Delusion

by Peter Abrahams

  “Perfect.”

  “And your name?”

  “Nell. Nell Jarreau.”

  The name didn’t appear to mean anything to him. “See you then,” he said.

  Nell left a note for Norah, one of those simple family notes, but she went through three versions before getting it right: Back soon. There’s a nice sandwich in the fridge. Remember—Dad says no driving till we find out about the new premium. Love, Mom.

  Then she drove south to the I–10 interchange and headed for New Orleans.

  Nell parked on the Tulane side of St. Charles, walked onto the campus. Professor Urbana’s office was on the top floor of a stone building on the main quad, door open. He saw her and said, “Come in.” Professor Urbana was about her own age, bearded and chubby. He came out from behind his desk and shook her hand. “I looked you up,” he said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

  “No, I guess—”

  “Don’t know anything about the actual case,” the professor said. “The personalities and so on. My interest is scientific, and I assume you’re looking for a quick synopsis in that area.”

  “Ye—”

  “And I also assume you’d prefer this conversation to remain private.”

  “Yes.”

  “No problem.”

  Through the window, Nell saw a Frisbee soaring by. “You mentioned a video,” she said.

  “Good place to start,” said the professor. He sat her in front of a TV, pressed a button.

  Night. A car appeared on the screen. It drove into a parking lot, stopped in an empty space. A man got out, stood for a moment under a lamppost. He wore a leather jacket and a baseball cap, hadn’t shaved in two or three days. For a moment, he looked right into the camera. Then he took a small black box from his pocket, knelt and stuck it up underneath the engine of the next car over. After that he turned his back, got into his own car and drove away. The screen went blank.

  Nell turned to the professor. He was writing in a notebook.

  “Coffee?” he said, looking up. “I’m having some.” He went to the coffeemaker on the window sill, poured coffee into two mugs with green-wave logos. “Organic Sumatran, plus a hint of chicory.”

  “Delicious,” said Nell.

  He sat at his desk, motioned her into the visitor’s chair. “Where did you study art history?” he said.

  She told him.

  “Any special period?”

  “Early Baroque, but lately, before the hurricane, I was getting interested in Southern landscape painting.”

  “Early Baroque was when?”

  “Beginning of the seventeenth century.”

  “Any painters I might have heard of?”

  “Caravaggio?”

  The professor shook his head. “Don’t know much about art, sorry to say.” He took a folder from his top drawer, slid it across the desk. “Please open it,” he said.

  Nell opened the folder. Inside were six photographs, three-by-five, head-and-shoulder shots, all men.

  “Which one planted the car bomb?” said Professor Urbana.

  Nell laughed, slightly embarrassed, slightly annoyed. She didn’t like being manipulated; on the other hand, his attempt to distract her had been so crude and transparent, in retrospect. And what he hadn’t factored in was the dual reality of her fine eye for detail and excellent visual memory. This would not be hard.

  Nell examined the photos, numbered one through six. She eliminated two and four immediately—a black man and a Hispanic. The car bomber had been white. And also much younger than number one; she pushed him aside. These prominent eyebrows on number six, almost meeting in the middle—she would have remembered a feature like that.

  Leaving three and five. Both had weak chins, as the car bomber had, and five also had the same kind of stubbly beard. But stubbly beards could be shaved off, and number five’s lips seemed too thin. The car bomber’s lips had been puffy, pretty much identical to the lips of the man in photo three. That was the one Nell put her finger on, neatly avoiding the stubbly beard trap.

  “Him,” she said.

  “The answer,” said the professor, “is none of the above.” He took out a seventh photo: the car bomber. At best, the real car bomber bore a casual resemblance to number three, but no more so than to number five; and an argument could be made that he didn’t look at all like either of them. Nell fought the urge to hang her head.

  “Don’t worry,” Professor Urbana said. “No one ever gets it—just proves you’re human. The point of all this is we need better police techniques.”

  “Such as?”

