Private Screening

by Richard North Patterson

  Hair tousled, Kilcannon grinned from the cover of Newsweek, poignantly alive.

  “For millions of his generation, and millions more from every race and circumstance in life, he was the last best hope in a dangerous world.”

  As the jury watched, DiPalma placed the magazine face down.

  “In one brief moment,” he said softly, “Harry Carson changed that.

  “For fourteen hours, he had waited with a concealed weapon, hiding his intentions by going about his normal work. And when his moment came, he walked onstage, took one step forward, and murdered James Kilcannon with a single perfect shot.”

  DiPalma stood straighter, as if to rein in his emotions. “Mr. Lord,” he said, “must ask you to believe—must prove to you—that this rational moment, the climax to all those other rational moments, is one of stark insanity.

  “Well, Mr. Lord has surely proven that his client is far from perfect.” DiPalma turned to Carson, voice etched with scorn. “And the surest proof we have is that Harry Carson failed to escape.

  “But even then, did reason fail him?

  “No—he called a lawyer whose name he’d memorized from the morning paper, fourteen hours before. And now this lawyer asks you to believe his client killed because of what he’d suffered in Vietnam, fourteen years before.”

  Once more, DiPalma faced the jury. “This incredible suggestion slanders every other man who suffered there. But even slander will not save him, for the question is not whether Mr. Carson’s service there is worthy of our sympathy, or even whether it changed his mental makeup or the stability of his life. For as the judge will tell you, Mr. Lord must now have proven that, at the moment he shot James Kilcannon—not some other moment—Harry Carson did not understand what he was doing and that it was wrong.

  “To manage this, he asks you to forget what Harry Carson did, and believe only what he says—and then only about Vietnam.”

  DiPalma placed one hand on hip, in his now-familiar pose of disbelief. “Specifically, he presents the murder of James Kilcannon as a curious mental misunderstanding, the annual resurrection of an attempted murder in a rice paddy.” Pausing, he added softly, “The attempted murder of a shadowy figure which only Harry Carson, and only at this trial, claims to have happened at all.”

  Too sarcastic, Lord hoped, perhaps an opening. But the jury listened closely; the rhythm of DiPalma’s speech and logic was tight, effective. “Even if we knew nothing of Mr. Carson’s cool and rational conduct prior to the murder, this excuse stretches the bounds of psychiatric reason. But we do know what he did. And all that Mr. Lord can place in the balance is a poem, and the shooting of a camera.

  “Do these truly mean—in spite of everything else—that Harry Carson murdered by mistake? More to the point, do they prove it?

  “To even ask these questions is as absurd as wondering why he needed a revolver to set up sound for Stacy Tarrant.”

  Moving to his table, DiPalma seemed to gather himself. “As he lay dying, James Kilcannon asked Miss Tarrant, ‘Is everyone all right?’ Fortunately, neither she nor any others were wounded—not physically. But everyone is not all right, and never will be. For Harry Carson killed not just a man but the hope—the right—of a free people to chose those they wish to lead them.”

  Slowly, DiPalma turned up Kilcannon’s photograph for the jury. “James Kilcannon is dead,” he told them. “Harry Carson murdered him. Justice demands that Harry Carson answer for it.”

  Lord spoke his first quiet words to Kleist.

  “I hope that all of you listened closely to Mr. DiPalma. For he is a very able and experienced prosecutor, and he has very ably told you what this case is not about.”

  They watched him now, interest caught.

  “It is not,” he went on, “about whether Harry Carson shot Senator Kilcannon. Everyone knows that.

  “It is not about whether his death was sad beyond redemption. It was.

  “No, what this case requires is that you ask and answer the simple question, Why?

  “Why did a boy from a close rural family, with hopes for the future and not so much as a parking ticket, become the man who shot James Kilcannon?

  “What,” Lord asked with sudden anger, “does Mr. DiPalma think his motive was?

  “To go through this trial?”

  The jurors’ heads snapped back, surprised, as he pointed to Carson.

  “Where is the profit, or the passion, or the principle which would motivate the act?

