Leap Year

by Peter Cameron

  “Did the police come?”

  “Within a matter of minutes. They arrested Mr. Jackson and took Mrs. Shawangunk to the hospital.”

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor.”

  “Does the defense wish to cross-examine?”

  Colette stood up. “I have a few questions, Your Honor. Ms. Paine, could you tell the jury how many of Mr. Jackson’s derivative photographs were sold?”

  “The show sold out. But the reason they sold—”

  “We’re interested in the facts, Ms. Paine, not your interpretation of them. Could you tell us about how much money Mr. Jackson’s art has netted the gallery?”

  “Well, I don’t know the exact figures.”

  “Would you consider the show to be a financial success?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Would you consider Mr. Jackson to be a valuable asset to the gallery?”

  “I suppose, yes, in strictly financial terms.”

  “Then would you suppose, Ms. Paine, that offering Mr. Jackson a show was an excellent business decision on Mrs. Shawangunk’s part?”

  “But when she offered him the show she had no idea what—”

  “It’s a yes-or-no question, Ms. Paine. Let me rephrase it for you. In your professional opinion, was Mrs. Shawangunk’s decision to offer Mr. Jackson a show at the Gallery Shawangunk a smart one?”

  “It could be seen that way in retrospect.”

  “Thank you. I just have one more question, Ms. Paine. Can you tell me why Harvard University has no record of ever awarding you a B.A. degree?”

  “Did I imply they had?”

  “I believe you did. Would you like me to have your sworn testimony read back to you?”

  “No. What I meant to say was that I took several classes one summer at Harvard University. My degree itself is from another institution.”

  “What institution is that?”

  “Slippery Rock State College.”

  “Thank you. Is there any other part of your testimony you’d like to reconsider?”

  “There is not.”

  “Then I have no further questions.”

  “You may step down, Ms. Paine. Does the prosecution wish to call another witness?”

  The prosecution called Bernard Zerener. While he was being sworn in, Heath looked around the courtroom. Everyone seemed to be staring back at him malevolently, except his father, who gave him a thumbs-up sign. His mother had her eyes scrunched shut, as if she were at a horror film.

  “Mr. Zerener, could you tell the jury what you do for a living?”

  “I’m a concierge at Trump Tower.”

  “How long have you been employed at Trump Tower?”

  “Eighteen months.”

  “Do you know the Shawangunks?”

  “I know Mr. Shawangunk. I knew the late Mrs. Shawangunk.”

  “Do you know the defendant?”

  “I’ve never been formally introduced to Mr. Jackson, but I know him by sight.”

  “Where have you seen him?”

  “In the lobby of Trump Tower.”

  “Could you tell us when you saw Mr. Jackson in the lobby of Trump Tower?”

  “Several times between January and July of this year.”

  “And in what circumstances did you encounter Mr. Jackson?”

  “He’d come through with Mrs. Shawangunk. They’d either be coming in or going out.”

  “Did they seem friendly?”

  Colette half stood up. “Objection, Your Honor. Leading.”

  “Sustained.”

  “How did Mr. Jackson and Mrs. Shawangunk act toward each other?”

  “Friendly. Very, very friendly.”

  “Did they touch each other?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you ever see them kiss each other?”

  “Yes. Once, they were in the elevator, right before the door closed. They started kissing. French.”

  “Did you ever speak to Mr. Jackson in the lobby of the Trump Tower?”

  “I did.”

  “Please describe those circumstances to the jury.”

  “It was on the afternoon of July thirteenth. I remember because the Shawangunks had been away, and they had just come back. Mr. Jackson was there waiting around for her. Mrs. Shawangunk came in alone, and he accosted her.”

  “What do you mean by ‘accosted’?”

  “He was grabbing at her. She was trying to get into the elevator, and he wouldn’t let her.”

  “Did they speak to each other?”

  “Yeah. I don’t remember the whole thing. But I do remember Mrs. Shawangunk kept saying ‘It’s over,’ and Mr. Jackson was saying stuff like ‘Don’t do this to me,’ and ‘I love you.’ Loser stuff like that.”

