The Rough Cut

by Douglas Corleone

  SEVENTEEN

  Two weeks after the weathergirl died, I returned to Tantalus for the first time since the night of the murder. The mountain looked different in the daylight, of course. The houses less towering, the jungle less intimidating.

  It was a picture postcard day – the entire backdrop in perfect contrast to the evening of. We parked across the street from the house I’d scrambled past that night to locate Brody, and stepped out of the Jeep.

  Brody said, ‘I’m going to grab some establishing shots before you guys put the Fear into everybody.’

  Tahoma, whom we’d picked up in Hawaii Kai this morning, shrugged limply then turned to me and said, ‘You mind if I smoke a cigarette before we get rolling?’

  Tahoma looked to be around fifty but moved as though he were a hundred and six. But so nice, it was difficult to deny him any request; and yet, over the next few months, Church would unabashedly turn it into an artform.

  The previous evening, while we sat around the table in his suite, Church had pointed at the speaker box I’d come to refer to as Jesse, and said, ‘Since Sam Spade here is allergic to sunlight, fresh air and physical human contact, we’re going to need a flesh-and-blood investigator.’

  ‘You don’t have one you use regularly?’ Nate said.

  ‘I always bring in a local. Every state, every county, has its own mores and customs, and most of them can smell a stranger a mile away. Islands can be particularly difficult to navigate.’

  ‘There’s a guy my firm works with—’

  ‘No offense, Nate Dogg. But it needs to be someone I know, someone I trust. We’re going with Tahoma out in Hawaii Kai. Same guy I sent to Manoa Falls to look for Ethan the night of his arrest. Jesse, care to do the honors of pronouncing Tahoma’s surname?’

  ‘Ky-han-eye-koo-kow-ah-ka-hy-hu-lee-ha-ak-hu-lee-heh-eh-ka-hau-na-ay-lay. Kaihanaiku‌kauahkahih‌uliheekahaunaele.’

  Nate’s face evinced deep skepticism. ‘He’s a good investigator?’

  ‘He’s a solid guy.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning he won’t play both sides. Won’t run to the prosecution with information he gleaned from us.’

  ‘That doesn’t happen,’ I challenged.

  Church said, ‘No? Well, that’s what my friend Jimmy Honka said. That’s why, in one West Texas case I was sure I would otherwise lose, I fed a private investigator I suspected of working with the cops disinformation that would fuck up the prosecutor’s entire theory of the case. What happens next? First, after twelve months of “Go to hell, Church, no plea bargain,” I get a call from said prosecutor with an offer. A good offer, a phenomenal offer. I tell him to go fuck himself. Then at trial, this prosecutor tosses up some Hail Mary bullshit theory instead of the one-yard run he would have been facing had he not been such a scumbag. Following twenty minutes of jury deliberation, I win an acquittal. Needless to say, I never used that investigator again and neither did the cops.’ He paused, took a sip of iced water. ‘Or anyone else for that matter. Because a month later, I wrote a feature article highlighting his shenanigans for PI Magazine and sent a copy to damn near every criminal defense attorney in the state.’

  ‘Tahoma isn’t a Hawaiian name,’ Brody pointed out. ‘T isn’t even in the Hawaiian alphabet.’

  ‘He’s actually only half-Hawaiian. His mother was native American. His ancestors got screwed every which way, which may well account for his being a tad pessimistic.’

  ‘Can we see his CV?’ Nate asked.

  ‘You can see his CR-V. He drives a beige 2009 with three hubcaps.’

  Nate’s lips formed a single straight line as he shook his head. ‘The decision’s up to us, isn’t it? Ethan’s the one with his life on the line and I’m the one shelling out for all this.’

  Church leaned into the table and looked Nate in the eye. ‘As benevolent as your gesture may be, Nate Dogg, bottom line is: your brother is my client, not you.’

  Ethan sat stock-still, silent and visibly uncomfortable, his eyes nailed to the surface of the table.

  ‘Although,’ Church said as he leaned back and folded one leg over the other, ‘I would remind my client that he retained me for my expertise in conducting criminal trials and investigations, not for my looks, as Michelangelo-esque as they may be. I would also remind my client that as per our retainer agreement, I may withdraw as his attorney at any time prior to the start of trial.’

