“Your Honor,” DiPalma replied, “I don’t think it’s reasonable to quarantine the circumstances surrounding Mr. Carson’s crime in advance of hearing them.”
“Overruled.”
“The proceeds of the concert were stolen,” Moore said. “Approximately four hundred thousand dollars.”
Lord saw Kleist take out his pen. “Was the money ever found?” DiPalma asked.
“No.” Moore paused. “It seemed to disappear.”
“In the confusion?”
“Perhaps.”
DiPalma paused. “Does a film of the concert exist, obtained from station KSRT?”
“It does.”
DiPalma held up a can of film. “Is this the film?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Your Honor, I move that this be admitted as People’s Exhibit Thirty-three.”
Cass whispered, “That’s not the one that shows what Harry does afterward.”
“Mr. Lord?” Rainey was asking.
“No objection.”
The film began with Kilcannon and Stacy. As their hands touched, she smiled at him. Beneath the cheers, Lord could hear the jury’s silence.
Harry Carson was suddenly behind them.
Each step he took was the same length and speed—the moves of a professional killer, in a straight line toward Kilcannon.
Then, as Blake had described, he stopped.
Kilcannon turned. Carson stood with the revolver aimed at his head. In that agonizing moment, Stacy’s mouth opened.
Carson took one cool final step and fired.
The camera followed Kilcannon. Stacy fell on him; the film ended as she touched his face.
When the lights came on, Carson was staring at his hands.
Moore sat blinking on the witness stand. “You mentioned a newspaper,” DiPalma asked quietly, “found in the defendant’s duffel bag?”
“That’s correct.”
“Was it open to any particular page?”
“An inside page. The lead article involved a gay rights suit against Colby Parnell. The first name in the headline was Mr. Lord’s.”
“There is another film,” Lord opened, “isn’t there?”
“Yes,” Moore answered. “From Station KQZT.”
Lord held up a silver can. “This one?”
“Yes. I believe that’s right.”
DiPalma rose hastily. “We’ll stipulate that the film exists, and that Mr. Lord has a copy.”
“Thank you.” Lord turned back to Moore. “What made you select the first film?”
Moore looked at him blandly. “I didn’t.”
“Then who did?”
“Mr. DiPalma.”
“He also had you read a poem which referred to someone with ‘hair golden.’ For the record, was Senator Kilcannon blond?”
“He was auburn-haired.”
“Did the poem have a title?”
“‘Golden Anniversary.’”
“Does that mean anything to you?”
“Nothing.”
“In fact, you don’t know what the poem means, either.”
“I can only make an inference.”
“You also inferred that Mr. Carson parked his motorcycle at the loading dock because it offered a clear escape route. It also offers the clearest route to McDonald’s, doesn’t it?”
Moore gave a small smile. “I don’t know.”
“Does it seem very reasonable that, short of levitation, Mr. Carson expected to escape from twenty thousand people?”
“It doesn’t seem very reasonable to me.”
Lord hoped the polite rhythm of his questioning might begin to get the jury past the film. At the corner of his eye, he saw Kleist taking notes again.
“There was testimony that Mr. Carson placed a telephone call. Is there any evidence that this call has the slightest relevance to what we’re here for?”
“No.”
Pausing, Lord could see the expectation in Moore’s eyes, becoming bleak amusement. “And you also have no evidence to offer that the theft of Miss Tarrant’s money was other than coincidental to the senator’s death.”
“We have no evidence either way.”
“So the answer is yes, there is no evidence to offer.”
“Yes,” Moore repeated dryly. “There is no evidence to offer.”
“The theft of money from rock concerts is common, is it not?”
“It happens. Loose cash can’t be traced.”
“During your investigation, did the bureau advise Mr. DiPalma that there was no evidence he could offer linking this theft to Senator Kilcannon’s death?”
“Objection!”
“On what grounds?” Lord snapped. “There’s no privilege.”
Rainey pondered this. “Overruled.”
