The Paper Dragon (6 page)

So here stands the poor skinny slum kid (not so poor, not so skinny, never having come from a slum anyway because it sure as hell wasn't a slum to me, it was the happiest place I've ever known in my life) standing alone in an Anglo-Saxon world being represented by a Jew (Where else but in America can a wop, etc.) and going up against a man named Jonah Willow, who sounds like a Eurasian philosopher, and I'm scared. I'm scared not because there were rats in Harlem, I'm scared not because there were pushers lurking on every street corner, I'm scared not because teenage hoods came at me with tire chains and switch blades, I'm scared because I'm alone.

"I'm scared because I've been making it alone ever since I was eighteen and got drafted into the United States Army, I'm scared and I'm tired, and I would like to rest.

He took a last drag on his cigarette, searched for an ash tray in the corridor, and found four of them fastened to the wall. He glanced over his shoulder to see if Willow and his assistant were coming back — the
hell
with them, let them be late — and then walked swiftly toward the courtroom. He pulled open one of the bronze-flowered doors and immediately saw Brackman and his partner at one of the long tables, Genitori and his assistant at the other. He saw Driscoll and his wife sitting in the empty jury box, just as before. He saw the court clerk hovering near the door to the judge's chamber, waiting to call, "All rise!" No one seemed to realize that beyond that paneled door the judge might be reading his newspaper or blowing his nose or laughing on the telephone or tying his shoelaces — or perhaps pondering the decision that would mean the difference between a sweet, staggering success and… what?

What you have now, Arthur thought.

Exactly what you have now.

Unnoticed, he took his seat at the plaintiff's table, and waited for the trial to resume.

"Mr. Constantine, would you please continue where you left off before the recess?" Brackman said.

"I was just about to begin with specific character similarities," Arthur said. "I was going to start with the character of Lieutenant Roger Mason in my play
Catchpole
and the character called Alex Cooper in
The Paper Dragon
. There are similarities there that go beyond the realm of coincidence, and I'd like to enumerate them."

"Please do."

"To begin with, the hero of my play is twenty-one years old, and fresh out of college. He goes into the Army as a private, is sent to O.C.S., and is shipped to the Pacific to fight the enemy. The man who played him on the New York stage was at least six feet tall, and he had dark hair and blue eyes — did I say he was a second lieutenant?"

"Your Honor, could the clerk—"

"Yes, certainly."

"Witness has referred to him only as 'a new lieutenant,' " the clerk said.

"Would you like to amend that in some way?" McIntyre asked.

"Yes, your Honor, if I may. I'd like to say that he was a
second
lieutenant. That's very important. Especially since the hero of
The Paper Dragon
is a second lieutenant, too. He is described in the book, in fact, as being twenty-one years old, fresh out of Pratt Institute, and drafted into the Army. He goes to O.C.S. and then is shipped off to the Pacific to fight the enemy. The enemy is a different one this time, admittedly, and the setting is Korea, not Eniwetok — but the similarity stands. In addition, the hero of the book is described as being six feet tall, and having dark hair and blue eyes. Physically, these two different men in two so-called separate works look exactly alike. You could almost say they were twins.

"Now the second similarity of character is the fact that there is a nurse in my play, and also a nurse in the book. In my play she is called Diane Foster, and in the book she is called Jan Reardon. Both girls are blond, both are young, both are from New York City. In fairness, I must say that the girl in the book is
not
a native New Yorker, whereas the girl in my play is. But in both the play and the book, there's a romantic attachment formed between the hero and the nurse."

"You're getting into plot again, aren't you?" Brackman asked.

"Only as it illuminates character."

"Go on, please."

"There is in my play a sergeant who is a member of a minority group, his name is Sergeant D'Agostino and he is an Italian. In the book there is also a sergeant who is a member of a minority group. His name is Sergeant Morley, and he is a Negro. Both these men play important parts in plot development, as I explained earlier."

"Yes, let's just stick to character similarities right now."

