Private Screening (29 page)

Swinging wildly, the camera stopped in the doorway.

Outside, the women and children were gone. Five men were running with rifles; behind them the taller men sprawled dead at various angles. As Carson and his team appeared, they opened fire.

The radioman's head snapped backward; Capwell crumpled; Carson threw his grenade.

The camera caught its parabola—a perfect arc, spreading the Viet Cong as it fell among them.

The ground rose first. Then a second grenade hit, wafting dead or dying VC to various heights. The camera followed one. He seemed to rise in slow motion, arms flailing like a rag doll, then snapped in midair, falling in a precipitous heap.

Except for bodies, there was no one in the courtyard.

Slowly, the camera panned the village.

The radioman had fallen on his back. There was a hole in his eye socket; only his lower body moved at all. The camera kept circling.

Carson held Capwell, hands clamped across a stain in his chest. As he tried to lift him, Capwell's hat tumbled off, exposing curly hair.

Staring up at the camera, Carson's eyes seemed disbelieving. His mouth opened—it might have been a curse or plea for help—and then he reached out for the dead man's radio. Grasped it, finally, to sling on one shoulder.

Capwell's eyes moved, trying to follow.

Cradling his head, Carson rose with him. Capwell's legs stretched limp but straight in front of him, resting on their heels. From the two men's shadows, Lord could see it was dusk.

Carson began dragging Capwell toward the jungle.

The two men moved backward, Capwell's head on Carson's shoulder, gazing up at him, tears running down Carson's face as he staggered, blood on his fingers now, trickling from one corner of Capwell's mouth. They reached the edge of the jungle; first Carson vanished, then Capwell, the bare heels of his feet leaving trails as they disappeared, and then the film went black.

When the lights came on, Carson was blinking at the screen. The rest of him didn't move.

“After that,” Lord asked softly, “what do you remember?”

He didn't react; the jurors' looks held nervous empathy.

“Harry?”

Mechanically, Carson's head turned to Lord.

“The first thing that comes to you.”

Carson's face twisted. “Uh …”

There was dull pain in the sound. “VC?” Lord prodded.

Carson looked up at the ceiling. “There were more.”

“Where?”

“In the jungle.” His mouth stayed open. “At night.”

Lord put both hands in his pockets. “What happened?”

“I shot them.” Carson touched his forehead. “We made it to the paddies. You could hear rice, moving in the wind.…” The odd, poetic detail seemed to widen his eyes.

“Was it still night?” Lord asked.

“Uh—yeah.”

“How long did that take you?”

A strange, surprising smile. “A long time.”

Lord watched him. “Where was the cameraman?”

The smile vanished. “With us.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Silence. “No.”

Lord watched him. “Was Capwell alive?”

“I bandaged him.” Carson's tone was wondering. “The water was at our necks. I couldn't tell if he was bleeding.…”

“Could he walk?”

“I carried him.” Carson's gaze fell. “There was blood on his face.”

Lord moved closer. “The VC,” he began. “Did they …”

“He was moaning.” Carson angled his head. “They heard him.”

Gripping his notepad, Kleist did not write. “Who?” Lord asked.

“A VC. In the rice.…” The voice trailed off.

Lord leaned forward. “What happened?”

“I dragged Capwell out.…”

Please, Lord thought, remember. “Where?”

“Up on the mud.” Carson hesitated. “He kept moaning.…”

Lord nodded encouragement. “What did you do?”

“I …” A hesitance, then sudden clarity. “I covered his mouth and shot him full of morphine.”

“They gave you morphine?”

“If you got captured, see, you couldn't tell them shit for a while … couldn't remember.…”

Lord's stomach felt empty. “Did he stop moaning?”

“Yeah.” The strange smile again. “He started asking for beer.…”

“Beer?”

“Schlitz.” The rueful tone became frightened. “In the middle of the fucking delta, with Charlie hunting us.…”

“Did you try something else?”

Carson's eyes shut. “I left him there with the camera guy, calling for Schlitz.”

Rainey's mouth was a tight, thin line. “Did they capture him?” Lord asked.

