The Paper Dragon

He felt giddy and foolish and awkward, and he also felt like a thief. He was fearful and elated and apprehensive and uncertain, but beneath it all he felt like a thief and this was confusing because it was he who had been wronged. And yet, he felt much the same as he had that day when he was eight years old and stole a box of crayons from the school supply closet.

Just that way, with the same sort of trembling nervousness, the same heady swiftness of triumph — he had stolen the crayons, he had got away without anyone having seen him, he had tucked them under his sweater with no one the wiser — coupled with guilt, the overriding shamefaced embarrassment sitting just behind his eyes, the sickly somewhat pale smile on his mouth, he could not understand this feeling of guilt. It was almost as if he were identifying fully with the real thief, experiencing the thief's own reaction to capture and exposure, that's the goddamn trouble with me, he thought, I empathize too easily.

He was a man of medium build, with black hair and brows, brown eyes darting nervously as he climbed the courthouse steps. There was an awesome scale to the architecture of the building, ten monstrous, white, Corinthian columns rising to support a windowed entablature, wide white steps flowing in a long horizontal swell toward brass revolving entrance doors, more windows ornately decorated with curvilinear bars. The solemn majesty of the law's trappings added to his nervousness, and yet he wanted to yell aloud as he entered the building, wanted to shatter the serenity of these hallowed marbled halls, but the nervousness persisted, the feeling that
he
, and not James Driscoll, was the thief.

He walked into one of the waiting elevators, and then stood in the far corner of the car, worrying his lower lip, staring at the floor indicator as the car climbed, come on, come on. It was December, and the car was briskly cool, but he could feel the sweat trickling from under his arms in a slow, sliding descent over his ribs. The car doors opened at last. He stepped uncertainly into the seventh-floor corridor. A bank of gray elevator doors, six in all, were ranged on either side of the windowless corridor, interspersed with wooden doors along its length and on either end. The corridor was rather like a badly designed room, too long for its width, dimly lighted, divided at its halfway point by the double doors to 705 and 706, which were the courtrooms. The doors were constructed of what seemed like heavy oak, panels repeating the low paneled ceiling, bronze studs shaped like daisies punctuating the wood, a brass knob set on each right-hand door. He saw the numerals 705 in bronze on the door opposite him, and was walking across the corridor toward it when Sidney Brackman looked up from the water fountain. He was forty-eight years old, a short undistinguished-looking person wearing a brown suit and shoes, a striped brown tie on his white shirt. His hair was prematurely gray, as was his closely cropped mustache. He turned as Arthur approached, and then extended his hand quickly and said, "Good morning, Arthur, how do you feel?"

"I'm worried," Arthur said.

"You have nothing to worry about. You'll make a good witness. Do you remember all the points we covered?"

"Yes, I remember."

"Good. We'll go over those points in court, you'll tell everything in your own words. It's the truth that will win this case for us."

"I hope so."

"I
know
so. I have no doubt. It's been a long road, Arthur, but the end is in sight, and the end will be victorious."

"How long will the trial last?"

"I imagine it will be over by Wednesday. Thursday at the very latest."

"That's what I thought. It seems like such a short time."

"A short time? For what?"

"To present everything. I mean, so the judge'll understand."

"McIntyre's a smart judge, Arthur.
And
a fair one. I know him from when he was first out of law school. He was a brilliant lawyer even then. Brilliant. He'll give you a fair hearing, and he'll make a fair decision."

"I hope so."

"Try to appear a little more confident on the stand, eh?" Brackman said, and smiled.

"I'll try," Arthur said. "But I'd be much happier with a jury."

"Juries are unpredictable. Besides, you'll remember that I
did
ask for a jury. But Willow made a motion to strike the demand because we were asking for an accounting of every dollar. Willow's point was that historically…"

"You know all this law talk goes completely over my head."