  “There is none.” Turning, Lord’s gaze swept each juror. “For this so-called cool and rational killing was a crime bereft of reason, and Harry Carson is its final victim.

  “It is this,” he added softly, “the prosecutor asks you to forget.

  “In contrast, he has suggested that the trauma my client sustained in Vietnam is a distraction, that I wish you to ignore the things that Harry Carson did. But all I ask is that you consider with me certain other things he did—and what they mean.

  “I do not believe that the so-called attempted murder in a rice paddy is simply an excuse.

  “Nor do I conceive the fight with his father—exactly one year later—as the beginning of an alibi.

  “Or that he was merely aiding his defense a year ago last June, when he slapped his wife and left his daughter behind.

  “If I am wrong, then the writing of a poem, and the shooting of a camera, are just the final touches.” Lord turned slowly to DiPalma, with Carson slumped between them. “If I am wrong,” he said with quiet irony, “how very clever Harry Carson has always been. And look at all he’s gained.”

  Across the courtroom, Lord and DiPalma stared at each other, and then Lord turned to Kleist.

  “What was done to James Kilcannon can never be undone. All Harry Carson brings to this courtroom is the hope that you will look at him, and ask the simple question, Why?” Pausing, Lord finished softly. “And, in the end, I believe that you will find the answer—not guilty, by reason of insanity.”

  Lord stood there, watching them, and then Kleist smiled.

  At that moment, Lord was certain he had lost.

  4

  CHRISTOPHER watched Lord toss clothes in his suitcase. “I want you to live here, Daddy.”

  Stopping, Lord stared at the suitcase. “I’ll just be at Laura and Ray’s—till your Mom and I can talk better.”

  “Promise?”

  His son was about to cry, Lord knew. Before Christopher could see his face, he scooped him up. “It’s not your fault, honey. It’s mine.”

  Christopher clasped his neck. When Lord put him down, he turned, running to his room.

  A moment later he returned with a school photo of himself. “You can have this. So you don’t get lonely.”

  He was trying to smile. “Thanks, mugwump,” Lord said. “I’ll put it near my bed.”

  Christopher watched his face. “Do you have a picture of Mommy?”

  “I’ll be sure and ask for one.” Taking his son’s photograph, he knelt. “You know what the best day of my life was?”

  Christopher leaned his forehead to Lord’s. “What?”

  “The day you were born.”

  Marcia was waiting at the front door. “Are you moving in with her?”

  Lord shook his head. “Since that night, we haven’t spoken.”

  Her eyes narrowed in mistrust. “I’m not sharing Christopher,” she finally said, “if that’s what you’re angling for.”

  “Look—”

  “I’ve already talked to a lawyer, Tony. No joint custody—you’re not getting your way this time.”

  He glanced down the hallway. “Or what? You’ll use our son again?”

  The anger he saw was barely controlled. “If that’s what it takes to defend my rights.”

  Lord stared at her. “Jesus Christ,” he said, and left.

  In his friends’ guest room, alone, he unpacked the suitcase. For a moment Lord sat on the bed, gazing at the photograph of Christopher. Then he picked up the phone and diale
d Cass.

  “No word,” she said. “I’d have called you.”

  “Yeah. Okay.”

  There was silence. “That bit about smilers,” she said. “It’s folklore, Tony.”

  For four days, Lord went to his office, awaiting the verdict.

  There was a split in the jury, he knew; with each hour, a mistrial grew more likely. He slept fitfully.

  On the afternoon of the fourth day, Cass called him, sounding tense. “Better get over here.”

  When Lord arrived, they’d brought Carson down from jail.

  The bailiff announced Judge Rainey. Standing, Lord felt numb; DiPalma was pale; Carson shifted his weight from side to side. The jurors filed in, looking at no one.

  Kleist stood front row center, the foreman.

  Reporters watched through the glass, ready. The camera turned to Rainey. He seemed shaken, smaller than his robes.

  “Do you have a verdict?” he asked.

  “We do.” Kleist looked grim; his voice had wavered slightly. His eyes never left the judge.