A long pause. “No.…”

Pain again, reluctance. Lord moved next to him. “What happened?”

Carson shut his eyes. “I hid till Charlie found them. He aimed his rifle …”

The sentence died. Gently, Lord said, “The VC killed them?”

Carson's mouth opened; there was no sound, and then he answered, “I cut the VC's throat.”

There was utter silence.

Breaking it, Carson's voice held quiet amazement. “First time.…”

His eyes opened. Lord moved in front of him, to help. “Were there others …?”

“I dragged the dead VC to the water and ripped his head back, so the water would go through the slit.” Carson's eyes didn't move. “See, when their lungs fill up with water, they sink.…”

“You didn't want him found.…”

“His lungs were filling up, and Capwell's still calling for beer.”

Lord's throat was dry. Jurors stared down, one with hands to her face, and the gallery was a stunned, silent frieze. Lord realized that he was searching them, for Damone.

Turning to Carson, he saw a new focus in his eyes. “Capwell,” Lord said. “What did you do about him?”

Carson seemed to recall something. “He'd have choked if we'd covered his mouth anymore.” A short pause. “I told the camera asshole to not touch him or he'd die.”

The last had an unnerving lucidity. “Could you move him?”

Carson stared at the floor. “I radioed Glennon.”

“What did you tell him?”

“That we had his film and the prisoner he'd wanted us to get—to send out a patrol boat.” A sly, sheepish smile. “I said to bring beer.”

“Was Capwell still asking for it?”

“For a while.” Carson's voice was gentle. “I held him, then he was quiet.”

Lord studied him. “Did Glennon come?” he finally asked.

“With three others.” Carson's speech was becoming trancelike. “In a patrol boat, before dawn.”

It sounded final, somehow. “What happened?”

“I took a beer from Glennon and poured some in Capwell's mouth.” Carson paused in disbelief. “It just came back out.”

Someone coughed, once.

Softly, Lord asked, “What did Glennon do?”

Carson's mouth worked. “‘You lying asshole,' he tells me. ‘He's stiff. You dragged me out here for a fucking corpse.'”

Distractedly, Lord touched the bridge of his nose. “Did you answer?”

A small headshake. Raising one arm in front of him, Carson answered, “I took out the Mauser to kill him.”

“Did you fire?”

Carson stared at his arm. “They grabbed me.”

“And then?”

“Glennon shot me full of morphine.”

There was a tightness in Lord's chest. “After that,” he ventured, “what do you remember?”

Carson lowered his arm. It hung loosely, like his head. “I'm home. My mother's pissed at me for swearing.…”

His voice stopped. He didn't speak or move, nor did anyone.

“And what do you remember,” Lord asked finally, “about the night you killed the senator?”

Carson's eyelids fluttered. “Oh, man.…”

“Anything at all.”

Carson hunched, as if from a blow. “There was shouting, over and over, in my head.…”

“What was it like.”

“‘Kill Glennon, kill Glennon.…'” The voice rose, then broke, whispering, “Kill Glennon.”

Lord felt the whisper shudder through him. “What happened then?”

“There was a flashbulb.” His voice tremored. “I saw him.…”

“Who?”

“I shot at his head.” Carson swallowed. “The camera was there.…”

“On the mission?”

“When I turned, he was lying on the stage, with Stacy over him.…”

“Kilcannon?”

“Yes—him.” Carson touched his eyes. “God, I can't believe he's dead.…”

Lord tilted his head. “Who?”

“Him.” Carson's face bent to his knees. “Glennon.…”

His shoulders began shaking, and then the sounds came, keening and arrhythmic.

Over Carson's head, Lord and Rainey looked at each other. “No further questions,” Lord told him.

Filing in, the jurors stared somberly at Carson. He sat with his hands folded, withdrawn. DiPalma watched him keenly, his body a line of tension. When Rainey banged his gavel, Lord started.

“Mr. DiPalma?”

In an instant, DiPalma was moving toward Carson. “This morning,” he began, “Mr. Lord showed us a film. When did
you
first see it?”

Good, Lord thought. Nervously, Carson smoothed his mustache. “This morning.”

