Дональд Уэстлейк - Baby, Would I Lie?

“You may have noticed,” Warren explained, “when the prosecution had its innings, they tried from time to time to include lyrics by you into the record and into the jury’s ears, and in every instance we beat them back.”

“Sure,” Ray agreed. “We don’t want me tried on my attitudes, but on what I did or didn’t do.”

“Very good. You’ll be a professor of tort one of these days, the way you’re going. But, Ray,” Warren said, elbows on the table, hands spread wide, body bent forward, face pleading for comprehension, “when you mentioned song , you gave the prosecution the opening it wanted. When we go back in there, Fred Heffner is going to ask you, innocent as pie, just what song you were referring to. I happen to know the song in question, Ray. I did my homework on your repertoire, and I must say, of all your compositions, those lyrics are the ones I would least like the jury listening to.”

“I haven’t sung that song in years,” Ray said. “It’s out of my repertory, for the very reason that it’s a kind of a male chauvinist thing.”

“I’ll have to go along with that, Ray,” Warren said.

“Well shit,” Ray said. “I don’t want to testify anymore. I told my story, now the hell with it.”

Warren sighed. He could be seen to grapple with the concept of excess violence in re Ray Jones. He said, “Ray, it doesn’t work like that. You go up there and tell your story, and that means the prosecution gets to ask you questions for as long as they like. They can’t call you; they can’t make you testify against yourself. But once you agree to be sworn in and testify at all, you have to answer their questions, as well. And once you claim that a certain song of yours is not germane to the case, they have every right to question you about that song .”

“Shit,” Ray decided.

Jolie said, “Warren? Can we limit it to just that one song?”

“Possibly,” Warren said. “I’m not that hopeful, but possibly. But my heaven, Jolie, after — Ray? What’s it called?”

“ ‘My Ideal,’ ” muttered Ray.

“Charming.” Turning back to Jolie, Warren said, “After listening to ‘My Ideal,’ I really doubt the jury could be swayed much further, in any direction at all, by any other song of Ray’s, or all his songs together in a medley.”

“Well, I guess I stepped on my dick this time,” Ray admitted.

Warren looked at him. “If only,” he said, “it were possible to execute your mouth and leave the rest of you alive.”

“Hey, wait a minute,” Ray said. “I need my mouth.”

“I don’t,” Warren told him without sympathy, and the bailiff arrived to say it was time to go back to court.

It was not turning out to be a good month for Jolie Grubbe. On her latest diet, she’d gained seven pounds. Her doctor kept telling her he didn’t like the sound of her heart. Her one and only client, Ray Jones, whom she also happened to like on a personal level, was about to get himself executed by the state of Missouri for a murder he might actually have committed. And to put the icing on the cake, as she and Ray and Warren and Jim Chancellor and Cal Denny headed back for court, there was Leon Caccatorro waiting for them in the hall, amid the journalists encamped around the courtroom door.

Warren was at that moment murmuring something in Ray’s ear about some sort of statement he ought to make to the judge — an apology, no doubt — so it was up to Jolie to deal with the creep from the IRS. As journalists up and down the corridor snapped to attention — or as close to attention as a journalist can snap — yapping out dumb questions at the moving clump of Ray and his advisers, questions that were unheeded and unanswered and asked for God knows what reasons of personal ego gratification, Jolie veered off to say to the taxman, “Not now, for God’s sake.”

Caccatorro was a happy man, far too happy for Jolie’s bad mood to bring him down. “No rush,” he assured her. “At the lunch break, your client might want to sign a few papers.”

“You have them ready? That was quick.”

Caccatorro showed his small sharp teeth in a Cupid’s bow smile. “It was an easy decision to make, actually,” he said. “Between earnings from past endeavors and earnings from future endeavors.”

“Let me guess which one you picked.”

“We feel,” Caccatorro allowed, “that Ray Jones is still a vibrant and creative force in the country-music industry. I hope he’ll be pleased by our vote of confidence.”

“He’ll jump up and down,” Jolie predicted. “Excuse me.”

The others had gone on ahead into the courtroom, leaving the squall of journalists to blow itself out in muttered asides to one another. Jolie bumped her way through them like a beach ball through bowling pins and made her way to her seat in the front row, near Cal and the ever-present ever-present ever-present Sara Joslyn. Looking back just before taking her seat, Jolie saw that Caccatorro had come in as well and was showing some sort of ID to the bailiff back there. Another ever-present son of a bitch. Gloat, you bastard.

Warren was on his feet at the defense table, saying, “If the court please, Mr. Jones would like to make a short statement before resuming his testimony.”

“He already made a short statement,” Fred Heffner commented. He was so pleased at having rattled Ray Jones that he was beside himself over there, grinning and winking at Buford Delray and the distinguished little man whom Sara had said was some sort of journalist. Takes one to know one.

Warren had ignored Fred Heffner’s remark and kept his eyes and attention on Judge Quigley, who pondered a moment, pushing her reddened lips in and out in a disgusting fashion before saying, “Very well, Mr. Thurbridge. A short temperate statement.”

“Thank you. Your Honor.”

Warren sat, and Ray stood. “I want to apologize to everybody in this courtroom,” he said, “and especially to you. Judge, and to the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Heffner, who was just doing his job. And I hope the jury will remember that a weak man isn’t necessarily a killer. Thank you.”

Good boy, Jolie thought. You do come through, Ray, more often than not. Ray’s manner was so offhand and shitkicker, it still came as a surprise to Jolie every time he revealed the good and devious brain tucked away inside there. Ray was deep, and he was always playing his own deep game, and Jolie had to keep that in mind.

Now he was going back to the witness stand, where Jolie was sure he wouldn’t let himself be caught out again. As the old saying goes: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.

The judge assured Ray he was still under oath, Ray thanked her and sat down, and here came Fred Heffner, grinning like a fox, looking less like Lincoln now and more like John Wilkes Booth. “Mr. Jones,” he said, “before the break, we were just about to discuss a song, I believe a sing you wrote. Is that right?”

“I’ve written some songs, yes, sir.”

“I’m referring to a specific song, Mr. Jones, as I believe you know. You did have a specific song in mind, just before the break, did you not?”

“Yes, sir, it’s called ‘My Ideal.’ ”

“And what is the name of — Um, yes.”

“It’s called ‘My Ideal.’ ”

“Yes. Thank you.”

“I wrote it a long—”

“Thank you, Mr. Jones, I don’t need your professional biography at this point.”

“I haven’t sung that—”

“The song is called ‘My Ideal.’ Do you happen to remember the words to that song, Mr. Jones?”

“I haven’t sung that—”

“Do you remember the words?”