"Yes, I know that, but I wouldn't want you to think I'd made a mistake. I haven't made any mistakes so far, Arthur, not that I know of. We
did
ask for a jury. But it was ruled that an equity action, such as this is, has always been tried in a chancery court rather than a law court. The historical precedent goes all the way back to England."

"I don't know anything about historical precedent," Arthur said. "It just seems to me that our chances would have been better with a jury."

"Our chances are excellent just the way they are, Arthur. Now please don't start getting despondent. I know you get into these despondent moods every now and then that are difficult to—"

"I'm not despondent."

"Good. Leave everything to me. Please. Just answer the questions I "put to you as truthfully as you can, and everything will be all right."

"Is that a guarantee?"

Brackman smiled again. "No, Arthur. Nothing in the law is a guarantee, justice is not infallible. That's what makes practicing law so interesting. Let's go inside, shall we?"

The courtroom seemed too large for the scant handful of people it contained. Wood-paneled walls endlessly echoed themselves, like flecked mirrors repeating the same dull theme, a pattern broken only by the windowed wall facing the entrance. The windows were open just a crack to the winter street below. The sounds of traffic rose indolently, entering the courtroom in muted tones. A fierce December wind eddied in the right angle of wall-against-wall just outside the windows, and then fanned over the sills to riffle the papers on the long leather-topped tables. Jonah Willow and his assistant were at one of those tables, talking in normal speaking voices that somehow seemed like whispers. At the other end of the same table, Samuel Genitori, the attorney for API, leaned over to say something to his associate. As Arthur followed Brackman to the plaintiff's table, he heard Willow's assistant burst into laughter, and the sound infuriated him.

Seated in the otherwise empty jury box to the right of the judge's bench were James Driscoll and his wife. Arthur studiously avoided looking at either of them. The lone spectator, on one of the six benches at the rear of the room, was a thin boy carrying a spiral notebook imprinted with Columbia University's seal. There was an air of quiet displacement in the room, as though everyone were waiting for an event that would most certainly be canceled. When Judge McIntyre entered from his chambers at ten o'clock sharp, and the clerk called "All rise!" Arthur felt a new rush of panic, an urgent need to bolt from this arena with its alien trappings and its professional cold-eyed combatants. Quickly, he glanced toward Brackman to see if his fear had communicated itself, and then immediately dried the palms of his hands on his trouser legs.

"The United States District Court, Southern District of New York, is now in session," the clerk intoned, "the Honorable Frank H. McIntyre presiding. Take your seats, please. Arthur Nelson Constantine versus James Driscoll et al. Are all sides ready?"

Almost in a chorus, Brackman and the defense attorneys said, "Ready, your Honor."

"All ready, your Honor," the clerk repeated.

"Are you representing the plaintiff, Mr. Brackman?" McIntyre asked.

"Yes, your Honor."

"Are you ready to proceed?"

"Yes, your Honor."

"Then let's proceed."

"I would like Mr. Constantine to take the stand, please," Brackman said.

Arthur rose and walked toward the witness chair. He was having difficulty breathing, and he was certain he would stumble and fall before he reached the front of the courtroom. The clerk held out the Bible. Arthur put his left hand on it, and then raised his right hand.

"Arthur Nelson Constantine, you do solemnly swear that the testimony you shall give to the Court in this issue shall be the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?"

"I do," Arthur said.

The clerk nodded briefly and then moved to a small table adjacent to and below the judge's bench. He put the Bible on one corner of the table and then moved his stenotab into place, fingers poised over the keys. Arthur climbed the two steps to the witness chair, glanced up briefly at the judge, whose swivel chair was parallel to his and a step higher, and then looked away. Sidney Brackman walked slowly toward Arthur, smiled encouragingly, and then said, "Mr. Constantine, what do you do for a living?"

"I'm a writer," Arthur answered. His voice was too low, he knew he could not be heard. "A writer," he repeated more loudly.

"Do you write under your own name?"

"Yes, sir. Yes."

"How long have you been employed as a writer?"

"Since 1946?"

"Can you tell us what works you've written, Mr. Constantine?"

