The Rough Cut

by Douglas Corleone

  ‘I can’t make a move without being watched,’ he said. Even in the dark, I could tell his cheeks were burning red following the pat down. ‘They took my cell, my tablet, my laptop, everything.’

  We both spoke in hushed tones. ‘What about that apartment in Waialua?’

  ‘I’ve got nothing there, really. Some clothes.’ He peered into the black as though he’d heard something, but no. ‘Anyway, I can’t get the boys involved.’

  ‘The boys?’

  ‘They’re fellow musicians, you know. Scraping by, same as I’ve been. Now, though, who knows? The way they’ve been talking about me on TV, I might never book another gig again.’

  ‘What can I do to help you?’

  ‘Get in touch with my brother, Nate. Tell him I need a lawyer. A good one, top notch. A criminal lawyer who tries felony cases. There aren’t many in the islands.’

  As he said it, I felt weak in the knees. I had always had a thing for musicians. Depending on your personal experience, that fact was either repellent or hot. But I wasn’t a groupie or anything, didn’t go down on guys on a tour bus or lift my skirt onstage. I just dug guys who played instruments. Well, some instruments. Not like the tuba or anything. A guitar though? The drums? Even a piano, tuned right, turned me on. Ethan Jakes, I already knew from YouTube, played a ukulele. And he played it crazy well.

  They say a girl knows within the first half-minute whether she would, under the right circumstances, sleep with a guy or not. I knew in one, maybe two seconds, and two only because I was conscious of the fact he could well be a murderer. Yet, tonight, Ethan Jakes had such a gentleness about him that I’d have doubted he could step on a slug, let alone kill someone he professed to love.

  Of course, I knew there were such things as sociopaths, knew that calm, soft-spoken men could lack a conscience. I’d seen countless documentaries on serial killers like Dahmer, Manson, Gacy and Bundy. Each could seem perfectly normal on a night like this.

  ‘Do you know any?’ he said.

  I’d completely zoned. ‘Serial killers?’

  ‘Good lawyers.’

  I hesitated, considered whether to make ‘the recommendation’. Would the case instantly become a media circus? Would his participation help or hinder us in garnering interest in the movie? What if he refused to take part in another documentary? Worse, what if he brought in Marissa Linden to film?

  As all these thoughts intersected in my head, I considered Ethan’s pale blue eyes, and in that moment, I forgot all about the hidden camera I almost brought with me, the contract I desperately needed him to sign. All I wanted to do in that moment was help him.

  ‘I don’t know anyone in the islands,’ I finally said, ‘but I do know who I would call if I were in your situation.’

  EIGHT

  Size matters.

  Knowing the approximate length of your film goes a long way toward helping you structure it. Used to be that documentary filmmakers had forty-something minutes for a commercial hour, fifty for a noncommercial on a premium channel. Maybe an hour and a half to two hours for a theatrical, at most.

  True crime docs like Marissa Linden’s The Prosecutor, a five-hour film broken into six episodes, changed all that.

  Before Brody and I started shooting The Defendant, I frankly had no idea how I would ultimately structure my first film. But now that I’ve viewed the massive amount of footage and separated the treasure from the trash, I can finally guesstimate the overall running time I’ll have to work with. This story, Ethan’s story, is manifestly too large for a single feature; it’s a docu-series, maybe eight or nine hours long. Roughly the time it takes to read a bestselling thriller.

  I’m in the editing room, trying to determine how to introduce Nicholas Church. There are seventeen empty cans of cola lined up like little enemy soldiers on my right. I don’t ‘do’ coffee, so I rot my insides with soda instead. Shit, I can’t even make healthy choices concerning my caffeine intake.

  Church. Church, the big coffee-drinker. A coffee aficionado, a coffee snob as a matter of fact. The world first learned this, let’s call it a quirk, about Church during the first few minutes of The Prosecutor, the painfully popular Starmax documentary which sensationalized the trial, appeals, execution and posthumous exoneration of Roderick Blunt – a Charlotte, North Carolina man convicted of murdering the mother of his daughter and three sons.

  The film also turned Nicholas Church into a national pariah.

