefully. Selig answered on the fourth ring.

"Did you reach Mitzi?" Arthur asked. His heart was still pounding. He looked through the glass door of the booth furtively, fearful he would be discovered by Willow, exposed by Willow who would reconstruct the eavesdropping and berate him for it, scold him the way McIntyre had yesterday, make him feel foolish and guilty and afraid.

"Not only did I reach Mitzi," Selig said, "but I also asked her to ask Hester to call me at the office, which Hester did not ten minutes ago. I've been on the phone with her all this time."

"What did she say?"

"She likes the play."

"Good, will she—"

"But she has some questions about it."

"About the play?"

"Well, about the character."

"About Carol?"

"Yes, that's the part we want her to play, isn't it?"

"Yes, of course."

"Well, that's the part she's got questions about."

"What kind of questions?"

"I don't know, she wants to talk to you," Selig said. "She won't talk to anyone but you."

"When?"

"Tonight?"

"Where?"

"It'll have to be late, Arthur. She has a perform…"

"I don't care how late…"

"… ance at Lincoln Center, you know. She probably won't be free until eleven-thirty or thereabouts."

"Fine. What shall I do, pick her up at the theater?"

"No, she said she'd rather meet…"

"Where?"

"The Brasserie. She doesn't eat until after performance, so she can grab a bite there, if that's all right with you."

"That's fine."

"Eleven-thirty at the Brasserie."

"Right," Arthur said.

"You know what she looks like, don't you?"

"Yes." Arthur paused. "She didn't tell you what's bothering her, huh?"

"She didn't say anything was bothering her, Arthur. She said it was a charming play, and she loved the character, she loved the girl Carol, but before she did anything or said anything or instructed her agent to do anything, there were some things in the character she wanted to clarify, so that she would understand the character more fully and be able to approach it more intelligently."

"Did she say that? That she wanted to approach it more intelligently?"

"I'm repeating word for word what she told me, Arthur."

"Well, that sounds pretty encouraging, doesn't it to you?"

"Actresses are strange people," Selig said.

"Granted, but—"

"She may simply want to have an intelligent approach for the next time she
reads
it, Arthur. It could mean nothing more than that."

"Still, she wouldn't—"

"She's a very talented and high-strung girl who is afraid of her own shadow because she's so lovely, and talented, and insecure," Selig said. "She likes the play, she likes the part, but she's afraid to make a move from Lincoln Center where she's got only a little role in a Restoration comedy, but at least she's got respect and she's working steady and she doesn't have to rely on her own judgment, God forbid your play should be a flop. So she says she wants to talk to you about the character. What she really wants, Arthur, is for you to convince her she'll be doing the right thing by kissing off Lincoln Center and taking a chance on an unknown quantity. That's what this is all about."

"Okay," Arthur said.

"So explain the character to her."

"I will."

"You're a good talker."

"I'm not so sure about that."

"How's the trial going?"

"Okay."

"Call me tonight no matter how late it is," Selig said. "I want to know what she says."

"All right, I will. The Brasserie at eleven-thirty, right?"

"Right. Good luck, Arthur."

"Thank you," Arthur said, and hung up.

He sat in the booth for several moments, silent. Then he opened the door and looked for Mother Sauce. When he found her, he said, "I wonder if you could change our table."

"Something's wrong?" she asked.

"No, but I think Mr. Brackman and I would prefer another table."

"You're in litigation?"

"Yes."

"I understand," she said knowingly, and led him swiftly to the other side of the room.

European posters covered the walls of the small travel agency, brightly printed in yellows and whites and tans and greens, blatantly selling sunshine and sand while outside the plate-glass window the snow continued to fall. From where Chickie sat behind one of the two desks in the office, she could look out at street level onto Madison Avenue where lunch-hour pedestrians were battling the strong wind and wildly swirling flakes. She shivered involuntarily and looked up at the wall clock. It was ten minutes to one, and Ruth was not due back until the hour, but Chickie was very hungry and hoped the snow would drive her back sooner. She sat with her legs crossed, her skirt above the knee, amused whenever a male passerby stopped to peer through the front window of the agency, and then embarrassed and flushed if the scrutiny persisted, wanting to giggle.