The Paper Dragon (44 page)

"I did."

"You drew the map?"

"Yes, sir."

"Is this the original drawing?"

"Yes, sir."

"What is it a map of?"

"It's a map of Korea, an enlargement of the Ch'ongch'on River area."

"Do you recognize the handwriting on it?"

"Yes, sir. It is my own."

"What do these notes and numbers signify?"

"They purport to be a patrol route and a timetable."

"Was this map used in your novel?"

"Yes, sir. That's the map that was reproduced in the book. It depicts the area between the Ch'ongch'on and the Yalu, and the map was put there for the reader's convenience so that he could follow what was happening, the trap being set for Lieutenant Cooper."

"The path of the patrol is indicated on this map, is it not?"

"It is."

"And the times at which the squad expects to reach certain marked areas on the map?"

"Yes, sir, the checkpoints."

"In other words, the notations on this map indicate goals and expected times of arrival, do they not?"

"They do."

"Similar to the goals and target dates you made for the writing of your book."

"Objection," Brackman said.

"Sustained. Really, Mr. Willow."

"Is this patrol an important incident in your book?"

"It is."

"A climactic incident?"

"It is."

"I offer the map in evidence."

"No objection."

"I'm grateful Mr. Brackman has no objection," McIntyre said, "but I must admit, Mr. Willow, that my own curiosity is somewhat piqued. For what purpose is this map being offered?"

"Again, your Honor, to show the evolutionary development of this novel. To show how it was written and rewritten, to show the research that went into each scene, to show the devotion to detail, the combination of personal knowledge and imagination that resulted in a unique creation which could not conceivably have been plagiarized from any existing work. This scene in particular, your Honor, this patrol, is one that plaintiff claims is based on the escape of his psychopathic officer and the subsequent accidental killing of a sergeant. When we see how carefully this patrol was conceived and detailed, when we recognize how everything in Mr. Driscoll's novel leads to this patrol and to the subsequent sacrifice his lieutenant makes, we can clearly see…"

"But doesn't this map appear in the novel?"

"A reproduction does, yes, your Honor."

"And has not the novel itself already been admitted in evidence?"

"It has, your Honor."

"Then why on earth do we need the original drawing?"

"Only to call attention to the fact that Mr. Driscoll thought the patrol important enough to make his own drawing illustrating it. That is all, your Honor."

"I do feel, Mr. Willow, that it might have been a simpler matter to have shown him the reproduction in an exhibit already admitted, and then asked whether or not he had drawn the original."

"If your Honor please," Brackman said, "I quite agree with you, even though I have been exceedingly reluctant to interrupt Mr. Willow. I remind him again that there was a court order we may be violating here, the one stating that all documents be delivered to us. I assume Mr. Willow is not deliberately sidestepping that order, and that several of these documents which I'm hearing of for the first time today were truly received just before the trial began. Nonetheless, the offer of so many of them is cluttering the record unnecessarily."

"How many more will there be, Mr. Willow?" McIntyre asked.

"I've tried to limit them, your Honor…"

"Yes, but how many more will there be?"

"… to those concerning specific alleged similarities. But we will be brief."

"How many more?"

"Two or three, your Honor."

"I hope so, Mr. Willow. I will admit the map."

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit P in evidence,' " the clerk said.

"Mr. Driscoll, when did you complete the first draft of your novel?"

"In January of 1963."

"Do you remember the exact date?"

"Yes, it was January 26, 1963."

"How do you happen to remember this date?"

"I remember it because I wrote a note to Hollis the next day, just before I delivered the book."

"I show you this and ask if it is the note to which you just now referred."

"It is," Driscoll said.

"I offer it in evidence, your Honor."

"No objection," Brackman said wearily.

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit Q,' " the clerk said.

"What did you do with this note, Mr. Driscoll?"

"I put it in the box containing the completed manuscript, and I delivered the note and the manuscript to Hollis Marks."

"When?"

"That Monday. January 28th."

"May I ask how you happen to recall this date?"

"I marked it on my desk calendar."

"I show you this page torn from a desk calendar for January 1963, and ask if this is the notation to which you just now referred."

"It is."

"I offer the calendar page in evidence, your Honor."

"No objection," Brackman said.

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit R in evidence.' "

"Mr. Driscoll, would you please read the notation to the Court?"

"It just says 'Deliver PD,' that's all. And the date is circled, January 28th."

"Is this your handwriting?"

"It is."

"And by PD, did you mean
The Paper Dragon
?"

"Yes, that's what is was called by that time. That was the new title."

