Private Screening (15 page)

Lord parked near a brick warehouse on DeHaro Street and walked to the fire escape. Climbing to the second floor, he saw that the door was left ajar.

The warehouse was dark and silent; entering, Lord had an unwelcome thought of Kilcannon. Then he saw light coming from behind a wood partition.

In the other side were a cot, an old refrigerator, a sink, and a stove. A man sat at an easel, several beer cans next to his paint-speckled bench. His face glistened with sweat.

“So,” he said, “the guy who shot Kilcannon is a vet.”

Lord stepped closer. “That's right.”

The man put down his paintbrush. He was thin and mustached, and though Lord knew him from television as David Haldane, leader of a Vietnam veterans' group, a certain withheld intensity reminded him of Damone. But what unsettled Lord was that he lived here. “And now,” Haldane countered, “you want to scam some Vietnam defense.”

“I'm here to learn.”

“All right. You know how vets kill people when it happens?” Haldane snapped his fingers. “Like that—'cause something brought it back. Christ, Carson brought a fucking Mauser to work.”

“I don't pretend to understand him yet.”

“Understand
this
.” Haldane stood to face him. “No vet I've talked to wants this guy to get off by faking post-Vietnam stress. There's too much at stake.”

“Such as?”

“All the guys who
didn't
shoot Kilcannon.” The blue eyes held Lord's. “Try out some numbers—a hundred and ten thousand suicides among Vietnam vets, fifty thousand more deaths in one-car crack-ips or from drugs or alcohol. What they need is jobs and help, not some lawyer trying to walk Carson on their backs 'cause that's all you've got going.”

“Then you'd better educate me. If a defense won't fly, I don't want to screw it up.”

“And what if it does fly? The whole country points at us.”

“Maybe I can educate
them
. Look, can you really sacrifice Carson to help you politically?”

“It happened before,” Haldane retorted. “Fifty-six thousand times.”

As Lord glanced at the easel, he saw that Haldane's oil was of a Vietnamese child. “We're not getting anywhere,” he said. “And I've got a vet in jail.”

“What do you want to know?”

“How to tell Vietnam stress from something else.”

Finally, Haldane shrugged. “For openers, take a real good look at Carson's life before, during, and after the war. Most combat vets with serious stress have two different lives—the war's like a fault line.”

“Why?”

Haldane gave a sour smile. “It's real simple, man. Take your pet cat and start lobbing hand grenades all around him—by nightfall you've got a different cat.”

Lord paused. “What was it like for you?”

“I was in the Iron Triangle, during Tet.” Haldane's face closed off. “You were in college, right?”

“Then law school.”

“And I'm a night watchman.” Haldane lit a cigarette. “A lot of vets come back with an
attitude
, man. They remember when other people's self-promoting trips killed off their friends.”

“Is that why Carson couldn't hold on to jobs?”

Haldane exhaled. “What else he tell you?”

“I've got a problem with the attorney-client privilege.” Lord hesitated. “Let's say there was something about Kilcannon screwing veterans.”

“Then he got that much right.” Haldane leaned over, pulling up one pants leg until Lord saw discolored scabs. “That's Agent Orange, not poison oak. I showed that to Kilcannon.”

“You met him?”

“Me and some other vets. We wanted this Senate committee he was on to vote money to study the effects of Agent Orange—lesions, screwed-up brain chemistry, birth defects, the whole schmear. He did a little tap dance about how sympathetic he was and then told us to organize. He was off running for president the day they voted it down.”

“How would Carson know about that?”

“One of the guys wrote an article called ‘A Great Listener' about what a phony Kilcannon was. But nobody wanted the man dead.” Haldane gave a shrug of laconic hopelessness. “I mean, what's the point?”

“Have any of you met Carson?”

Haldane shook his head. “I called some people in L.A. Never heard of him.”

“What about Damone?”

“Just a name. Too busy with Tarrant to help out.”

“He did give Carson a job.”

Haldane stamped out the cigarette. “Fucked up there, didn't he.”

Lord shrugged. “I'm going to need a shrink to examine him. An honest one who does therapy—not a professional witness.”