  Nate turned to Ethan. ‘Maybe we should consider other counsel.’

  As Ethan lifted his head, Church rose from his seat, took a deep breath and said, ‘BQ, turn off the camera.’

  Once Tahoma stubbed out his cigarette, he and I walked across the street, where Brody was waiting with the camera. Together we climbed a half-dozen concrete steps to the front entrance of Piper’s neighbor’s house.

  When we reached the red front door I suddenly realized I had butterflies, that they were rapidly multiplying, that I could suffer a hideous panic attack at any moment. I turned away from Brody and Tahoma and tried deep breaths, just a few, before finally dipping into my pocket and popping a Klonopin.

  As Brody filmed Tahoma ringing the bell, I stared at the landscaping surrounding the house, until something caught my attention: the iron gate I’d entered through on the night of the murder was locked up tight, not just with a latch, but a heavy chain that looked like it should have been protecting something important, like a bank vault or a medical marijuana dispensary.

  When the door opened, I turned and recognized the baby-faced reporter Kalani Webb straight off, despite his being dressed in a Star Wars tank-top and Chicago Bulls basketball shorts. He was even better-looking in person and built like a Polynesian god.

  ‘I help you?’ he said, already somewhat annoyed.

  Tahoma introduced himself, then his filmographers, who he said were making a documentary about his investigation into the Piper Kingsley murder. ‘Mind if we come inside for a few minutes?’

  Kalani eyed the camera in Brody’s hand and said, ‘Are you people serious right now? I’m a reporter. Everything I know about the case comes from protected sources.’ He looked across the street at our Jeep. ‘Besides, I don’t know anything more than what I’ve reported in the Star-Ad.’

  ‘You’re a print journalist too?’ I asked.

  His face softened somewhat. ‘I freelance. My part-time job at the station doesn’t pay so well.’

  I took a step back, made a show of taking in the elaborateness of his house.

  When my gaze returned to Kalani, his Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat, his mocha skin turned instantly cherry. He parted his lips to speak, but by then he didn’t need to say anything. Because behind him, his dad was waddling by, scratching his ass in his underwear, and his mom was yowling his name, bitching about finding dogshit in the kitchen again.

  That evening, Church held an ‘emergency meeting’ in his suite at the Four Seasons.

  ‘You guys see the fucking press conference Lau gave this afternoon?’ he said the moment we stepped inside.

  Ethan and Nate had yet to arrive. Considering the fireworks the previous evening, I worried they wouldn’t show at all.

  When I told Church we hadn’t seen the presser, that the three of us – Brody, Tahoma and I – had been pounding the pavement on Mount Tantalus all day, he drew the TV remote from his fancy-dancy Four Seasons bathrobe like a gunfighter, punched on the power and rewound the DVR.

  It occurred to me then that I hadn’t had a decent, blow-all-your-dough, pamper-yourself-silly vacation in years – and a stay in a $17K-a-night penthouse suite in, like, ever.

  Seconds later, there she was onscreen: the indefatigable Naomi Lau, a forty-eight-year-old with a thirty-eight’s face, a twenty-eight’s body, an eighteen’s energy, and all the sagacity of Gandalf the Grey.

  ‘Thank you all for coming,’ she said with perfect cadence from her podium, the great seal of the Honolulu Prosecuting Attorney at her back. ‘I’m holding today’s press conference because I know so m
any of you are still in mourning over the loss of rising Hawaii television talent Piper Kingsley.’

  Off to her right stood Zane Kingsley. Slightly shorter than Lau, his head remained clean shaven, his coffee-colored linen suit impeccably tailored and maintained.

  Lau continued: ‘But I would like to talk less this morning about this senseless killing – and the cowardly man who committed this despicable act – and more about Piper herself: who she was, what she stood for, things you can’t find in police and autopsy reports, things you don’t usually learn about victims of violent crimes, until years later when the family finally feels sufficient time has passed to talk about their lost loved one.’