  “We’ll skip over the obvious—out-and-out prompting by the investigator,” the professor said. “First, in photo arrays, the pictures should be shown sequentially, not all at once. Second, in both arrays and live lineups, the witness should be told that the perpetrator or his image might not be there. Third, the distractors, the fillers, should be chosen fairly—to use an extreme example, suppose the witness has already described a light-skinned man, and five of the six in the lineup are dark—not fair.” Professor Urbana put the folder away. “But the most important reform would be to impose double-blind procedures.”

  “Meaning?”

  “The officer conducting the lineup would have no knowledge of the identity of the suspect. This would eliminate all possibility of suggestion, blatant, subtle, or even unconscious. I happen to be working on a paper right now on the subject of subtle signals—changes in posture like a leaning forward or a relaxation of the shoulders, changes in tone, sidelong glances, throat clearing, the well-timed sniff.” The Frisbee went by again, behind the professor’s back. He glanced at his watch. “Class time, I’m afraid. Any questions?”

  Nell had many, but not for him.

  She headed for the freeway. Her route, west on St. Charles, took her past the house Johnny had grown up in, a beautiful Uptown mansion. Contact with his parents, whom she’d hardly known and had never really warmed to, had ended not long after the funeral, except for a gift when Norah was born, and cards for a few Christmases. Nell had caught Johnny’s mother’s obituary eight or nine years later. Was it possible his father still lived in the house? Nell slowed down as she passed it. She remembered the house being white with black trim; now it was cream-colored with green. And a fence had been added, one of those tall, spear-tipped wrought-iron fences. A paper-boy stood by it. On the other side, an old man in a straw hat—yes, Johnny’s father, shrunken and stooped—was making angry gestures at him. Nell kept going.

  CHAPTER 14

  Pirate unlocked the minibar. “Just lookin’,” he said aloud. Nice to be able to say things out loud, do what he felt like, no one to see, no one to tell him no. Lots of cool shit in the minibar—peanuts, Twizzlers, Mars bar, Jujubes, Coke, OJ, beer, wine, whiskey, vodka, gin, Kahlúa. First minibar in his life. The Lord gave Job twice as much as he had before. Pirate didn’t know where to begin. Was he hungry or thirsty? Both. A lot of both. Lots and lots of both.

  He started with the peanuts. Then he polished off the Twizzlers, Mars bar and Jujubes, washing them down with Coke, and when the Coke was gone, OJ. It all went down good, real good. He felt refreshed, like a new man.

  Knock knock. Pirate went to the door, had a little trouble with all the locks, bolts, chains; and opened up. Susannah, and behind her a man in one of those pastor collars.

  “Hey, Susannah.”

  “Hi, Alvin. Bet that juice tastes good.”

  “Juice?”

  She glanced at the Tropicana carton in his hand.

  “Oh, yeah, real good.”

  “This is Reverend Proctor of the Chessman Society,” Susannah said.

  “What’s that?” Pirate didn’t like pastors, reverends, priests, didn’t need them for his religion.

  Reverend whatever-his-name-was cleared his throat, spoke in a mellow reverend voice. “We help reintegrate former inmates into the community.”

  “Yeah?” Reintegrate? Was this guy trying to get him to move to the ghetto? How was
that going to work?

  “May we come in?” Susannah said.

  “Be my guest,” Pirate said. That gave him such a kick he said it again.

  They sat in the living room of Pirate’s suite. A suite, not bad. He’d stayed in a couple Motel 6’s back in his bar-band days, but they didn’t have suites.

  “I’m leaving town soon,” Susannah said, “so Reverend Proctor will be your contact.”

  “Where you going?” Pirate said.

  “Back to Chicago.”

  “That’s where you live?”

  After a moment of hesitation—maybe Susannah hadn’t quite heard him—she said, “Yes.” Her skin was particularly lovely today.

  “The Windy City,” Pirate said. “Never been, myself.”

  “You’d probably find it too cold,” Susannah said.