Haldane thought. “Call Marty Shriver, in Berkeley. He's a good guy—works with vets who can't pay much. But do your homework.”

“I will.…”

“'Cause he won't like this either. And if Carson shot Kilcannon so some pals could boost the cashbox, no one's going to touch it.” A mocking edge came into Haldane's voice. “You'd better figure this guy out.”

“I understand.”

“Yeah. I think you
do
understand that.”

Haldane sat, staring at the half-finished child. When Lord left, he was painting.

Outside it was dark and cool. Lord took the fire escape, letting his eyes adjust to the night.

At the bottom, he heard something hit metal. He flinched, wheeling.

It was a cat robbing a garbage can. Its eyes glowed like yellow stones.

2

L
ORD
and Cass sat watching Kilcannon's funeral.

The body had been flown to Princeton for a service in a Catholic church, broadcast by SNI. Cameras roamed the crowd outside—an old woman crying, two black children, a priest. Then their faces dissolved to the casket.

A silver-haired senator spoke with Irish eloquence:

“A novelist once wrote of his hero, ‘He was born with the gift of laughter, and a sense that the world was mad.' Jamie Kilcannon knew too well that the world he wished to make gentle is too often mad. But even in madness, we remember the gift of his laughter.…”

The camera panned from the president and the first lady to a weeping man in a bow tie, then Stacy Tarrant, and stayed.

Lord leaned closer, taking in the haunted look, the way she held her head quite still. She had walked up the steps of the church with the same strong-willed dignity, so slowly that Lord thought she wished to pierce those watching with the wrong that Carson had done. Now he wondered whether law had stripped him of a normal response to tragedy. Yet the thought persisted: this purpose might sustain her.

As Lord watched, she listened to the senator's eulogy.

“And even in death, the terrible beauty of his last spoken words reflects his larger hope for mankind: ‘Is everyone all right …?'”

Stacy's gaze wavered, then fell.

“Jesus,” Lord murmured.

The service ended.

Lord and Cass watched as she left with Damone, controlled again. Damone's face showed nothing; dimly, Lord tried to imagine the complexity of his feelings.

“We'd better go now, Cassie. We're due in court.”

She nodded, facing the screen. As they left, Stacy stepped into a black limousine, and disappeared.

After this, the courtroom felt like a cathedral, the arraignment even more like the ritual Lord knew it to be. As Judge Rainey told him that he was charged with murdering Kilcannon, Carson stared as if listening to Latin. Reporters and artists filled the benches, scratching notes or first hurried sketches. When it was over, Lord touched Carson's shoulder, and then two deputies led him away.

Cass stared after him. “He looks stoned,” she told Lord.

“He's high on life.”

To his relief, Lord saw a small smile.

Outside, reporters spilled down the steps.

“What's his defense?” someone called out. Lord and Cass kept going, until he bumped into a trench coat with breasts.

Trapped, he saw unruly black hair, a mobile-looking mouth, then bright hazel eyes with an off-center glint. “Give me a break, Mr. Lord. I'm not pretty enough to make anchorwoman.”

The misplaced flirtiness was so human that Lord almost laughed. “Who are you?”

“Rachel Messer—Channel 6.”

“Okay, Rachel. Maybe when I know what to say.”

“I can help you,” she said cheerfully, and stepped aside.

Cass's Volkswagen was double-parked in front. Lord slid into the passenger seat, staring at the crowd.

“I wonder,” he told her, “if Carson could get a fair trial on the moon.”

She pulled away. “DiPalma hasn't found the money yet. Or co-conspirators.”

“And Carson won't talk about Vietnam.”

She glanced at him. “Looks like we'll get his records up to the stint in Long Binh Jail. With any luck, we can find someone who served with him to talk with us.”

“But not Damone. And the impression he gave was that he can hurt Carson, not help him.”

“Maybe you can find some way to appeal to him. Later.”

“There
is
no way.” Saying this, Lord realized he was certain of it. “Whatever Damone does is for his own reasons.”

Carson puffed a Lucky Strike. “'Nam?” he said. “Again?”

“Things you remember.”

Carson laughed smoke. “Water.”

“Wet?”

“Yes.” The smile faded. “I can feel it on my skin.”