"Mr. Driscoll, when did you receive galley proofs of your book?"

"At the end of May sometime."

"What did you do with them?"

"I corrected them and sent them back to Mitchell-Campbell."

"Did you request a set of corrected galleys from them?"

"I did."

"For what purpose?"

"I wanted my uncle to read the book before it was published."

"Did you subsequently send those corrected galleys to your uncle?"

"I did."

"I show you this and ask you to describe it," Willow said.

"It's the carbon copy of a letter I wrote to my uncle in June of 1963, telling him the galleys were on their way, and asking him for his opinion of the book."

"I offer it in evidence," Willow said.

"Your Honor, I cannot see its relevance."

"If a man has stolen another man's work, your Honor, he does not send galley proofs to his uncle for an opinion. I am merely trying to establish a logical order of events, culminating in the finished product which Mr. Driscoll showed to his uncle, a man he loved and respected, for his approval."

"I will admit the letter," McIntyre said.

"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit S in evidence.' "

"Your Honor," Brackman said, "we had Mr. Willow's promise to watch his P's and Q's, but we have come beyond those and now seem to be up to our S's in documents."

McIntyre burst out laughing. Brackman chuckled quietly, pleased by his own wit. Even Willow and his assistant began laughing. The laughter continued for perhaps a minute. Driscoll, observing the others, did not crack a smile. He noticed that Arthur Constantine, sitting at the plaintiff's table, was not smiling either.

At last Willow said, "There will be no further documents, your Honor."

"I guess that answers your doubts, Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said.

"Yes, and I'm greatly relieved, your Honor."

"Mr. Driscoll," Willow said, still smiling, "when your book was completed and delivered to Mitchell-Campbell, did your agent request a second copy of the manuscript?"

"He did."

"For what purpose?"

"For serial rights submission."

"Do you mean for submission to the magazines?"

"Yes."

"Did you sell first serial rights to the book?"

"Yes, sir."

"Which magazine bought the rights?"

"The
Saturday Evening Post
— and not
McCall's
or
Redbook
, as Mr. Knowles surmised yesterday."

"When did it appear in the
Post
?"

"In September of '63."

"And when was it published as a book?"

"In October of '63."

"Was the book successful?"

"I suppose so."

"Well, would you know how many copies it sold in its hardcover edition?"

"Chester Danton would be able to tell you that more accurately. I believe it was something like fifty or sixty."

"Fifty or sixty?" McIntyre asked.

"Thousand, I mean."

"Fifty or sixty thousand copies of a first novel, your Honor — and the figure may be a shade higher than that — is considered phenomenal. And this was exclusive of the book club edition, was it not, Mr. Driscoll?"

"Yes."

"It
was
a book club selection?"

"Your Honor, what is the purpose of all this?" Brackman asked.

"Mr. Willow?"

"If your Honor please, I wish to demonstrate for Mr. Driscoll only what Mr. Brackman earlier attempted to demonstrate regarding the plaintiff: that he is a man of recognized talents."

"How would this be any more relevant than plaintiff's—"

"If your Honor please, the Court permitted Mr. Con-stantine to go on and on about his screenplays, most of which were obscure and frankly mediocre works. It would seem to me that Mr. Driscoll should in all fairness be permitted to enumerate the very real honors bestowed upon his novel."

"Your Honor, I don't see how playing the numbers game, telling us how many copies were sold and all that, is going to indicate anything about Mr. Driscoll's talents."

"We
did
permit Mr. Constantine, however, to list his credits. All right, I will allow it. Go ahead, Mr. Driscoll."

"May I answer the question?"

"Yes, go on."

"It was a book club section. Book-of-the-Month took it."

"Was a paperback edition sold?" Willow asked.

"Yes, to Camelot Books."

"Would you happen to know how many copies were sold in that edition?"

"We sold a quarter of a million copies in the first eight days of sale."

"And afterwards?"

"It went on to sell something more than two and a half million copies."

"May I say, your Honor, that this constitutes a wildly successful sale in paperback."

"What time is it?" McIntyre asked the clerk.

"Eleven-fifteen, your Honor."

"Let's take a ten-minute recess."

The little Egyptian had obviously dressed for the occasion, and looked considerably more formal than he had on the night of the accident. Uncomfortable and a trifle embarrassed, he informed Sally that his name was Ibrahim Hadad, and then took a cigarette tin from his pocket and nervously opened it. He was wearing a rumpled brown suit and white shirt, a striped brown and yellow tie hanging down the shirt front and tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He wore yellow socks and brown shoes, and his heavy brown overcoat and brown fedora rested on his lap as he fumbled inside the tin, spilling a half dozen cigarettes onto his lap, retrieving them with fingers caked with the grime of his trade, impregnated in every wrinkle and pore. He smiled up at her palely, white teeth appearing in a sickly grin below his long hooked nose, his face the color of dust, the thin smile doing little to add a semblance of cheer to the solemn purpose of his visit. He put one of the cigarettes between his lips and then belatedly offered the tin to Sally, who shook her head.