“We told him,” Moore replied. “Yes.”
“How many times did he ask about this?”
One side of Moore’s mouth twitched again. “Several.”
“He also prepared you for your testimony, did he not?”
“Yes.”
“Did he state his intention to ask about the money?”
“Yes.”
Walking toward the witness box, Lord asked, “And did you tell him yet again that there was no evidence linking that theft to Mr. Carson?”
As DiPalma half-rose, Moore looked at him and then Lord. “What I told him,” he said carefully, “was that there was no connection to which I could testify.”
Lord turned to Rainey. “Your Honor, I move for a mistrial.”
With the courtroom empty, Lord was reminded of a space capsule. Even the cameraman was gone.
“Mr. Lord?” the judge said sternly.
Lord stepped forward. “Nothing is more devastating to an insanity defense than proof of a conspiracy. But Mr. DiPalma has no proof. So instead he insinuated the robbery, knowing he could not connect it to Mr. Carson. That his only purpose was to prejudice the jury demands a new trial.”
“The motion is spurious,” DiPalma retorted. “Having seen how badly the trial is going, Mr. Lord wants out before Miss Tarrant’s testimony. So he asks this court to make itself a public spectacle by reversing its rulings where no prejudice resulted.”
Nodding agreement, Rainey turned to Lord.
“The trial is tainted, Your Honor. The lingering implication is that Carson phoned a co-conspirator and that the murder and a robbery resulted—after which he called his lawyer.”
DiPalma smiled. “Why don’t you have him testify, Tony, and straighten us out?”
“I agree that a mistrial is uncalled for,” Rainey broke in, “and would damage the credibility of the justice system. Motion denied.”
It had gone as Lord expected. Still facing DiPalma, he waited a moment to follow through. “Don’t you think,” he said evenly, “that there’s something strange about cheating Carson into the gas chamber?”
“Mr. Lord!” Rainey said with frank distaste. “If you precipitate another personal exchange, I’ll find you in contempt.”
For a moment, Lord was shaken at what he must do. “That,” he responded finally, “would be impossible.”
Reddening with comprehension, Rainey spun his chair. “Where’s the deputy—”
“Hear me out,” Lord snapped. “I gave you a chance to avoid this motion. But you let Ralph proceed, knowing what he meant to do. You’ve screwed me on TV coverage, on jury selection, and on evidence—because you’re afraid that if Harry wins, you lose—”
“That’s it, dammit—”
“But if I lose, I’ll spend the next three years trying to reverse you. One more lousy ruling and you’ll be the judge who blew the Kilcannon case on television.” Lord lowered his voice. “I’ve got to cross-examine Stacy Tarrant, then put on a Vietnam defense. I want all the latitude you’ve given Ralph.”
DiPalma turned to Rainey, as if demanding him to call the deputy. But the judge still stared at Lord. “Of course I regret it,” Lord added softly, “if passion has caused me not to choose m
y words with care.”
Rainey drew himself up. “I’ll let it pass,” he answered in a monotone. “This once.”
“Unbelievable,” Cass said.
It was ten forty-five. “No choice,” Lord told her. “The trial’s going to hell, and tomorrow DiPalma puts on Stacy Tarrant. I need Rainey to give me more leeway, or Ralph to go too far.”
“I think the jury’s still listening.”
“Then pretty soon they’ll figure out I can’t give them one good reason to believe Harry didn’t know what he was doing. In a way, combat experience argues that he did.” Lord’s headache was a dull throb which started in his eyes. “I’ve got no Damone or second year—no way to explain the anniversary thing or relate it to Kilcannon. And DiPalma’s holding back a heavyweight psychiatrist to say that just as soon as I finish.”
Cass began to straighten Lord’s desk. “At least none of the jurors have smiled at you.”
“Wait till Tarrant gets through.” He turned to her. “You interested in the truth, Cassie?”
“Sure.”
“If it had been my decision, and not Harry’s, I’d have taken DiPalma’s deal.”