"There is a man killed in my play, right at the outset. His name is Private Hapsberg. There is also a man killed in
The Paper Dragon
, even before the hero arrives on the scene.
His
name is Major Randolph. I don't think the rank makes much difference, it's the idea of a sniper killing each of these men that—"

"Your Honor," Willow said, "it would appear to me that we are simply going over ground already covered. Unless this testimony regarding character similarities can demonstrably add to what we earlier heard, I must object to the witness continuing along these lines."

"It would seem, Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said, "that there
is
an overlap here."

"May I explain, your Honor?" Arthur asked.

"Yes, please."

"In developing a work of fiction," Arthur said, "the interplay between plot and character—"

"Your Honor," Willow said, "I do not believe this Court is interested in fiction techniques. We are here to determine whether or not an act of plagiarism took place. It is hardly to the point—"

"Please let him finish, Mr. Willow," McIntyre said.

"I was going to say," Arthur said, with a sharp glance at Willow, *"that character and plot are inseparable in a good work of fiction. Character determines plot, and in turn plot shapes character. In other words, it would be practically impossible to discuss either without referring to the other."

"Yes, I understand that," McIntyre said. "But it
would
seem that the character similarities you are now listing were adequately covered when you testified about plot. In that respect, I would agree with Mr. Willow."

"This is merely an amplification, your Honor," Brackman said.

"Well, I will allow the witness to continue," McIntyre said, "but I think we would all appreciate the elimination of material already covered."

"This is simply backing and filling, your Honor," Willow said.

"Whatever it may be, Mr. Willow, the witness may continue — with the reservation I have already mentioned."

"Well," Arthur said, and hesitated. "I'm not sure I understand, but…"

"We would like you to continue with character similarities," McIntyre said, "but we ask you to limit—"

"I understand
that
," Arthur said, "but it seems to me…"

"Yes?"

"I don't know if I'm allowed to say this," Arthur said, and looked at Brackman.

"Allowed to say what, Mr. Constantine?" McIntyre asked.

"Well, it seems to me that the only opportunity I'll get to present my case…"

"The Court has asked you to continue with your testimony," Brackman said, a note of warning in his voice. "If you have a question concerning—"

"I will hear the witness," McIntyre said.

"No, nothing," Arthur said, and shook his head.

"We're not trying to give you a fast shuffle here, if that's what you think," McIntyre said, and Arthur turned to look at him, and saw him as a person for the first time. He was close to fifty years of age, Arthur supposed, partially bald, with mild blue eyes and a pink face. He was frowning now, and his hands, delicate and small, were folded on the bench before him as he looked down at Arthur and waited for an answer.

"I didn't mean to imply that, your Honor," Arthur said.

"We have, I believe, allowed you every opportunity thus far to present your case fairly and adequately. I assure you that we have already studied the play and the novel and that we saw a screening of the film on Friday. We have read the pretrial examination transcripts, and we have carefully studied the charts prepared by you and your counsel. You will remember that we yielded to your counsel's request to have you elaborate on these similarities in your own words, despite defendants' objection. We are now asking, in the hope of saving time, only that you limit your testimony to similarities not already covered by your previous testimony. We believe this is a reasonable request, Mr. Constantine."

"Yes, it's reasonable," Arthur said.

"Very well, then."

"But…"

"Mr. Constantine," Brackman said sharply, "are you ready to continue?"

"Is something still troubling you?" McIntyre asked.

"Yes, your Honor."

"Then please say what's on your mind."

"Your Honor, this case is very important to me."

"I realize that. I'm sure it's equally important to Mr. Driscoll."

"I'm sure it is, sir, but… well, Mr. Driscoll doesn't happen to be on the stand right now, and I am."

"Your Honor," Willow said, "I must object to the witness engaging this Court in argument. We are trying—"

"I will hear the witness," McIntyre said flatly. "Go on, Mr. Constantine."