  “Might make a nice change.” He smiled at her in a friendly way. Her smile back was a little weak—Susannah didn’t seem her normal self today. Pirate understood: she was riding one of those downs that follow a big effort. He knew the feeling from his one audition for a real producer, up in Atlanta; didn’t remember the name of the producer, just the down feeling after the audition, even though he’d played great and the producer’s assistant said they’d be in touch. “Want to thank you,” Pirate said. “For everything you, uh…”

  “Seeing you free is thanks enough,” Susannah said.

  “Yeah,” Pirate said. “I’m free. Anyone want a drink or something?” He found he still had the Tropicana carton, held it up.

  “No tha—” said Susannah.

  “That might be—” said the reverend.

  Pirate went to the minibar, poured two glasses of juice, handed them out. “How about a toast?” he said.

  “Wonderful idea,” the reverend said.

  He raised his glass. Susannah raised hers. “Yo,” said Pirate. He drank his from the carton. Maybe Susannah wasn’t thirsty, because although she raised her glass, she didn’t actually drink. But the reverend did.

  “To your future,” he said.

  “Yeah,” said Pirate. “Twice as…” He left the rest unsaid.

  “What was that?” asked the reverend.

  “Nothin’.”

  The reverend rubbed his hands together, like he was trying to warm things up. Pirate could see he was the enthusiastic type, like volunteers he’d run across on the inside. “While we’re on that topic,” the reverend said, “what’s your thinking at this point?”

  On that topic? Thinking at this point?

  “About your future,” Susannah said.

  Pirate took in a deep breath. It felt good, freedom air. “Take it slow,” he said. “Slow and easy.”

  Susannah and the reverend glanced at each other. “Are there any people from the past we could help you connect with?” the reverend said. “Family? Friends?”

  “Nope.”

  The reverend nodded. “What do you see yourself doing two or three years from now?”

  Pirate drew a blank on that one. Had he spotted the Jim Beam label on one of those little whiskey bottles? All at once, he remembered the Jim Beam taste, real fine.

  “Should we go over the financial situation again?” Susannah said.

  “Sure,” said Pirate. Had they been over it before? He put down the OJ carton, got ready to listen.

  “As you know,” Susannah said, “we’re suing the state on your behalf. We’re in settlement talks now, but there are no guarantees. Meanwhile, you’re being financed by a short-term loan from the Justice Project, to be repaid from the eventual settlement, if successful.” She paused. “Any questions?”

  “Yeah,” said Pirate. “This settlement talking thing—is the Jew—that other lawyer, handling it?”

  Susannah blinked. “No,” she said. “We have a monetary specialist for these negotiations. She’s very good.”

  That sounded all right to Pirate. A Jew would have been better, of course, as everyone knew. But, hey! No reason this specialist woman couldn’t be a Jew. He almost asked.

  “Anything else?” Susannah said.

  “How much?” said Pirate.

  “How much?”

  “The settlement.”

  Susannah sat back in her chair. Maybe she wasn’t as beautiful as he’d thought. It was also possible that his eye was tired; that happened, with just the one doing all the work. He closed it for a moment, massaged it with the base of his palm.

  “Mr. DuPree?” the reverend said. “Are you okay?”

  Pirate stopped massaging his eye, opened it, saw Susannah and the reverend, both blurry now, streaked, like the reception was bad.

  “Susannah,” said the reverend, “is there any figure at all, however conservative, you might venture?”

  “Not really,” she said. “We’re not quite in uncharted territory here, but it is pretty new.”

  “Is there possibly a comparable case you could cite, just to give some idea?” the reverend said.

  Susannah shot the reverend a quick glance, eyes narrowed. Was she pissed at him or something? This was hard to follow. “There was a case in Oklahoma last year, quite different—less time served, a college degree, some corporate experience.”

  “So we would expect somewhat less for Mr. DuPree.”

  “Correct.”

  “Less than what?” said Pirate.

  “The Oklahoma settlement came to a shade under five hundred thousand dollars,” Susannah said. “Before taxes.”

  “Five hundred grand?” Pirate said; and now, at last, understood the end of Job, where people shower him with things—money, gold earrings, fourteen thousand sheep, all those camels, oxes and she asses. She asses—oh, yes, she anything with five hundred grand. He could do the math: five hundred grand was half a million dollars. Pirate’s vision cleared.

