The Paper Dragon (61 page)

"I think you have answered the question," Brackman said. He seemed suddenly alarmed. He turned from her swiftly and said, "Your Honor, I have no further—"

"I would like to hear the witness," McIntyre said.

"Your Honor…"

"You interrupted the witness before she had concluded her answer, and I would like to hear the rest of that answer now," McIntyre said. "Go on, Mrs. Driscoll."

"Yes," she said and nodded, but remained silent. She kept watching Driscoll, who would not turn to meet her gaze. The courtroom was silent.

"Mrs. Driscoll?"

"I wrote the letter because I loved him," she said. "I wrote it to explain."

She fell silent again. Driscoll did not look at her.

"I wrote and asked him to understand that I was… that I was telling him only because I loved him and… didn't want a lie between us for the rest of our lives. I asked him to understand."

Her hands were working nervously in her lap now, where only McIntyre could see them. She kept staring intently at her husband, but still he would not look at her. She shook her head as though sorry she had come this far, and then gave a small weary shrug, as though knowing she was committed and would have to go further. Her eyes were suddenly wet. She closed them immediately, and then lowered her head so that the judge would not see her tears. She did not raise her head again until she began speaking once more, and then she did so only to look at her husband. She cried soundlessly while she talked. The tears streamed down her face, but she did not wipe at them. She talked quietly and steadily, and she did not take her eyes from her husband, who never looked at her once during her long unbroken speech.

"I wrote to him because I had to tell him. We had been married that April, you see, and this was only September, the end of September. The truth was terrible, I know that now, I knew it then, I
knew
it was terrible but… in his book he described it as a plot to murder him, a theft of his life, his manhood, and it was never any of those things, never anything planned or schemed, only something that… one night… happened. He might have been able to understand, Dris might have, if only… but we had said 'forever' just that April, you see, and then he was gone in June, and this was… So how
could
it seem any less awful than it was, how
could
he believe I hadn't wanted it or expected it? I don't know, I don't know. We… were, I was upstairs in his apartment, I shouldn't have been there, I know it, I shouldn't have gone up when he asked me to. But I was lonely, Dris was gone, and he seemed so troubled, so in need. We talked, we… no, nothing explains it, nothing
can
explain it. It happened. Maybe I wanted it to happen, maybe Dris was right about that, I don't know. But it happened. I was twenty-two years old, and my husband was fighting a war in Korea, and I… I went to bed with Peter Malcom.

"I didn't love him, but I went to bed with him. So simple. So very simple. At first I thought I could live with the idea, forget what I'd done, forget I'd given myself to him. I'd always believed, you see, I'd been taught to believe it wasn't shameful to… to love someone. But this wasn't love, no. I couldn't deceive myself into thinking this was anything like love, the only man I ever loved was in Korea. I… I continued to write to him, I had to keep writing, my letters to him were the same for almost a week, lie after lie after lie, and then… then I couldn't bear it any longer, I knew I had to tell him the truth or allow the lies to destroy our marriage. Instead it was the truth that destroyed it.

"So… so you see the ten and the five are the date on that letter, October 5th was when I wrote it, and the man in my husband's book is Peter Malcom who… who made love to me… and… and… and I… the nurse in the book is only me, and the… the lieutenant is my husband, who… who testified in this courtroom yesterday that their love and their future are lost because of a single thoughtless act — isn't that what he said here yesterday? — their love is ruined because of a deception that… that causes a man to get killed. That's… I don't think that's Mr. Constantine's play. I don't think even Mr. Constantine can believe that's his play. My husband's book, you see, is about… about
us
, you see. That's what his book is about. And… I… I don't think I have anything else to say."

The courtroom was silent.

"Mr. Brackman, do you have any further questions?"

"No questions, your Honor," Brackman said.

Again, there was silence.

"Very well, thank you, Mrs. Driscoll."

Ebie rose, and wiped at her eyes. She looked down when she approached the steps, and then swiftly walked to the jury box. Her husband did not turn toward her as she sat.

"Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said, "I'll allow you to change or add to your summation now if you wish. Or, if you feel you need time for preparation in light of this additional testimony, we can set a date and hear your final argument then."

"I have nothing to add to what I have already said, your Honor."

"Very well. Does
anyone
have anything further to say?"

"If your Honor please," Willow said, "my opponent has suggested that Mr. Driscoll was attempting to mislead this Court. I have no comment to make on that except that I hope in the light of this subsequent testimony, you will take into consideration the personal elements involved. Thank you, your Honor."

"Anything else, gentlemen?" McIntyre asked. "Very well. I'd like to congratulate you on a good trial and argument. I want you to know that despite whatever moments of levity there were during the trial and in some of our discussions, I nonetheless consider this a most serious matter, and not only because of the large sums of money involved. So it's my intention now to reserve decision on the motions and on the entire case until such time as I can render the opinion a case of such gravity warrants. Thank you, gentlemen. I enjoyed it."

The judge rose.

Everyone in the courtroom rose when he did, and then watched in silence as he came from behind the bench. He walked to the door on his right, nodded briefly as it was opened for him, and then went into his chambers.

The door closed gently behind him.

The courtroom was silent.

There was — Arthur and Driscoll felt it simultaneously and with the same intensity — a sense of incompleteness. They both knew, and had known all along, that there would be no decision on the day the trial ended, and perhaps not for weeks afterward. But whereas this sense of an ending delayed, a final result postponed, was something both men had experienced before and knew intimately, they could not accept it
here
, not in the context of an apparatus as structured and as well ordered as the law. They sat in pained silence as though willing the judge to reappear, refusing to accept the knowledge that there would be no decision this day, there would be no victor and no vanquished. Instead, there would be only the same interminable wait that accompanied the production of a play or the publication of a book, the same frustrating delay between completion and inalterable exposure.

The judge did not return.

The door to his chambers remained sealed.

The writers stared at the closed door, each slowly yielding to a rising sense of doubt. No matter
what
Driscoll's wife had been induced to say, Arthur still knew without question that his play had been stolen; and Driscoll knew with equal certainty that he had not stolen it. But what were their respective opinions worth without the corroborating opinion of the judge? In spiraling anxiety, Arthur realized that if the judge decreed his play had not been copied, then the time and energy put into it had been lost, the play was valueless, the play was nothing. And Driscoll similarly realized that if the judge decided against
him
, then whatever he had said in his novel would mean nothing, he would be stripped of ownership, the book might just as well never have been written.

They each knew despair in that moment, a despair that seemed more real to them than anything they had felt during the course of the trial. In near panic, they wondered what they had left unsaid, what they had forgotten to declare, how they could prove to this impartial judge that there was merit to their work, that they were honest men who had honestly delivered, that they could not be summarily dismissed, nor obliterated by decree.

And then despair led inexorably to reason, and they recognized with sudden clarity that the judge's decision would really change nothing. The truth was there in the record to be appreciated or ignored, but it was there nonetheless, and no one's opinion could ever change it. If there was any satisfaction for them that day, it came with the relief this knowledge brought, a relief that was terribly short-lived because it was followed by the cold understanding that even the trial itself had changed nothing. Whatever paper dragons they had fought in this courtroom, the real dragons still waited for them in the street outside, snarling and clawing and spitting fire, fangs sharpened, breath foul, dragons who would devour if they were not ultimately slain.

The two men sat in silence.

Around them, there was not even a semblance of ceremony or ritual consistent with what had gone before. The attorneys were whispering and laughing among themselves, packing their briefcases, the paid mercenaries taking off their armor and putting away their weapons, and hoping to go home to a hot bowl of soup before hiring on again to fight yet another man's battle on yet another day. Genitori shook hands with Willow, and then Kahn shook hands with Willow, and Sheppard shook hands with both attorneys for API, and then Brackman and his partner walked over to where the defense lawyers stood in a shallow circle and offered his hand first to Willow and then to Genitori, and then introduced all the men to his partner, who beamed in the presence of someone as important as Willow, and then each of the men congratulated each other on how well and nobly the case had been fought, and Brackman said something to Willow off the record, and Willow laughed, and then Genitori told Brackman how wise he was not to have made a second summation, and Brackman in turn complimented Genitori on how expertly he had handled a conceited ass like Ralph Knowles, and they all agreed Knowles had been a very poor witness indeed.