"Since 1946?"

"Yes, since 1946," Brackman said.

"Yes, well…" He hesitated. For a moment, he had forgotten the question. He looked hopefully at Brackman who seemed completely unaware of his discomfort. They had been talking about 1946, hadn't they? Should he ask what the question was, something about, oh yes, "Yes," he said, "the first thing I wrote after my release from the United States Army was a play called
Catchpole
."

"Mr. Constantine, are you familiar with this manuscript?"

"Yes, I'm familiar with it," he said, scarcely looking at it.

"Is this your name on the title page of the manuscript?"

"It is."

"Are you the sole author of this manuscript?"

"I am."

"Is this the play titled
Catchpole
which you wrote after your release from the United States Army in 1946?"

"Yes," he said, and wondered if he were supposed to say anything more about it at this point.

"I offer the manuscript in evidence," Brackman said, and handed it to the clerk.

"No objection," Willow said.

"No objection," Genitori repeated.

"I also offer in evidence the copyright registration certificate of the play."

Willow rose from his chair behind the defense table. "Your Honor," he said, "before trial, we conceded that the play was registered with the Copyright Office and a certificate granted in August of 1947. In fact, we conceded that it wouldn't be necessary to do anything more than offer the manuscript in evidence."

"Mr. Genitori, do you so concede for API?" McIntyre asked.

"I do."

Brackman nodded and approached the witness chair again. "Mr. Constantine," he said, "you have testified that you've been a writer since 1946. What else have you written besides this play?"

"Well," Arthur said, "I've been involved mostly with motion pictures and television."

"What films or television plays have you written?"

"Do you want me to go all the way back?"

"Please."

"Well, in 1948 I worked for Columbia under contract — Columbia Pictures. I wrote two films for them. Do you want the titles?"

"Please."

He was beginning to feel a bit more at ease. This wasn't going too badly after all. They were simply restating for the judge all the points they had gone over time and again in Brackman's office. He found himself relaxing. He crossed his legs and glanced at the judge, and then turned to Brackman and said, "The first was an adaptation of a
Collier's
story, a Western. I don't remember the title of the original story, but the movie was called
Brother to the Sun
, and was a very successful film. I then worked on an adaptation — or really a translation, I suppose you might say — of
King Lear
. I worked for several months with another writer on this, trying to get it into suitable form for the screen, and then the project was abandoned." He felt more and more relaxed. He looked at the judge once again, tempted to smile but restraining the urge, and then said, conversationally, "Olivier had already done
Hamlet
, you see, and I think Orson Welles was getting ready to release his
Macbeth
, and the feeling was that the trend had already peaked. Besides, it was proving very difficult to get a good screenplay from something as complex as
Lear
."

"Now this film
Brother to the Sun
for which you wrote the screenplay…"

"Yes," he said.

"… you mentioned that it was a very successful film. Just what does that mean?"

"It grossed nine million dollars."

"I see. Go on, Mr. Constantine. What did you do after you worked on
King Lear
?"

"I left Columbia early in 1949, and did several films for Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer. The first of these was—"

"Excuse me," Willow said, rising. "Your Honor, I hesitate to interrupt the witness's testimony, but it seems to me that his career subsequent to the writing of
Catchpole
is not relevant at this point."

"I'd like to see where counsel is heading," McIntyre answered. "I hope this won't go on forever, though, Mr. Brackman."

"No, your Honor, it won't. As a matter of fact, Mr. Constantine, in order to save time, perhaps you could simply tell us how long you were employed by Metro as a writer?"

"From March of 1949 to February of 1952."

"For three years, is that correct?"

"Yes, almost three years to the day."

"And how many films did you write for them during that period of employment?"

"Eight films. A total of eight films."

"And you left Metro in February of 1952, is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"What did you do then?"

"In March of 1952, I was employed by API under contract to write and direct four films for them."

"By API, are you referring to one of the defendants in this action, Artists-Producers-International, also referred to as Kessler, Inc.?"