  “As I mentioned,” Susannah said, “we’re expecting considerably less, right down to the possibility of nothing at all.”

  Pirate barely heard that. These Justice people were winners; wasn’t that obvious by now? Look at him: free, in the suite.

  “All very promising,” said the reverend, rubbing his hands again. “But in the meantime, you’re going to need some money.”

  “Yeah?” said Pirate.

  “For food, rent, routine living expenses,” the reverend said.

  “Rent?” Why would he need rent? “I’ll just stay here,” Pirate said.

  Susannah and the reverend shared another one of those private looks. Pirate was getting tired of that. Wasn’t five hundred grand worth more respect?

  “Mr. DuPree?” said the reverend. “It’s my understanding that Susannah’s organization won’t be able to keep you in the hotel much longer.”

  So I’ll just buy the fuckin’ place! Pirate kept that thought to himself. These were nice people, no doubt about it, but would he be spending time with them by choice? No way.

  “To defray living expenses,” the reverend said, “we’ve been thinking of a fund-raiser.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Which also allows the community to give a little something back.”

  “Back where?”

  “Why, to you, Mr. DuPree.”

  “Okeydoke,” said Pirate.

  “Any thoughts on the fund-raiser?”

  “I said okay.”

  “Meaning where you’d like to have it, that kind of thing. A picnic, say, or a celebrity basketball game?”

  “Celebrities?”

  “Local celebrities.”

  Local celebrities? Picnic? “How about some music?”

  “Music?”

  “I used to play.”

  “Oh? What instrument?”

  “Guitar.”

  “Love the guitar,” said the reverend. “Were you able to keep it up?”

  “Inside?”

  The reverend nodded.

  “No guitars inside.”

  “That’s a shame,” the reverend said, maybe not getting what could be done with guitar strings.

  “Yeah,” said Pi
rate. “Red Rooster still around?”

  “The club?” said the reverend. “I believe so.”

  One of his best gigs, backing up a dude who was going to be the next Delbert McClinton. “Let’s have it there,” Pirate said.

  “I’ll see what I can do,” said the reverend.

  He and Susannah rose. Susannah approached Pirate’s chair. “I’ll be saying good-bye,” she said.

  Pirate got up; he had manners. Were they going to hug or something? Maybe he’d give her back a friendly pat. Susannah held out her hand. He shook it, such a tiny hand.

  “I’ll be in touch about the settlement,” she said. “Good luck.”

  “You, too,” said Pirate. “And, you know, mucho gracias.”

  Pirate felt tired after they left; they’d sapped his energy somehow, even though nothing had happened but blah blah blah. He opened the minibar and looked in: nothing left but the booze—beer, wine, whiskey—yes, Jim Beam—vodka, gin, Kahlúa. And booze was out; he’d given it up, had learned self-control. What exactly was Kahlúa? Some coffee thing? Did it actually count as booze? Pirate was wondering about that when the phone rang. Hey! His first phone call.

  He picked it up. “Yeah?”

  “Alvin? Lee Ann Bonner here.” A little pause. “The reporter.”

  “With the glasses?”

  She laughed; a nice sound—nice, in fact, to hear a woman laugh. He tried to think of some joke, make her do it again.

  “Did you get to see the piece?”

  Whoa. Piece? What the hell was she talking about?

  “The article I wrote—based on our interview.”

  “Nope.”

  “It’s getting a lot of comment.”

  “Yeah?”

  “All favorable.”

  “Uh-huh.” This was one of those cordless phones, where you could walk around. Pirate walked over to the minibar, took out the Kahlúa bottle, tried to read the label. The writing was tiny; his vision blurred.

  “What are you up to?” the reporter said. Pirate put the bottle back, real quick. “I was hoping I could take you out to lunch, if you’re free.”

  Was it lunchtime? He was hungry, no doubt about that. “Yeah,” said Pirate. “I’m free.”