  “Will you read it?” Rainey asked.

  Kleist squared his shoulders. “Not guilty,” he said. “By reason of insanity.”

  To Lord, the next minutes were a blur.

  There was an explosion of sound, followed by reporters running for cameras or phones. Kleist nodded to him, followed by other jurors, but no one smiled. When Lord grasped Carson’s shoulder, he looked away.

  “It’s a start,” Lord told him.

  Carson watched the floor. “Thanks,” he mumbled, and then Rainey gaveled them to order.

  Judicial calm recovered, he ordered Carson to a state mental facility. Two deputies took him away.

  It was over.

  Cass hugged him awkwardly. “You did it, Tony.”

  “Both of us.”

  She looked at him, shaking her head. “You’ll need me to bring the car around,” she said, and was gone.

  Turning, Lord saw DiPalma.

  They faced each other, winner and loser; Lord remembered in surprise that he was taller than the prosecutor. Silently, he extended his hand.

  Eyes filled with anger and humiliation, DiPalma stared at it.

  Lord’s arm fell to his side. Shrugging, he headed toward the glass partition.

  The lobby was filled with reporters and spectators.

  “Hey, Tony—”

  Lord kept going through flashbulbs, newspeople, TV cameras. “You fucked up my picture,” someone whined, and then he reached the door.

  More cameras formed a semicircle, blocking his way. From the top of the steps, a crowd flowed across the lawn and sidewalk and into the streets. For the rest of his life, Lord realized, people would remember this.

  A piece of metal glinted, coming toward him. Like Kilcannon, he thought crazily, then saw it was a shotgun microphone.

  “Tony,” someone shouted. “Do you view this as a vindication of Vietnam vets?”

  Lord composed himself. “They don’t need vindication,” he answered. “They didn’t shoot James Kilcannon. What they and Harry Carson need is a more intelligent appreciation of what we asked them to do.”

  Another microphone. “But do you believe the verdict was warranted?”

  Lord nodded. “The jury’s verdict is both warranted and courageous. The ultimate credit goes to them.…”

  “Some people think DiPalma blew it.”

  “He just couldn’t find any motive.” Lord gave a half-hearted smile. “You’re not supposed to make one up.”

  “Tony!”

  A familiar, woman’s voice. Turning to find it, Lord saw Damone, leaning against the wall.

  Faintly smiling, Damone nodded.

  “Over here!”

  Lord watched him an instant longer, then faced his questioner.

  It was Rachel, gazing at him from behind the microphone. “How do you feel now?” she asked.

  “Tired.”

  She pushed closer. “But don’t you have any personal reaction?”

  As their eyes met, he felt Damone still watching. “It’s history,” he said, and then brushed past her, starting through the crowd.

  Part 3

  TONY LORD

  and

  STACY TARRANT

  THE SEVEN DAYS OF PHOENIX

  April 8–14, The Following Year

  Day One: Monday

  1

  WITHIN twenty-four hours of Stacy Tarrant’s call, Lord was on a plane to Los Angeles.

  The night before, he had worked late with Cass, preparing to leave. They worked quickly and quietly, both stunned by what Phoenix had done. Lord made a list of lawyers to call, putting off meetings or hearings; Cass culled the coming week’s files and then the Saturday mail. Alexis Parnell’s kidnapping replayed in the background, on SNI.

  With the volume low, the distorted voice of Phoenix seemed to come from some great distance:

  “John Damone will die unless Stacy Tarrant can persuade you to pledge five million dollars, through a unique and public act of selflessness which I will disclose on my first broadcast, tomorrow night.…”

  As Lord turned to watch, Alexis stumbled once more, beneath the door of the terrorist’s white van.

  “As for Alexis Parnell, in the days that follow you will judge her husband’s televised compliance with my demands. Then, on the seventh day of her captivity, you will cast an advisory vote through SNI as to whether she will live or die.…”

  The camera zoomed in; the fallen woman gazed up at it, in shocked close-up.

  “And on the final day you will witness her release or execution—live.”