Arthur and Driscoll, apart, watched and said nothing.

Briefcases packed, amenities exchanged, the lawyers again shook hands to show there were no hard feelings between any of them, to assure themselves once again that whatever vile accusations had been hurled in calculated anger within these four walls, they could still express an appreciation of courage and skill, they could still part in the hope that one day they might meet again as battle veterans to reminisce about that terrible week in December when they were fighting a ferocious plagiarism case. And then, because their clients were waiting for the reassuring words that would tide them over through the weeks or perhaps months before the decision came, they moved away from each other cordially and filed out of the courtroom, forming again into two tight, separate groups in the corridor outside, where they talked in low whispers.

They talked only about the trial.

It was easiest to talk about the trial because, for the most part, it had been orderly and serene, moving within the confines of a described pattern toward a conclusion, however delayed. They talked about the trial, and seemed reluctant to leave the corridor, letting several elevators pass them by while they continued to chat, unwilling to make the decisive move that would take them into the next car and then to the street below. Jonah told Genitori and Sheppard that he was positive they had won, positive, and his eyes were glowing even when he sincerely apologized to Driscoll for ever having thought he was guilty. Is that all you have to apologize for? Driscoll asked, and for a moment the corridor went silent, for a moment a pall was cast upon the abounding good fellowship, but only for a moment, only until Jonah grinned and clapped Driscoll on the shoulder and said, Come on, Jimmy, it's all over now, we can all relax. Sheppard grinned too, and chastised himself for having been so stupid, he should have known all along that Mrs. Driscoll was the girl in the book. He saw the pained expression that crossed Driscoll's face, and fell silent. Genitori swiftly said he too was confident they had won, and then speculated aloud on how much the judge would award them for counsel fees.

Near one of the other elevators, Sidney told Arthur that Mrs. Driscoll's testimony had sounded very phony to him, and probably would not affect the trial in the slightest, the case was still airtight, he was certain the judge would decide in their favor. Arthur nodded, seemingly preoccupied, and when Sidney's partner commented on the fact that he didn't seem terribly elated, Arthur said, Well, I've got my new play to think about, you know. Sidney's partner nodded and said, Of course, of course, and then suddenly remembered he had not called his wife to tell her how the trial had ended. He asked Sidney if he had a dime and while Sidney was fishing in his pocket for one, he said, Isn't there someone you have to call, Sidney? Sidney was silent until he located the coin. Then he handed it to his partner and, with a secret smile, said, Why, no, Carl, there's no one I have to call.

And then all the talking was done, there seemed to be nothing more to say to each other. The afterglow of the trial could no longer warm them, no longer generate a sustaining energy among people who were essentially strangers to each other. They shook hands again, and — still reluctant to get into the elevator that would take them down to the street — broke into smaller groups, lingering in the hallway, Genitori saying he wanted to talk to the clerk before he left, clerks were always infallible indicators of how a trial had gone, and Jonah saying he wanted to go to the men's room, and Sidney telling Arthur to run along, he knew how busy Arthur must be, he would wait for Carl to finish his call. The groups dispersed soundlessly, Driscoll and his wife avoiding Arthur, who took a separate elevator down.

The corridor was empty.

When Genitori came out of the courtroom he told Kahn that the clerk thought McIntyre would find in their favor. Kahn seemed extremely pleased. He confided to Genitori that he had known the plaintiff's case was groundless all along, but that he never ceased to marvel at how the American system worked, a man being able to have his day in court, and to settle his problems there.