“I know.” She finished the desk. “I’d better take off. Jeannie says I’m never home.”
Lord smiled faintly. “See you in the morning.”
When she had left, Lord began flipping dials.
On every station, a confident DiPalma wore the caption “Courtesy of SNI.”
But SNI was looking ahead. As a voice-over summarized her life, Stacy Tarrant sang in Amsterdam, collected her second Grammy, waved from a motorcade with James Kilcannon, bent over his body.
“In seclusion since the funeral, Miss Tarrant will appear tomorrow at the trial of Harry Carson.…”
Lord turned it off and walked to his desk.
It was neater now—Cass had stacked the requests for interviews to one side. Next to these, on five sheets of a yellow legal pad, was his outline of potential question areas for Stacy Tarrant, and a single can of film.
There was nothing more to do now, but go home.
Leaving, Hayes Street was quiet—the opera was over, the restaurants closed. Two blocks away, the dome of City Hall glowed.
Lord took the middle of the street, avoiding doorways or parked cars. Beneath the streetlights, his shadow moved forward, retreated, moved forward again. The fog was penetrant and damp on his face.
Near the corner, Lord stopped short of his Datsun, staring at the windshield.
In the scrawl of a child or a maniac, red paint spelled out the words “You die.”
Glancing over his shoulder, Lord saw no one. He unlocked the door, checked the rear seat, and quickly got in. Gazing at the inverted scrawl, he wondered if Marcia would see it.
He would park on the street, he decided. As he pulled onto Van Ness, the red letters glowed in the lights of oncoming cars.
3
THE jury began turning, straining to see her, until Lord turned with them.
Damone stood behind the bulletproof partition. Next to him was Stacy. Even through the glass, the look she gave Lord had the clarity and astonishing directness he knew from the Parnells’.
As DiPalma faced the jury, her face merged with his reflection in a double image.
“The People call Stacy Tarrant.”
She glanced at Damone. Then he moved to a front-row seat, a deputy opened the glass door, and Stacy entered the courtroom.
Her movements had the tensile awareness of someone used to people watching her. She wore a simple blue dress, light eye makeup, no jewelry or nail polish; that she was quite slender added to the sense of a vulnerable woman trapped in the consequence of her gifts. But there was something electric about her, Lord thought, which would draw people to the smallest gesture.
Taking the stand, she did not look at Carson, or at Lord.
DiPalma stood to one side, so that she faced slightly toward the jury. Their profiles turned as one. Rainey sat straighter; Carson stared at the foot of his bench, as though caught between the camera and Stacy. The taut silence around her had a delicate, explosive quality.
DiPalma began softly. “Would you state your full name, please.”
“Stacy Lynn Tarrant.”
Soft yet smoky, the voice startled with its familiarity. “And what is your occupation?”
“I’m a singer.”
“And you’ve enjoyed some success?”
A slight hesitation. “Yes.”
It was like a play, Lord thought; even her stillness was involving, the soft questions and answers. “Is that why you became a performer?”
“I really didn’t expect what happened.” Stacy flicked back her bangs; Lord realized that this characteristic gesture was resonant with public moments. “I wanted people to hear what I wrote.”
“Will that be your work in the future?”
Stacy paused. “I don’t know.”
“When did you last work as a singer?”
Another pause. “The night of June second.”
“What happened that night?”
She folded her hands. It drew her shoulders in, making her seem more fragile. “Senator Kilcannon was shot.”
Lord could sense her drawing the jury into a kind of intimacy. “What was your relationship to the senator?” DiPalma asked.
“We were very close.” She paused, as if brushing away some memory. “I also believed in him.”
“How did he come to be at the concert?”
She raised her head. “I wanted to help him become president.”
DiPalma waited a moment. “Who was it,” he asked quietly, “that shot him?”
For the first time, she faced Carson. The cool, clear gaze had an impact all its own, Lord thought, so that the quiet answer which followed became an indictment. “Harry Carson.”