"Your Honor, tomorrow morning Mr. Willow will begin his cross-examination and
that
, I'm afraid, is
that
. If there's anything I left out or forgot today, it'll be just too bad. I know the charts are a help, but…"

"
That
, I'm afraid, is
not
that," McIntyre said, "nor will it be just too bad, either. Your attorney will have ample opportunity to conduct a redirect. I'm sorry, Mr. Constantine, but I must now agree with Mr. Willow. This is a court of law and not a first semester course on evidence or tactics. You will please continue with your testimony, and you will limit it to similarities not previously covered."

"I apologize for the witness, your Honor," Brackman said. "Please continue, Mr. Constantine."

"Yes, sir," Arthur said, and swallowed. He was embarrassed and angry. Alone on the witness chair, feeling abandoned even by his own lawyer, he searched in his mind for character similarities, every eye in the room upon him, foolish and stupid, struck dumb by the judge's reprimand, his anger building, eyes smarting, hands trembling in his lap.

"If the witness would care to examine the charts to refresh his memory. " Willow said.

"I don't need the charts, thank you," Arthur snapped, and looked at Willow in anger, and then at Brackman in anger, and then glanced up at the judge in anger, the son of a bitch, shutting him up that way, humiliating him, Brackman allowing the humiliation and adding to the indignity by apologizing. The anger and embarrassment were identical to what he had felt the night the critics killed his play, those rotten egotistical bastards sitting in exalted judgment on something about which they possessed no real knowledge. How could McIntyre or Willow or even Brackman hope to understand the intricacies of a work of fiction? Oh yes, they would nod their heads in accord as they had this morning. Willow and McIntyre, two legal masterminds agreeing that an author's intent had no place in a court of law, no place in the judgment of a plagiarism suit, casually eliminating the inexplicable beginning of creation, snuffing out the spark of
idea
, eliminating conscious direction from the work — "I maintain, your Honor, that any similarities must be solely between the works in question."

"I would agree to that."

"And that therefore the author's
intent
is irrelevant." Oh yes, irrelevant, and why hadn't Brackman objected, or had he secretly agreed with his colleagues? Perhaps he had only wanted to apologize at that point, perhaps that was it, apologize for Arthur ever having conceived and written
Catchpole
at all. How could one possibly hope to explain anything to them if they had already ruled out intent, already decided that only words were on trial here, words and nothing more? Never mind the act itself, the intent or its realization, hadn't he been a little bit insane when he created the psychopathic colonel, hadn't he hated with Janus and suffered with the lieutenant, loved the nurse and died with D'Agostino, never mind, never mind, it is all cut and dried. There are only one hundred and twenty mimeographed pages of a play called
Catchpole
, there are only four hundred and twelve pages of a pirated novel called
The Paper Dragon
, there is only an hour and fifty minutes of a film supposedly based on the novel, that is our concern here, the comparison of the works. The author's intent is irrelevant, the author is irrelevant, the
self
is irrelevant, the
man
is irrelevant. That almighty God son of a bitch McIntyre will sit there with his watery blue eyes and his pink puffed face and humiliate him the way the critics had humiliated him in October of 1947, the shame and embarrassment of meeting people you knew, the goddamn solicitous smiles as though a stranger had passed away, but not a stranger, something very real and intimate called
Catchpole
which had taken four months to write and five months to sell, and two months to rehearse, not a stranger at all. The guarded knives, the secret delight behind the words of condolence. You have dared, my friend, you have dared to expose yourself, and they have killed you, and I am glad, I am secretly and enormously delighted, how sorry to hear that your play closed last night, but after all what do the critics know? Yes, after all, what do the critics know, or the lawyers or the judges, Arthur thought. He had tried to explain how important this trial was to him, and McIntyre had countered by saying it was important to Driscoll as well, yes. Yes, assuredly, oh certainly but not in the same way. There was more on trial here than words, more than the comparison of two similar works of fiction, more even than the enormous amount of money that would go to the victor. There was an identity on trial, there was this very self McIntyre refused to allow, there was a
man
. And if Arthur allowed Driscoll to steal the work of fiction, then he also allowed him to steal the intent and the realization, the self and the person, the man. And then there would be nothing left, nothing at all.