  From the Chicago Sun-Times:

  Filmed over six years, The Prosecutor focuses on rookie assistant prosecutor Nicholas Church, who brilliantly takes over the State’s case against Blunt after his boss and mentor, the Mecklenburg District Attorney, suffers a heart attack on the eve of trial. Thrust into legal stardom following a flawless performance at trial, the film then follows Church as he soaks up the spotlight, successfully runs for the office of District Attorney, and strenuously defends the conviction that propelled his career at every stage of appeal. But the most powerful moment of the film comes when D.A. Nicholas Church almost gleefully enters Central Prison in Raleigh to witness Blunt’s execution. Because, concluding the film is footage of Nicholas Church on the steps of the historic Mecklenburg County courthouse, tearfully resigning his position as District Attorney. Just eighty-two days after his death by lethal injection, Roderick Blunt’s latest appellate attorneys discovered physical evidence that exonerated their client beyond any whisper of doubt.

  Since that time, Church has dedicated his life to defending the accused in capital cases across the country. Licensed in eleven states (including Hawaii), with designated local counsel in a dozen more, Church recently expanded his practice to include non-death-penalty homicide cases like Ethan’s. Why? Because so terrified were prosecutors in death penalty states like Florida and Texas of facing off against the former D.A. that they began dropping the death penalty in death-eligible cases the moment someone breathed Church’s name. In the decade before Piper’s murder, Nicholas Church had tried a dozen high-profile homicide cases and walked away with an acquittal in every one.

  Meanwhile, it’s widely known that, despite their tempestuous beginnings, Church is engaged in a frenetic relationship with filmmaker Marissa Linden, whom he publicly credits with changing the direction of his life. ‘Sometimes you need someone to hold up a mirror,’ he said in a recent interview with Vanity Fair. ‘Preferably, your flaws aren’t revealed in HD to twenty-two million viewers. But Marissa has her ways and I have mine.’

  The article goes on to cite anonymous sources who say that, between shouting matches and sexual liaisons, Church works madly to prove to Marissa that he is no longer the lawyer who prosecuted an innocent man right up until the moment of his death, but that he is now someone else. Someone stronger, someone better.

  Ironically, today, Church is far less vilified for his overzealous prosecutorial past and hand in executing an innocent man than he is for standing as a tireless advocate for the constitutional rights of criminal defendants. To most law-and-order types, Nicholas Church represents a wrench in an otherwise faultless machine designed to efficiently punish lawbreakers. On legal news shows like Judge Jacqueline, Church’s name is a four-letter word.

  OK, admittedly, Church’s unorthodox methods, both inside the courtroom and out, have earned him a reputation for skirting the rules. However, when recently asked by reporters whether he’d violated ethics rules in any of the six states in which he was currently under investigation, Church quipped that the system itself is so fucked up, he rarely needs to resort to anything illegal.

  I pull up footage of Church standing alone in the dark, empty courtroom at the Circuit Court on Punchbowl Street the night before Ethan’s trial. How to introduce Nicholas Church? I know precisely what Professor Leary would say: ‘Be brief. Feed the audience just what they need and no more. Focus on the primary story problem. Let the particulars of your players’ pasts and personalities trickle in as necessary. No information dumps. Give the audience some credit; they can h
andle some ambiguity, some uncertainty. Keep exposition to a bare minimum. Because, as any decent storyteller knows, no one likes exposition – it’s a product of pure fucking laziness.’

  NINE

  Three days after the weathergirl died, Nicholas Church arrived in Hawaii. I’d offered to pick him up at the Honolulu airport, but he declined in favor of a stretch-limo ride to the Four Seasons in Ko Olina, where he’d reserved the penthouse suite indefinitely.

  I’d then asked if he could at least provide me his flight number so that we could film his arrival at the airport. He said, ‘Sorry, no. No cameras on me until you and I have a signed contract.’ It sounded like he was walking through one city or another; I heard the wind howling, heard car engines idling, heard the occasional horn.

  ‘I can bring a copy of the contract to the airport,’ I said.

  ‘We can’t execute any contract until I’ve been formally retained by the client.’

  ‘Fine, fax over the retainer agreement.’

