The Paper Dragon (57 page)

They are all looking for medals in that courtroom, all except me. I got my medal, and I described my medal, and it took every ounce of strength I had, and there's nothing more inside me, nothing left to say or do. I wanted only to die quietly on that farm I bought in Vermont, so why did you have to come along, Mr. Constantine? Why did you have to start this ridiculous suit, opening all the old wounds again, why did you have to do this, Mr. Constantine?

Oh, sure, I can understand. You want a chestful of medals, right? You want all those millions API made on the film, and you want credit for the book as well because you think the book was the medal when it was really only the catalogue description of the medal. The real medal is pinned right here between my eyes, and I'm sure you wouldn't want that, Mr. Constantine, because it has hurt like hell ever since 1950, can't you see the scars, yes, quite painful when it rains. What'll they do if you win this case? Will they have to tell everybody you really wrote
The Paper Dragon
? Will they pull back all the copies and cross out my name, so sorry, put yours in its place? Is that what they do when someone has made a terrible mistake, oh my goodness, we've credited the wrong man with authorship. We gave the medal to the right man, however, and if
The Paper Dragon
is a fairly accurate description of the events leading up to that singular decoration, how then is it possible that the chronicle was stolen? Strange, passing strange indeed.

Do you know what I managed to do in court today?

Under oath?

I managed to tell the truth, and yet
not
tell the truth.

It was quite simple. I could do it with a completely straight face and hardly any increase in my pulse rate. I wouldn't be surprised if I could beat a lie detector test, I'm getting very expert at telling only partial truth. Maybe I'll suggest to his Honorable McIntyre that they give me a lie detector test and ask me if I wrote
The Paper Dragon
, and I will say, Yes, I wrote it, and then they'll ask me if I stole it from Constantine's play, and I'll say, No, I did not steal it from anybody's play, I stole it from in
here
, and in
here
, that's where I stole it. It's a secret I stole from a dying man who has been suffering from a rare incurable malady since October of 1950, that is who I stole it from, whom.

Then how do you account for
this
, sir, and how do you account for
that
, sir, and how do you account for the
fact
, sir, and
tell
us, sir,
tell
us, and I'll partial-truth that infernal machine until it short circuits itself and goes completely out of business, I can beat any machine in the house.

I've already told you once, I told the
world
once, isn't once enough? You know about my medal, what the hell more do you need? Shall I spell it out for you syllable by painful syllable, go over it one more time for the slow ones, cater to the lip readers, spare me, please. Make what you will of it, it's over and done with, the trial is over, the case is closed. I don't even want credit for the book, give the damn book to Constantine, let him go tell his mother
he
wrote it, I don't care.

The elevator doors opened. They stepped out into the corridor and walked to their room. At the door, she hesitated and put her hand on his arm.

"Dris," she said, "there's still a chance."

"For what? The case is closed. Tomorrow they'll make their set speeches, and that'll be that."

"There's something to save," she whispered.

"What's there to save, Ebie?"

"Us."

"Don't make me laugh."

"You thought so once."

"I never thought so."

"When you were discharged, when you came home, you tried to understand."

"I tried to understand for eleven goddamn years. I never could, Ebie. So forget it. I have."

"You haven't forgotten it, you've only exorcised it."

"That's the same thing."

"No. You can't erase something by writing a book about it."

"I wrote a book about the Army in Korea."

"Dris, if you won't tell them the truth, I will." She looked up at him, and he saw that there were tears in her eyes: "I'll tell them about the 105th," she said.

He did not answer her. He stared at her and tried to fathom whether or not there was substance to her threat, but he did not speak.

"I know," she said. "I know it's not a hundred and five."

He kept staring at her.

"I know it's two numbers, Dris. I know it's a ten and a five, and I know
why
and I'll
tell
them why."

"And kill me twice," he said.

"No. And save you once."

He turned away from her and unlocked the door. He hesitated in the doorway, seemed about to say something, and then went into the room instead.

Ebie followed him in soundlessly.

The day was cold and clear.