"Very good cigarettes," he said. "Turkish."

"Thank you, I don't smoke," she said.

Hadad shrugged, closed the tin with a suggestion of finality, adjusted his coat and hat on his lap, put a lighted match to the cigarette tip, shook out the match, exhaled a giant cloud of smoke, and then nervously smiled again at Sally, who tented her fingers and waited for him to resume.

"Criminal assault," he said. "That is what." He shrugged. He puffed again on the cigarette. "When was it, the accident? Monday night?"

"Yes."

"The hospital, everything, I go home to my wife and children, she almost breaks my head for me all over again." He smiled. Sally kept watching him. He had a fascinating way of holding his cigarette between thumb and forefinger, the wrist bent outwards, so that he seemed rather effete as he puffed on it, rather like Peter Lorre playing a spy on the Orient Express, completely unlike a bricklayer.

"Tuesday is okay," he said. "Yesterday all day is okay too," he said, "but last
night
, ah! Six o'clock, yes? I come home from work, and who is waiting there? A detective."

"A police detective?"

"Correct," he said, and gave a small nod of his bullet-shaped head, and then cupped the cigarette in his reversed manner, and took a long obviously satisfying drag on it, and again exhaled a cloud of sweet-smelling smoke. My mother should be here, Sally thought, she would die from the smell alone. What is he smoking, Sally darling — pot? Mother, I'm sure it's not pot, what do you know about pot? I read the
New York Post
, Gertie would reply.

"Is it bothering you, the cigarette?" Hadad asked.

"No," she lied. "What about this detective?"

"It comes around that your friend, the lawyer, he has called
his
friend, the judge. His name is Santesson, the circus judge."

"Circuit," Sally said.

"Correct," Hadad said, and puffed again on his cigarette. "This detective, he comes from the judge's suggestion, he is investigating the
big
accident!" Hadad waved the hand with the cigarette in a grand sweeping gesture, smoke trailing behind it. "Criminal assault, he says."

"Who?"

"
Me
, who else?"

"This detective was investigating a charge of criminal assault against you?"

"Correct."

"Yes, go on."

"A year in prison, he says. Is this true?"

"I'm not sure."

"Or pay five hundred dollars?" Hadad said, looking at her expectantly, as though hoping she would deny it.

"Perhaps," Sally said.

"I can't afford neither," Hadad said, and sighed deeply. He looked at the cigarette in his cupped palm, sighed again when he discovered it had almost burned down, and then took the tin from his inside jacket pocket again and began going through the same complicated and fumbling maneuver of extricating a fresh cigarette from the sliding, tumbling, willful cigarettes in the box, the task made more difficult because he was now holding a lighted cigarette in one trembling hand. Watching him, Sally felt a sudden empathy, as though this shoddy, nervous man in his Sunday clothes accurately reflected the shabbiness of her Fourteenth Street walkup legal firm, sidewalk law at discount prices. He sat before the huge plate-glass window overlooking the street, the goldleaf letters S. KIRSCH, ATTORNEY AT LAW inverted so that they read correctly from the street, and below that the WORD ABOGADO, and in the corner of the window, also backwards so that the street trade could read it and perhaps be tempted by it, NOTARY PUBLIC, and the red seal below that, and further down the word translated into Spanish for the benefit of the myriad Puerto Ricans in the city who" were constantly being asked to have legal documents of all sorts notarized. She sat down behind an old wooden desk which she had bought at one of the secondhand furniture places on 23rd Street, in a revolving chair her mother jokingly said had once belonged to Oliver Wendell Holmes or Sherlock Holmes, she forgot which one, and looked across as Hadad finally extricated a cigarette from the tin and then shakingly began plucking loose cigarettes from his lap as though they were scattered daisy petals, the dark green filing cabinets behind him, the ancient inoperative air conditioner built into one window panel, the sky beyond as gray as death. This is what I have, she thought. I'm thirty-three years old, and I was graduated from N.Y.U. Law in the summer of 1963 (a late bloomer, Gertie called me) and here I am in a shabby office on a shabby street, watching an Arab pluck cigarettes from his lap. Sally Kirsch, Attorney at Law.