Carson watched the floor. “How did it happen?” DiPalma asked.
She turned to him, distracted. “I introduced Jamie to the crowd,” she finally said. “Something made me look up at the screen.”
“What did you see?”
“Harry Carson was behind us.” She spoke as though the memory came to her a moment at a time. “He had a gun.”
“Did you turn to him?”
She shook her head. “At first, it was like a film. The way he moved was so perfect.” The smoky voice became softer, lower. “Somehow I thought if I didn’t turn, it wouldn’t be real.”
The jurors seemed not to move; Lord kept himself from glancing at Kleist. “What happened then?” DiPalma asked.
“Jamie’s hair seemed to lift.” Another pause. “When I turned, he was falling.”
“What did you do?”
“I fell across him.”
“Weren’t you afraid Carson would shoot you?”
A slight nod at her lap. “Yes.”
“But you covered Senator Kilcannon.”
She looked up again, to DiPalma. “I didn’t want him to die,” she said simply.
Lord saw one of the jurors, the Japanese woman, turn away. “Was he still alive?” DiPalma asked.
“My eyes were closed. But I could feel him breathing. After a while—it seemed longer than it was—I looked at him.”
“And then?”
“I brushed the hair back from his face.”
“For what reason?”
She paused. “It was the only thing I could do for him.”
The stillness was eerie, Lord thought—no coughs, papers shuffling, nothing.
“Did he speak to you?”
Stacy breathed in. “He asked if everyone was all right.”
“What happened then?” he asked.
“John Damone—my manager—cleared the way for a stretcher. I went in the ambulance.”
“Did you see him after that?”
“Yes.” She stared at some middle distance, voice echoing her disbelief. “He was dead.”
DiPalma stood quite still. Stacy turned, as if hoping he would do something.
“Befor
e the concert,” he asked, “did you see Harry Carson?”
“Yes.” Her voice was drained of feeling. “He set up the sound.”
“That’s a complex job, isn’t it.”
“Yes.”
“Did you discuss it with him?”
“Yes,” she repeated tonelessly. “I told him the sound was great.”
“Was it?”
“It was perfect.”
Carson bent forward. “Did you say anything else?” DiPalma asked.
Stacy looked away, like someone caught in bitter recall. “I thanked him.”
“What did he say?”
“‘No problem,’ he told me.” Her voice had the first tremor of anger. “He seemed almost detached.”
DiPalma moved closer. “At any time, were Mr. Carson’s actions in any way less than competent?”
In Stacy’s pause, Lord replayed the careful phrasing of the question. “No,” she answered. “He was always competent.”
“Judging from this, did he seem rational?”
A second odd question, Lord thought; he was certain that DiPalma was avoiding something, perhaps something that Stacy might say. “Yes,” she told him. “Very rational.”
DiPalma stood next to her now. “Even at the moment he shot James Kilcannon?”
“Yes.” Turning to Carson, she spoke in a clear, quiet voice. “Especially then.”
The courtroom was silent.
“No further questions,” DiPalma said.
The red car hit a crack on the hardwood floor, spun, and flipped on its back near the sofa.
“That’s not very good, Daddy,” Christopher said, and zoomed the car up The New Yorker and the shoe box he had made into a ramp. It flew into the air, landing against the coffee table.
“Not bad,” Lord told him. “But the driver’s three feet shorter.”
Christopher laughed. “How tall are you, anyhow?”
“Around six feet.”
His son considered this. “I saw you on TV again, before Mommy changed the channel. You were just sitting there.”
Lord smiled. “Some days I like to watch.”
Christopher’s look suggested that he knew this was funny, but didn’t know why. “You’re cuckoo, Daddy.”
“And you’re the proof.” Lord picked up the car and rolled it to his son. “I hear you’ve been making some noise in class.”
Christopher’s expression changed with his father’s. “I feel funny sometimes.”
Private Screening Page 17