  Lau took a step back and, like a practiced politician, snaked her arm around Zane Kingsley’s lean, muscular frame. ‘But today, I stand with the victim’s father, who has so generously shared with me his lovely daughter’s life story, a story so needlessly ripped to shreds by a man whose name I refuse to so much as mention here today. Because today, he is utterly irrelevant to our conversation, and an anathema to our celebration of the life of Piper Kingsley.’

  Tahoma pointed to the television. ‘I think she’s talking about Ethan.’

  ‘Piper Kingsley,’ Lau said into the microphone, ‘was born just twenty-eight years ago in Sydney, Australia, to Zane and his late wife Willow—’

  Church muted the television.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I said. ‘Don’t we all need to see this?’

  ‘You saw enough, you saw her strategy.’

  Brody nodded, Tahoma remained silent.

  I said, ‘Which is?’

  Church’s lips played with the idea of a grin, as though there was a feverishness bubbling to the surface and it was all he could do to tamp it down.

  He said, ‘Over the next few months, instead of poisoning the jury pool by shattering Ethan’s image, Lau intends to lionize Piper’s, plans to amplify her voice, to turn her into a goddamn island folk hero by the start of trial.’

  ‘So we go out and do the same,’ I said.

  ‘It doesn’t exactly work that way, Riles. See, Lau’s only coming out today because it’s the earliest she could, and there’s meaning in that.’

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning Lau has already done the digging. She knows Piper Kingsley isn’t just clean, she’s pristine.’

  ‘So …’

  ‘So,’ he said, lowering his voice a few octaves with every word, ‘Piper’s the perfect victim. A prosecutor’s pot of gold.’

  ‘And it’s a winning strategy?’ I said, befuddled because I’d never seen it done before. ‘How do you know?’

  Church’s lids fell over his eyes as he drew a breath that seemed to last an eternity.

  He said, ‘I know because it’s how I convinced an all-black Charlotte jury to execute an innocent black man named Roderick Blunt.’

  Very few aspects of North Carolina v Roderick J. Blunt remained unknown to the public. This, Church said as we took our seats around the conference table, was one of them.

  Ethan and Nate still hadn’t materialized.

  ‘It didn’t make it into The Prosecutor because it happened long before Marissa became involved in the story. In fact, were it not for this, she might never have heard of the case in the first place.’

  Tahoma placed an unlit cigarette between his lips, asked Church: ‘You mind?’

  Church’s reply practically overlapped Tahoma’s request. ‘Light it and I’ll personally burn you alive.’

  Tahoma delicately placed the cigarette back into its crumpled package.

  They had a weak case against Blunt, Church went on, every word an effort. District Attorney Ray McGinty was reluctant to even move forward with the indictment. Church talked him into it, packed his proverbial bags and sent him on a racial guilt trip. Cried, ‘Ray, blacks deserve justice too, Toya Blunt deserves justice, her children deserve justice. We can’t turn our backs just because no one else cares. If Toya were a blonde from Foxcroft rather than a black from Oaklawn, you’d insist we try the bastard who did it, no matter how fucking difficult it’d be to build a case.’

  The facts of the case we already knew from Marissa’s movie, but, according to Church, the case was won long before she began filming. No one remembers this occurred, he told us. Journalists certainly had no interest, just more black-on-black violence, domestic of all things. No break-in, no gun involved, happened inside their own home, not on a street your average viewer might have just traversed.

  ‘No one would have heard about the murder of Toya Blunt if I hadn’t done what I did.’

  The trade winds that had been consistently cooling us off seemed to vanish right then, just as a tear descended Church’s left cheek. I instinctively glanced at the red light on the camera capturing this moment and, I swear, felt something analogous to an orgasm.

  Counter to McGinty’s instructions, Church contacted some obscure Charlotte blogger with maybe three followers, and leaked anonymously that the Mecklenburg County Prosecutor’s Office was declining to pursue charges against Toya’s killer because of her race and the fact that the murder happened in a poor neighborhood. A week later Church had almost forgotten what he’d done, when one morning he jumped out of bed and saw Toya’s face splashed across the front page of The Charlotte Observer.

  The piece was so moving, so incredibly powerful that it went viral. So Church called the reporter who wrote the piece and continued the anonymous leaks. Not a peep about Roderick Blunt, certainly not about the evidence, which was shit, only about Toya Blunt. Toya the daughter, Toya the sister, Toya the auntie, Toya the mother of four.