Lord doodled on his notepad. “What else?”

Carson stretched out his free hand, watching it waggle. “Choppers, swaying before they'd drop you.”

“When was that?”

“I don't remember.” Carson's arm went slack. “Ask Damone.”

“He won't talk to me. Where were you, anyhow?”

“The jungle.” Carson's eyes closed. “It's all a blur—dark. I took a lot of dex.”

For a moment, the skin around his eyes seemed to tighten. And then he was gone, Lord thought, absolutely, gone. Staring at his useless notes, he wondered if Carson remembered DiPalma was waiting to try him for murder.

“Was that after you were in prison?” he asked.

Carson's eyes opened.

“The Long Binh Jail,” Lord prodded.

Carson seemed to focus, intoning, “The LBJ.”

“What happened when you got out?”

Slowly, Carson shook his head. “I don't remember, man.”

“How'd you get there?”

“I butt-stroked a lieutenant.”

“Why?”

“Fucker wanted us to count bodies.”

“What did
Kilcannon
do?”

Carson stubbed his cigarette. “I don't see what the big deal is.”

“The big deal is that he's dead.”

“It's a rotten world, man.” Suddenly, Carson's eyes seemed moist. “I remember when my kid was born, so pretty. I almost wanted to choke her so she'd never know.”

“Where is she?”

“Somewhere. South Carolina—I can't find her.”

“What happened?”

“I fucked up. Couldn't support 'em.…”

“What happened to the concert money?”

Carson watched the dying cigarette. “I don't know,” he finally said. “I just don't know.”

Lord wondered whether to believe him; only his child broke the litany of nonresponses. Half-curious, half-despairing, he decided to try another tack.

“What's it like, Harry? In the cell.”

Carson thought. “It's like being numb. No people—sometimes I feel like my mind's just floating there.”

“What do you think about?”

Carson stared at his hands. “I try to remember things. You know,
real
things.”

Lord repressed the impulse to ask about Vietnam. “Real things?”

Carson paused. “Sometimes I think about being a kid.”

Lord handed him another cigarette. “What's the first smell that comes to you?”

“Smell?”

“Uh-huh.” Lord hesitated. “I can remember hugging my grandfather. He wore starched collars—he smelled like soap and starch to me.”

Carson smiled faintly. Then he lit the cigarette, took a drag, and closed his eyes again. He was silent for some moments.

“Strawberries,” he said.

Five hours later, Lord began dictating his notes, reorganizing the sequence, trying to capture the tone and feeling of what Carson had told him.

Strawberries.

He was maybe three, and the basement was full of them. Light came through a small square window. The strawberries were stored in corners: in the moist, musty basement, they smelled fresh and sweet and ripe. He would help his mother crate them. Much later, after his father had given them up, Harry still imagined that his mother smelled like strawberries.

The farm. Sometimes he thought about that.

He can feel its rhythms. Rousting Joey at 5:00
A.M.
to milk the cows. They stumble through the darkness, Joey rubbing his eyes, and turn the light on in the barn. The cows wait in their stalls. Joey feeds them grain; Harry strains the warm clover-smelling milk, puts it through the cleaning equipment on the back porch, bottles it. At 4:00
P.M.
he does this over as Joey cleans the barn. Cows don't know what weekends are.

Their wood-frame house sat on a crest surrounded by pines and oaks, overlooking the rolling fields and knolls which were all central New Jersey had. Before Mass Harry senior would stand out front to see what it needed. When the steps began sagging from thousands of footsteps, his father built new ones. You couldn't slip a fingernail between the boards.

His father had doled out projects between Mass, their 2:00
P.M.
dinner, and “The Ed Sullivan Show” since Harry had been a kid—planting or repairing the tractor or cow shed or spreading cowshit through the crops or digging a new garbage pit or sealing the well. Harry and Joey never questioned him, except about the pine trees.

One Sunday, when Harry was ten, his father was trying to sell a few sheep off for cash and discussed this with a neighbor. Driving home he was quiet and the corners of his eyes were tight. Once they had parked he led the boys out back to an overgrown thicket. “We'll plant them here,” he said. “Pine trees. To pay for college.”