DiPalma's surprise showed in the briefest hesitation. “Then when did you first
hear
what was in it?”

Carson wouldn't look at him. “I didn't.”

Kleist made a note. DiPalma paused, frustrated, then summoned a skeptical expression.

“You purchased the Mauser four weeks before the concert, did you not?”

Carson bent forward. “Yes.”

Lord folded his hands. Almost casually, DiPalma inquired, “Were you thinking about Glennon then?”

Carson seemed to flinch. “I don't know.”

“That was the first revolver you'd bought since Vietnam, right?”

“I guess so.”

As he mumbled, Lord put both hands under the table, where the jury couldn't see them. “And when did you first learn,” DiPalma went on, “that there would be a June second concert including Senator Kilcannon?”

“Uhh—” The sound died in Carson's throat. “I don't remember.”

DiPalma scowled. “Whenever it was, did you think of Glennon then?”

Carson shook his head, as if to clear it. “I don't know.”

“How did you hear about the concert?”

Carson hesitated; the jurors' sober, inward looks were evolving into sharp attention. “John, I guess,” Carson murmured. “Damone.”

DiPalma put both hands on his hips. “And when did you first plan to shoot Senator Kilcannon?”

“Objection!” Lord stood at once. “It's not established that the defendant
planned
to shoot the senator at all.”

Brow furrowed, Rainey watched Carson. “Sustained.”

DiPalma directed his faint smile at Carson. “That morning, you brought the Mauser to work. Had you ever done that before?”

Carson hesitated. “No.”

“You didn't show it to anyone, did you?”

Carson shook his head. “I guess not.”

“Or tell anyone you had it?”

His head continued shaking, as if to ward off questions. “No.…”

“Were you planning to shoot the senator
then
?”

Lord realized he was gripping his knees. Look at him, dammit, he thought. Carson's voice rose. “I don't know—”

“You don't
know
.” DiPalma straightened in astonishment. “You're telling the jury you killed a presidential contender onstage, in front of twenty thousand people, yet you don't know how you happened to be out there with a gun?”

“Objection.” Now Lord tried sounding weary. “Only a short time ago, on direct examination, the witness described his state of mind at the moment of the shooting.”

The camera turned to Rainey. “Sustained,” he ruled, and then Lord saw that DiPalma's eyes were bright.

“Very well,” he said to Carson. “That morning, where did you wake up?”

“Uh.…” Carson's voice was light, surprised. “The Holiday Inn.”

“Did you think you were in Vietnam?”

Through the glass, Shriver looked angry; Carson stared at the floor. “Uh—no.”

“Did you shower and shave?”

“Yes.”

“Did you think about Vietnam then?”

“Uh—” Fleetingly, Carson glanced up, then rubbed his eyes. “Sometimes, in water, I feel scared. I don't know.…”

His voice stopped; the gallery began standing. DiPalma seemed to discard his next question for another. “How did you get to the concert?”

“My motorcycle.”

“How did you know the route?”

“Uh—I think I asked someone.”

DiPalma narrowed his eyes. “When you got to the Arena, what did you do?”

“Help set up the sound system.”

The answer was a monotone. DiPalma smiled again, as if about to ask Carson where he thought he was, then snapped abruptly, “Did you also read about Mr. Lord in the newspaper?”

Carson's eyes shut. “Yes—”

“Because you thought you'd be needing a lawyer?”

Carson shook his head.

“Speak up,” DiPalma prodded.

“I don't know.”

“Why?” DiPalma asked softly. “Because you thought you were in Vietnam?”

Carson turned away. “I don't know.”

DiPalma stared at him. “Did you also park your motorcycle by the loading dock?”

“Yes.”

“And later, did you use the pay phone?”

“Yes.”

“To call whom?”

“Beth.…” Carson's eyes were still closed. “But her number was unlisted.”

“Did Information tell you that?”

“Yes.”

“Which Information?”

“South Carolina—Columbia.”

DiPalma shook his head, as if overwhelmed by Carson's rationality. “Tell me, Mr. Carson, who stole the concert money?”