  ‘It left Ray with no choice but to prosecute, and by the time trial rolled around, the entire city had become so enraged that Toya had been cut down in her prime – that she’d been torn from her babies – they would have convicted me if I’d been seated at the defense table.’

  Church couldn’t deny that he tried the case brilliantly, but only because he was a brilliant lawyer and because he so believed in what he was doing, was so fucking certain that Toya’s husband had killed her. But by trial, Church didn’t need brilliance, or even competence. He could have simply pointed at Roderick J. Blunt – who was big, scarred and heavily inked, i.e. someone who looked like he did it, whatever it was – and said, ‘He killed Toya,’ and that jury’s first ballot would have been twelve-zip to convict.

  A wall of water built gradually in Church’s eyes until the dam finally burst and the tears flowed freely down his otherwise expressionless face, dampening his bathrobe, which had opened significantly without his knowledge.

  ‘Ironic thing is,’ he said, ‘in The Prosecutor, Marissa makes so much of my relationship with McGinty, my boss, the mentor whom I so gallantly stood in for when he nearly died the night before opening statements. Ironic, because I’d gone against his wishes in this case at every turn. Because he was ashamed of what I’d done to get the case to trial. Ironic, because news of Ray’s heart attack provided me with the happiest, most thrilling night of my professional life.’

  By the end of the night, I wanted to comfort Church, not quite in the way I’d wanted to comfort Ethan on the night of his arrest, but I wanted to cradle his head in my lap and stroke his hair. I wanted to tell him he was forgiven.

  As I stepped past him through the doorway into the lavish hall that led only to the elevator, I spun on my heels and pecked his still wet cheek, asked if there was anything I could do for him, anything at all.

  Staring deeply, thoughtfully into my eyes, he quietly said, yes, as a matter of fact there was. He needed to throw back a few bottles of bourbon tonight, so would I drive to the airport and pick someone up in the morning.

  ‘Sure,’ I told him with negative gusto, ‘not a problem.’ Then I asked him whom I was picking up.

  ‘Marissa,’ he said, as he started closing the door in my face. Then he paused. ‘Which reminds me: there’s going to be a lot of drinking, yelling and fucking in this suite over the next few we
eks. Be forewarned.’

  EIGHTEEN

  I like it on the couch. Like that I can say whatever is on my mind, short of suicidal ideations.

  I’ve been seeing Dr Yasmin Farrockh on and off since we arrived in Hawaii. More ‘on’ in the beginning, more ‘off’ during the investigation and trial.

  ‘How are you doing?’ she says with a faint Persian accent.

  How are you doing is her opening line every time I visit, and every time she says it I can’t help but think of my shitty first job at a Salem McDonald’s drive-thru, brainlessly repeating the words, May I take your order?

  ‘I’m doing well,’ I say, because well is proper English, as my father constantly reminded me. ‘Doing well,’ he’d say, his voice full of frustration and deep disappointment, ‘means you’re fine; doing good means you’re doing a good deed. How long’s it going to take to get that through your thick goddamn skull, Riley Rebecca.’

  Following the How are you doing?, I always yearn to hold out, to say nothing, to see what Dr Farrockh will say next, whether she even has a follow-up question. But not once have I been able to restrain myself from filling the nerve-racking silence. I mean, what if my stomach grumbles? What if hers does?

  ‘Trial’s over,’ I throw out as casually as possible.

  ‘I saw.’

  ‘So Brody and I are in postproduction.’

  ‘And how is your relationship with him?’

  ‘Personal or professional?’ I ask.

  ‘Are you able to separate the two now?’

  How is it that I’m the one seeking answers, yet she’s the one asking all the questions?

  ‘No,’ I say bluntly, ‘I don’t think I’m even capable of separating them.’

  ‘Why do you not think so?’

  ‘Because I’m happy with him when he contributes, and I’m pissed at him when he slacks off.’

  Her dark eyebrows do a little dance, a sure sign I’ve said something I’m going to want back.

  ‘Interesting word choice,’ she says.

  I run through the sentence in my head once again and narrow the suspect words down to happy and pissed. Yet, somehow, I know it is neither.