A brilliant blue sky swept from horizon to horizon beyond the tall courtroom windows, cloudless, reflecting a cold light that caused tabletops and walls, benches and chairs, even pencils lying in repose to leap toward the eye in startling clarity. Each line of the American flag beside the judge's bench seemed inked with a thick pen, its alternating red and white stripes folded in bold black shadows. Driscoll's trained eye followed each wavering dark line, dipped to the point of the flag hanging low, retraced itself upward through crossing draped and overlapping patterns toward the creased blue field and crumpled white stars. He walked behind Ebie to the empty jury box, sat beside her, glanced at Willow, and then turned toward the plaintiff's table, where his eyes met Constantine's.

For a moment, the men almost nodded to each other, almost acknowledged each other's presence. Constantine seemed ready to lift his hand from the table in a short gesture of greeting, Driscoll seemed about to smile in recognition. And then one or another of them, or perhaps both by mutual, silent, and simultaneous consent, snapped the slender thread that hung invisibly in the air between them, severed all communication, and turned once more to the business at hand.

"All rise!" the clerk called, and McIntyre swept from his chambers, took his seat behind the bench, and signaled for everyone to sit. He was carrying with him the documents submitted to him earlier that morning by both plaintiff and defendants, in which they hoped to show findings of fact and conclusions of law to support their respective cases. He had gone through these briefly in his chambers, and he spread them on the bench top now and looked out over the courtroom, locating Willow and asking, "Are you ready with your argument, Mr. Willow?"

"If your Honor please," Willow said.

"You may proceed."

Willow rose from behind the defense table, a tall and impressive figure in a dignified blue suit, holding his prepared text in his left hand, putting on his glasses as he approached the bench. He glanced at the text for just a moment, and then lowered it, as though he had already committed it to memory and would not have to refer to it again during the course of his summation. He looked committed. The plaintiff has alleged that James Driscoll could barely hear him from the jury box, said, "If your Honor please, the matter before us these past several days concerns itself solely with whether or not a theft has been commited. The plaintiff has alleged that James Driscoll freely copied from the play
Catchpole
when he was writing his novel
The Paper Dragon
. But the plaintiff has testified that he has no proof, his allegations to the contrary, that Driscoll actually possessed the manuscript or even that he saw the play before writing his book. The entire case, therefore, rests on the alleged similarities between the two works. Now, I know your Honor is familiar with and has certainly studied the record of other cases where plagiarism was claimed. I know, too, that your Honor is aware of the great number of similarities brought before the courts in those other cases, a hundred similarities, two hundred, and in one case something more than four hundred supposed similarities. In most of those cases, however, despite the overwhelming weight of similarities, the courts found
against
a claim of plagiarism. I mention this, your Honor, because the plaintiff's case before us rests on only a very slender body of supposed similarities, all of which are insignificant.

"I do not intend to ask the Court's indulgence while I go over each and every one of these supposedly matching points, your Honor. The plaintiff has put a necessary stress upon them because, lacking any other proof, they are his sole hope of showing theft. But, your Honor, I think we have neglected the fact that most of these similarities — even if they
were
copied — would not form the basis for a plagiarism suit. They are not even copy
right
able, your Honor. An idea is not copyrightable. A theme is not copyrightable. A plot is not copyrightable. Nor is a character copyrightable. The only thing an author may hope to copyright in his manner of expression. Judge Learned Hand has made this abundantly clear in the prevailing cases in this jurisdiction.
Only
the manner of expression can be copyrighted, and
nothing else
.

"Well, your Honor, you have read both play and novel, and you have seen the motion picture — which does not concern us at the moment, but which I believe, by the way, was written and filmed using only the book and related research as sources, and without reference to the play. You have also gone over the charts submitted by the plaintiff, and you have studied the trial transcript and I'm sure you have noted that any of these so-called similarities are due to the fact that both men were dealing with the same subject matter and the same background — the United States Army in time of combat. It would be impossible, your Honor, to present this topic without having similar conflicts springing from the very situation both writers independently chose. One cannot describe a seascape without mentioning the shore or the waves or the sky beyond, and the fact that two authors write of green waves or white foam or wet sand does not indicate one author copied from the other. Such similarities are inevitable.