  ‘The retainer agreement is meaningless; it’s the exchange of currency I’m interested in.’

  ‘All right, we can do a wire transfer.’

  ‘The client and I haven’t even met.’

  ‘I’ve assured him I’m fully familiar with your reputation, and he’s totally sold.’

  ‘Oh, you sold me?’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m just trying to say that Ethan Jakes is one hundred percent certain he wants you as his lawyer.’

  ‘I see. Even without meeting me? That’s an awfully big decision to make without so much as a single face to face. Is he aware of how big a decision this is? How our lives will be intertwined for the next several months, maybe years?’

  ‘Believe me, he’s intelligent and he’s aware.’

  ‘Are you?’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘Intelligent. Are you aware?’

  ‘I’d like to think so.’

  ‘Well then, surely you comprehend that when I say “our lives will be intertwined for the next several months, maybe years”, I’m talking about his life and mine. When I say it’s an awfully big decision to make without so much as a face to face, I’m not only referring to his decision, Ms Vasher. Even if he is “totally sold”, I require a face to face before I decide whether I will accept Mr Jakes as a client.’

  Dissolve to:

  Establishing shot of ext. of Four Seasons at Oahu.

  Beneath that I scribble: First add stock footage of Ko Olina resort community. Aerial shot of its two miles of coast; residential condos and villas; Disney’s Aulani and Marriott’s Beach Club resorts. Close-ups of LPGA golf course; white-sand beaches; four azure manmade lagoons.

  In the editing room, I reach for our legal file. Pull out the location release for the Four Seasons, which still feels like a trophy, like something I fought for, something I won. Even though it was actually Nicholas Church who won it for me.

  Following our conversation an hour earlier I’d been reluctant to ring Church again.

  ‘Now what?’ he answered.

  ‘We need you to select a different resort,’ I said.

  ‘Non-negotiable.’

  ‘Brody and I were just there. They won’t allow us to film anywhere on their property, not even in your suite.’

  ‘The reason?’

  ‘He didn’t explicitly say, but I got the impression he was afraid filming you would bring negative publicity to the hotel.’

  ‘Because I’m a criminal lawyer?’

  ‘Well, because you’re you.’

  ‘Give me the name and number of the person you met with.’

  From the background noise and exertion in his voice, it sounded as though he was still walking outside.

  ‘Do you need to, like, “pull over” first and grab a pen?’ I asked.

  ‘I’ll remember it.’

  I gave him the name and number of Oliver Pryce, who was the kind of snooty, stick-up-his-ass hotel manager John Cleese would play in a slapstick comedy. Hurried, formal, condescending, and so goddamn full of himself he probably thought our doc was about him. He was also resolute, so I anticipated bad news.

  Church phoned me back ten minutes later. Said, ‘Ollie apologizes and says you may drop by with the location release at your convenience.’

  ‘Seriously?’ I was incredulous. ‘I mean, this Oliver Pryce, he was adamant.’

  In the background, I heard a set of brakes screech to a sudden stop.

  ‘So was I.’

  The penthouse suite was ginormous, a whopping 3,200 square feet of living space and an additional 800 square-foot wraparound lanai with an infinity pool and a panorama of the Pacific. From the seventeenth-floor terrace, we could see the entire coast in either direction.

  ‘What a shot,’ I told Brody, while light trade winds brushed our cheeks.

  ‘Great,’ he grunted, ‘if only Church would let us start filming.’

  ‘There’ll be time.’

  Inside the suite, I said to Church, ‘This place is amaze-balls. It must cost, like …’

  ‘Seventeen thousand,’ Church said.

  ‘A week?’

  ‘A night.’

  ‘A night? Each week you’re here, that’s like—’

  ‘Hundred and nineteen thousand,’ Brody said.

  ‘Actually, I’m not paying at all.’ Church spoke as he moved from light switch to light switch, testing each multiple times. ‘Six years ago, I won a massive verdict against their holding company on behalf of a client.’ Click, click. Another light switch. ‘They appealed, lost. Threatened to appeal again. I let their lawyers think I was scared. Called their office every hour on the hour for eight straight days, hinting I wanted to settle and might be willing to get creative when it came to my forty percent. They called back, started offering me a week here, a month there, began blathering about blackout dates. Within a week, we’d reached a deal I was more than satisfied with.’