  “What did you do?”

  “At first I tried to ignore it. You know, mind my own business. But then Mr. Jackson, he starts to get rough with her, so I went over there and held him back while she gets on the elevator. And when she’s gone, I let him go and tell him to get lost.”

  “Did he say anything to you, Mr. Zerener?”

  “Well, he said something, but it wasn’t really to me. It was more to Mrs. Shawangunk, even though she was gone.”

  “What did Mr. Jackson say?”

  “He said, ‘I’m going to kill you, baby.’ ”

  Heath heard everyone gasp, and this time he did not have to turn his head to know that everyone was looking at him.

  CHAPTER 36

  AFTER DAVID WAS SWORN in, he looked around the courtroom. He almost didn’t recognize Heath. He had never seen him in a suit before, and his hair, which was usually short but generally disheveled, had been furiously parted and slicked to his head. Heath looked to David like an older, more conservative brother of himself. Behind Heath, in the benches, David saw Loren and Lillian sitting beside each other. He had come downtown with Lillian, but he hadn’t known Loren would be there. Heath, Lillian, Loren—their combined presence unnerved him. He felt a little as if his life, which he had heretofore worn loosely about him, had suddenly shrunk a size or two and was clinging uncomfortably to his skin. He shifted in his seat and returned his attention to Ms. Menzies.

  “Mr. Parish, could you tell us how and when you met Mr. Jackson?”

  “In December of 1987, my assistant took a four-week vacation. I hired Mr. Jackson through a temporary employment agency to replace her.”

  “So your original relationship was one of employer to employee?”

  “Originally, yes.”

  “Did the nature of that relationship change?”

  “It did.”

  “Could you tell us how it changed?”

  “I could,” said David. He paused and looked around. Heath was looking at him. Loren and Lillian were looking at him. Everyone was looking at him. “We fell in love.” He had intended to proclaim this fact but it sounded rather more like an admission.

  “Are you lovers at this time?” Colette asked.

  David shook his head. “No.”

  “I don’t mean to embarrass you, Mr. Parish, but for the jury’s sake I’d like to clarify the nature of your relationship with Mr. Jackson. You said you were lovers. Did you have a sexual relationship with the defendant?”

  “I did.”

  “Did you live with him?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What do you mean by ‘not exactly’?”

  “I mean, we spent a lot of time together but we didn’t…we maintained separate residences.”

  “Did you ever spend the night with Mr. Jackson?”

  “I did.”

  “How often?”

  “Quite often, I’d say. Four or five nights a week from January to July of this year.”

  “Tell me, Mr. Parish, to the best of your knowledge, was Heath Jackson seeing a woman at the same time he was your lover?”

  “To the best of my knowledge he was not.”

  “What do you base that answer on?”

  “Well,” said David, “Heath once
told me he wasn’t bisexual. He told me he had never slept with a woman and had no desire to do so. He never mentioned Solange Shawangunk. And moreover, I—well, my relationship with Heath may not have lasted very long, but while we were together, we had a…I believe we loved each other, and I think because of that I would have sensed if I were being betrayed in the manner you suggest.”

  Ned Best stood up. “Your Honor, I move to have that last answer stricken from the record. It hardly qualifies as objective testimony.”

  “The answer may stand. Mr. Parish, in the future please limit your testimony to what you know for a fact to be certain.”

  Nowadays, thought David, that’s nothing.

  “I have just one more question, Your Honor. Mr. Parish, is anyone paying you for your testimony here today?”

  “No.”

  “I have no further questions. Your witness, counsel.”

  “Thank you, Ms. Menzies,” said Ned Best. “Good morning, Mr. Parish.”

  “Good morning,” said David.

  “I’d like to begin by asking you to tell the jury what your marital status is.”

  “I’m divorced.”

  “So can we assume, then, that you were at one time married?”

  “I was.”

  “Do you have any dependents?”

  “I have one child.”

  “Is the mother of this child your ex-wife?”

  “That’s correct.”