"The astonishing thing about the plaintiff's claim, of course, is that there is a paucity of even these
non
copyrightable similarities. I can only attribute this to the playwright's poverty of wit, language, insight, and imagination. Your Honor knows that
Catchpole
was badly received by the critics in 1947, and I believe I intimated that the reviews were really devastating that the play was all but laughed off the stage. The only remarkable thing about this play, in fact, is that it was produced at
all
, and that it managed to sell tickets even for twelve days. I would like to say, incidentally, that Mr. Constantine's testimony concerning the distribution of
free
tickets to Pratt Institute is one area where I can be critical of Mr. Brackman."

"Where does this testimony appear in the record?" McIntyre asked.

"It's in Mr. Constantine's direct, your Honor. I'll find it for you."

Willow walked back to the defense table and leafed through the transcript. Turning toward the bench, he said, "It's on page 11, your Honor." He picked up the bulky transcript and carried it to the bench with him. "He says, 'Yes, sir. There were a series of previews held while we were still rehearsing the play in a loft on Second Avenue.' And when asked which colleges received tickets to these previews, he says, 'C.C.N.Y., Hunter, Brooklyn College, L.I.U., Pratt Institute, and several others.'

"As your Honor knows, the plaintiff was examined at great length before trial by both Mr. Genitori and myself. Never once, your Honor, not once during all those pretrial examinations did he mention preview performances,
or
free tickets,
or
Pratt Institute. And yet, suddenly, we are presented with this startling testimony. And
why
was Pratt Institute so singled out? The answer is simple, your Honor. On the biographical questionnaire Mr. Driscoll sent to Mitchell-Campbell Books, and which was submitted to Mr. Brackman only
after
the pretrial examinations, he mentions that he was a student at Pratt Institute in 1947. So all at once Mr. Constantine remembers that free tickets were distributed to a number of colleges, including Pratt, thereby hoping to establish that Mr. Driscoll at least
could
have seen a performance of the play. I'm surprised, your Honor, I really am surprised that Mr. Brackman permitted his client to testify in such a manner. I'm sure Mr. Brackman did not create this testimony himself, but it was clearly an afterthought and might have been considered more circumspectly by him.

"In the long run, of course, it would not have mattered if a bushel of free tickets went to Pratt, because the play in rehearsal was performed without scenery and would not have afforded Mr. Driscoll the opportunity to see the magic number 105, upon which the plaintiff places such enormous stress — the fingerprints of the thief, Mr. Brackman has repeatedly said. Well, your Honor, we have Mr. Driscoll's testimony that he does not know where the number came from, and that is about as honest an answer as any man can give. He simply does not know. He has also testified that he did not see a performance of that play in 1947 when he was an art student and not at all interested in writing, and he has testified that he did not see a copy of the manuscripts until I gave him one several weeks ago. Moreover, the only man who worked with him in an editorial capacity on that book, Mr. Chester Danton, testified that he was abroad in 1947 when the play was produced.

"In his findings of fact, of course, Mr. Brackman emphasizes that there is no claim against Mr. Danton's contributions to the novel. If your Honor please, one of the specific similarities claimed, one of the specific similarities
stressed
by Mr. Constantine in his direct testimony, was the incident of a sniper killing an American soldier. This was supposedly one of the most amazing similarities between the play and the novel. I could understand Mr. Brackman's consternation at discovering the sniper was Mr.
Danton's
idea, a suggestion
he
transmitted to Mr. Driscoll, and
not
Mr. Driscoll's invention at all. I can understand why Mr. Brackman asked during his cross whether Mr. Danton had been trying to mislead him. I can understand all this, your Honor, but the fact remains that the sniper did not appear in the novel as originally submitted to Mitchell-Campbell Books.