  The picture changed. At night, a body lay in a darkened patch of grass. Then a light flashed in its face; Colby Parnell, blindfolded, an audiotape stuffed in his mouth with a gag.

  The voice which replaced that of Phoenix was Rachel’s.

  “Early this morning,” she began, “SNI rescued Colby Parnell from a deserted hillside in Sonoma County, after a call from the terrorist. But like the authorities, Parnell has no clue as to who would take his wife, or where they are. Tonight, one day after the kidnapping, Phoenix seems to have vanished.

  “As for Stacy Tarrant, she is unavailable for comment.…”

  Glancing at Lord, Cass muted the volume further.

  Lord finished his work. Opening the last piece of mail, a department-store box, Cass gazed at it silently. Then, without speaking, she handed it to Lord.

  Lord stared at the lump of feces inside. “Pity,” he said at length. “No return address.”

  “Another anonymous admirer.” Closing the box, Cass took it to the farthest corner of his office. “At least it had time to dry.”

  “That’s the post office for you.”

  For the first time that evening, Cass smiled a little.

  “Being famous,” Lord told her, “has changed my whole life.”

  Her gaze moved across the messages on his desk—requests for interviews or speeches—then back to the television, stopping until Lord followed this. SNI was running the film of Stacy Tarrant; in the silence of the too-quiet streets beneath his office window, Stacy Tarrant turned from the fallen James Kilcannon, to them. “I wonder why she called you,” Cass murmured.

  “I don’t know.” Walking to the television, he turned it off. “One call, Cassie, and I’ll leave with you.”

  He picked up the telephone, dialing. When Marcia answered, he said, “It’s me. Look, I’ve got a favor to ask.”

  “What is it?”

  “I promised Christopher I’d take him to see Star Games this week, and I’ve been called out of town. I may be tied up for a while.…”

  “Another big case?”

  Lord waited a moment. “Anyhow, I think we’d better go tonight.”

  “You can’t.” The words came quickly, rehearsed. “Fred and I are taking him—I don’t want him near what’s been on television.”

  “He and I were planning on it, Marsh.…”

  “Then tell him that,” she said flatl
y.

  Lord heard her put the phone down, then say, “Tony wants to talk to you.”

  “Daddy?” His son’s voice fell off. “I told Mommy you were taking me.…”

  Lord could envision his seven-year-old mumbling into the telephone, with Marcia close by. As too often lately, he found himself trying to guess in seconds the effect of some response on Christopher; he was at once afraid that Christopher would choose his mother, and that choosing him would make his son’s life harder. “You really want to see it, right?”

  “Well, Mikie says it’s good—”

  “Then you can tell me about it, okay? And don’t forget to thank Fred.”

  “Okay.”

  Christopher’s voice was muted. Lord wished that he could see his face. “I love you, Christopher.”

  “Me too.”

  “Then let me speak to your mom, all right?”

  “Okay.” Another pause, then, “’Bye.”

  “’Bye.”

  “What is it?” Marcia snapped.

  Lord leaned forward. “Two things. First, tell that idiot if he drives my son when he’s stoned again I’ll see you both in court. Second, I’m tired of watching you use Christopher. Next time I come over, don’t make him stand on the porch with his suitcase like a fucking orphan.…”

  “I don’t want you in this house. For any reason.”

  “Listen—”

  Marcia hung up.

  Lord sat back in his chair. “Jesus.”

  Cass had busied herself with the Rolodex. Almost shyly, she looked up through wire-rimmed glasses. “Marcia puts him in the middle, huh.” She paused, then added, “And you’re paying her too much for it.”

  “I wanted to keep him in that house.” He shook his head. “Whatever else, Marcia’s not a fool. The choices she gave me were intended to inflict pain.”

  “You got joint custody for Jack Cole.…”

  “Public trials may be my perverse idea of fun, but not for Christopher.” Lord put on his sportcoat. “Did I tell you that People wanted to do a piece on our divorce?”

  Cass watched him. “I guess,” she said finally, “there’s no way of knowing who called her that night.”