  “Can we safely assume, then, Mr. Parish, and I here use Ms. Menzies’ terminology, that you had a ‘sexual relationship’ with your wife?”

  “I did.”

  “Can we assume, then, Mr. Parish, that you are bisexual?”

  “You can assume whatever you want.”

  “I’d like a yes-or-no answer, Mr. Parish. Are you bisexual?”

  “Your Honor, I object. I fail to see what relevancy Mr. Parish’s sexual orientation has to this matter. I’d also argue this cross goes beyond the scope of my original examination of the witness.”

  “Your Honor, I disagree. Mr. Parish has testified as to Mr. Jackson’s sexual orientation. I’d argue that his seeming confusion as to his own has bearing on that testimony.”

  “I think you’ve made your point, then, counsel. Please move on.”

  “Mr. Parish, during the time you had this ‘sexual relationship’ with Mr. Jackson, were you involved with anyone else?”

  David didn’t answer. He remembered that March night: Lillian’s party, the cab ride through the dark park, Loren’s hair in his mouth, the ringing telephone. “It depends what you mean by involved.”

  “I’ll rephrase my question. Did you have sexual relations with a person other than Heath Jackson between January and July of this year?”

  “I slept with my wife.” David looked at Loren as he said this. She was looking down at her hands, studying them, turning them over in her lap.

  “I assume you mean your ex-wife.”

  “I do.” Loren looked up at him. Her face was expressionless.

  “So concurrent with your homosexual relationship with Mr. Jackson you were also involved in a heterosexual relationship with your wife?”

  “It was just one night.”

  “The duration of your sexual encounters does not interest me. Tell me, Mr. Parish, is it possible that Mr. Jackson had a similar heterosexual relationship?”

  “Anything’s possible.”

  “I suggest to you that anything is not possible, Mr. Parish. Fish do not fly. But some things are possible, and I ask you, most specifically, if it is possible that Heath Jackson had a relationship with Solange Shawangunk between January and July of 1988?”

  “It is possible,” David answered, trying to chose his words carefully, “But I don’t believe he did. I believe, without a doubt in my heart or my mind, that Heath Jackson—”

  “What you believe does not interest us, Mr. Parish. We’re interested solely in what you know, which does not appear to be much.”

  The nearer the end of the trial came, the less real it all seemed to Heath. One testimony clashed with another, and by the time he was called to the stand, on the afternoon of the trial’s final day, the events of that long-ago July evening had taken on the patina of a dream.

  But as Colette asked him question after question, details from that bizarre night swam slowly back into focus. He could see it all: the crowd in the gallery, his photographs lined up around the walls, the bare, tanned skin of the beautiful laughing women, the light sparkling in the glasses of champagne.

  “Mr. Jackson,” Colette finally said, “did you accompany Mrs. Solange Shawangunk into the gallery office at approximately six-fifty on the evening of July thirteenth, 1988?”

  “I did.”

  “What was the gist of your conversation?”

  “Mrs. Shawangunk tried to warn me about Amanda Paine. She told me Amanda was using me for her own purposes. That she had offered me the show to ridicule the gallery. I was very confused. I didn’t really understand what Mrs. Shawangunk was trying to say.”

  “Did she have a chance to explain herself?”

  “No. We were interrupted by Amanda Paine and Anton Shawangunk.”

  “Tell me exactly what happened, Mr. Jackson.”

  “Well, as I said, Mrs. Shawangunk and I were talking. There was a knock on the door, and then Ms. Paine and Mr. Shawangunk came in. Ms. Paine went over to the desk—she was wearing gloves—and took a gun from the top desk drawer. She pointed it at Solange and fired. Solange fell to the floor. Amanda threw the gun at me and then disappeared.”

  There was the briefest moment of silence before someone started shouting in the rear of the courtroom. It was Amanda Paine. “It’s a lie!” she shouted. “He’s lying! He’s a sick little murdering liar!”

  “I’m not lying,” Heath said. “I’m telling the truth.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Amanda said. “I let my outrage get the better of me.”