  I glanced at my Swatch, surprised Ethan and his brother Nathan hadn’t yet arrived.

  Leaks at the Honolulu Police Department indicated that an arrest was imminent. Church, however, warned us that this news wasn’t necessarily true, that HPD could be applying heat on Ethan in the hopes he’d break down, confess to something, run.

  ‘But you might be here on Oahu for a year or longer,’ I said.

  ‘What can I say, I’m a hell of a negotiator.’ Click, click. ‘In their defense, however, when they agreed to the deal, they weren’t cognizant of the fact that I am technically homeless. They failed to do their due diligence.’

  ‘Homeless, as in …?’

  ‘As in, I don’t have a home.’ Click, click.

  ‘You’re a drifter?’

  He moved on to inspecting the drawers and closets. ‘Kind of like Jack Reacher if Reacher stayed at the Four Seasons instead of seedy motels, and didn’t travel by bus but private jet, and didn’t beat the shit out of bad guys or shoot them, but defended them in a court of law.’

  ‘So you stay in the most expensive Four Seasons suites around the world year-round?’

  ‘Well, it was a significant verdict.’

  ‘What the hell did they do to your client?’

  He silently counted the number of hangars in the closet, said, ‘As part of my agreement with the holding company, I’m not at liberty to discuss that. Especially with documentarians.’

  I remained dubious. ‘If you stay in this suite for a single year, the cost would be astronom—’

  ‘Six million, two hundred and five thousand,’ Brody said.

  Church shrugged. ‘For the room itself, yes. But I also negotiated complimentary amenities such as daily dry cleaning, spa treatments and valet parking.’ He checked the safe, closed the closet door. Evaluated the kitchen.

  I gazed around the room, at the custom fixtures, the formal dining room, the fully stocked bar. ‘Jeez, you thought of everything.’

  ‘Well, not everything,’ he conceded, as he ran the faucet, hot then cold. ‘I do have to pay o
ut of pocket for my pornography. That bill, sadly, will be astronomical.’

  Church walked into the bathroom, to vet the plumbing or appraise the marble, I assumed, since he didn’t close the door. But a few seconds later we could plainly hear him urinating.

  ‘I also get a deep, deep discount on meals,’ he called out mid-stream, ‘so feel free to grab a menu and dial up room service.’

  The Jakes brothers arrived twenty minutes late but just in time to order room service with the rest of us. Church insisted we splurge, and splurge we did. Tomato bisque, lobster salad, blackened mahi-mahi (to Brody’s out-and-out horror), and warm pineapple tart with macadamia nut ice cream – and that was just my order.

  Once our empty plates were stacked on the cart and set outside the room, we all stretched and sat down to our meeting.

  In his lap, Church opened a briefcase and took from it an old-fashioned speaker box. He placed it in the center of the mahogany conference table.

  Ethan pointed to it. ‘We’re not recording this, are we?’

  Church shook his head as he jotted the date on his legal pad. ‘Of course not. This is Charlie.’

  ‘Charlie?’ I said.

  ‘My investigator.’ Church’s eyes shot to the speaker box. ‘Say “hello”, Charlie.’

  The speaker squawked. ‘My name is not Charlie.’

  ‘Holy shit,’ Brody said. ‘Is that AI?’

  Church said, ‘Unless AI is an acronym for “teenage shut-in with a severe case of social anxiety disorder”, no.’

  ‘My name is Jesse,’ the speaker said. ‘The Charlie’s Angels bit is getting old, Nick.’

  Church cleared his throat. ‘Now that you’ve all met Charlie, let’s the rest of us introduce ourselves. I’m Nick Church, defense lawyer extraordinaire.’ He pointed to Ethan.

  ‘Ethan Jakes. Person of interest, according to the media.’

  ‘Suspect,’ Church corrected him. ‘You were a suspect the moment police arrived at the house.’ He pointed to Nate.

  ‘Nathan Jakes. Ethan’s brother.’ He smiled awkwardly and gave Ethan a jab in the arm. ‘And, now, I suppose, his benefactor.’