"Let us examine that novel for a moment, if we may. I personally, your Honor, have always been fascinated by the creative process, the way in which a writer, a painter, or a composer goes about producing his work. When we strip it of the mystique surrounding it, when we pause to look upon the artist as a man rather than a vague symbol, when we accept the fact that there are no muses involved in honest creation, we must then also see, your Honor, that the true professional is as systematic as an engineer. Richard Strauss, for example, filled dozens of filing cabinets with outlines and ideas, developments of themes, partial scores, all recorded in a unique and personal manner. In much the same way, James Driscoll has provided us with a unique and personal record of the development of his novel, from inception to completion. We have seen his rough outlines and his detailed outlines, we have seen his schedules and his progress reports, his letters to his editor and his agent, as well as reminders to himself, questions he asked, answers he received. We have learned that he would not even write about an operation he had performed a great many times — the disassembly of a rifle — until he had first painstakingly checked on the exact technical language. We have learned that he would not write about the Chinese armies in Korea before learning which of them were in the battle area and in what strength. We have seen the care with which he drew his own map of the patrol route his fictitious squad took into enemy territory. As we go through all this material, your Honor, it becomes crystal clear that here is a man creating his own work, relying upon his own knowledge and background, and supplementing this with meticulous research. This is not the work of a copyist, a plagiarist, a thief. There is no question here, your Honor, but that James Driscoll created
The Paper Dragon
alone, independently, and without reference to any existing work of fiction. In fact, your Honor, I think that even a casual reading of both works clearly indicates that one was not copied from the other.

"Why, then, did I spend so much time during the course of this trial discussing these alleged similarities, some of which the plaintiff himself has labeled 'flimsy and absurd,' when a mere reading shows that there was no plagiarism? Why did I dignify each of these separate charges by examining them with such scrutiny? Why did I amass proof to show Mr. Driscoll's creative process? I would like to explain, your Honor, lest these so-called similarities seem to take on a significance they do not truly possess.

"There are large sums of money involved here, your Honor. We can suppose without a detailed accounting that the motion picture grossed upwards of ten million dollars, and we have heard testimony to the effect that the novel in its paperback edition alone sold more than two and a half million copies. And whereas it was not mentioned during the trial, I know that the book went into eleven foreign editions, each of which sold extraordinarily well because of the impetus provided by the film. So there is unquestionably a great deal of money involved. But there is more than money, and it is this further consideration that prompted my detailed probing of the similarities, your Honor. I speak now of the reputation of an extremely talented, diligent, and earnest writer, James Driscoll."

He turned to look at the jury box, and Driscoll read his face and his eyes, read them swiftly and in the brief instant it took Willow to glance at him and then turn back toward the judge. But he knew in that single sharp exchange that Willow did not believe a word of what he had just said. The knowledge startled him. He glanced at Ebie and saw that she was sitting with her hands clasped tightly over the pocketbook in her lap, her eyes intent on Willow.

"Now, your Honor, I could easily stress the legal argument, I could easily repeat that even if Mr. Driscoll
had
taken this material he is alleged to have copied, why none of it is copyrightable, the only thing a man may copyright is his manner of expression. And were I to stress the legal argument, and were I to win on that point alone, this would undoubtedly be a victory for Mitchell-Campbell and for Camelot Books, but what about this man James Driscoll? What about this man whose career lies ahead of him, who has written a brilliant first novel, this man who, in Chester Danton's words, 'will go on writing many more excellent books'? What about James Driscoll? Your Honor, we have been asked to believe, for example, that the use of the word 'Loot' when addressing a lieutenant in the United States Army is indicative of copying by this man, James Driscoll. Well, your Honor, I think that this sort of specious reasoning is indicative only of the groundless claim we have before us. We have cited, in our brief, one of Judge Hand's opinions in which he describes an obsessive sort of paranoia that attacks some authors, and I think we have exactly that syndrome here.
Catchpole
was a totally unsuccessful play on a theme which was later successfully explored by James Driscoll in
The Paper Dragon
. It is not difficult to understand how Mr. Constantine, unable to accept the failure of his work, attributed the success of Mr. Driscoll's work to copying. We have this throughout, your Honor. We have Mr. Constantine testifying, for example, that the use of obscenity is common in the armed forces, and then insisting nonetheless that the soldier in his play is a unique creation who must have been stolen by Mr. Driscoll. My friend Mr. Brackman looks troubled, so if your Honor wishes, I'll find the exact place in the transcript… "