  “See that it doesn’t happen again. Let’s continue.”

  “I have no further questions, Your Honor,” Colette said.

  “Mr. Best, do you wish to cross-examine this witness?”

  “I do, Your Honor.” Mr. Best stood up and looked at Heath for a moment. “Mr. Jackson, have you ever used the term ‘schlitzed’?”

  “Maybe,” said Heath.

  “If you’re familiar with the term, would you define it for us?”

  “If you’re schlitzed, you’re…um…you’re a little wasted.”

  “And by wasted I assume you mean inebriated, Mr. Jackson?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’d like to repeat my earlier question, Mr. Jackson, but I’ll be more specific this time. Did you use this term in reference to your condition on the evening of July thirteenth, 1988, while sitting in a car hired from the Vanity Fair Car Leasing Corporation, driven by a certain Mr. Emil Taas?”

  “I don’t recall,” said Heath.

  “I’m not surprised,” said Ned Best. “I’d be surprised if you could recall anything from that evening. You’d been drinking, hadn’t you, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I might have had a drink a two.”

  “Would it surprise you that Mr. Taas recalls hearing you say to your companion, ‘I feel schlitzed’?”

  “Not really.”

  “Did you also smoke some marijuana while in the car, Mr. Jackson?”

  “I think I smoked a very small amount.”

  “I just have one more question. Mr. Jackson, given your self-described ‘schlitzed’ condition on the evening of July thirteenth, how can you expect this jury to believe your account of what transpired in the office of the Gallery Shawangunk?”

  “I may have been a little…inebriated, but I know what I saw. I know a murder when I see one, even if I am a little…inebriated. I saw Amanda Paine shoot Solange Shawangunk. I’m certain of that.”

  “You’re certain, Mr. Jackson? You’re sure it wasn’t a pink elephant you saw shooting Mrs. Shawangunk?”

  “Objection
!”

  “Sustained. Mr. Best, if you have serious questions, ask them. Spare us your jokes.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor. I don’t believe I have any more questions.” Ned Best looked at the jury. “There isn’t a question in my mind,” he said, and sat down.

  Heath resumed his seat. The closing statements and the judge’s charge to the jury passed in a blur. He watched as twelve people walked by him, their eyes carefully averted, and disappeared through a door.

  Colette turned to him. “Now comes the hard part,” she said. “There’s nothing worse than waiting.”

  CHAPTER 37

  GREGORY WAS SUPPOSED TO meet Loren at the L.A. airport, but he didn’t. She was greeted by a fat blond woman holding a sign that read LOREN CONNOR PARISH. This woman explained that Gregory was “detained on location” and drove Loren to the ocean, where a production company was filming a picnic scene on the beach.

  Loren took off her shoes and walked around the set. No one seemed to be doing anything, except for one woman who was dismembering a flock of roasted chickens with her bare hands.

  “What are you doing?” Loren asked the woman, watching her tear hunks of meat off a chicken and toss them into a garbage bag.

  “I’m the food stylist,” the woman said. “I’m making these look eaten: We need one for each take.”

  The thought of all that perfectly good chicken going to waste infuriated Loren, but she refrained from commenting. “I’m looking for Gregory Mancini,” she said. “Do you know if he’s around?”

  “He’s probably in the trailer trying to get Patti straight.”

  “Who’s Patti?”

  “The fucking star. With the emphasis on fucking, if you know what I mean.”

  “Which trailer?”

  “The one with a lot of hysterical crying coming from inside it,” said the woman.

  “What about in here?” asked Gregory. They were walking down Rodeo Drive looking for a shoe store. The fat blond woman had driven away with Loren’s shoes and suitcase. Loren was wearing a pair of thongs borrowed from a P.A.

  “It looks awfully expensive,” she said. “I just need a pair for tonight. Don’t you know any cheap shoe stores?”

  “Not in L.A. I haven’t done too much women’s shoe shopping. Let’s just go in here and get it over with. I don’t want to miss our reservation. I’ll pay. It’s my fault, anyway, for not picking you up.”