Christopher Hacker - The Morels

Benji protested, said that more time was needed.

The judge said, “What’s the problem? This week you line up your ducks, next week you pick a jury, and then we begin. As far as I understand it, there will be no forensic rigmarole and the prosecution will supply you whatever you require toot sweet, yes? We can continue this discussion in chambers, but you’ll see I’m quite stubborn in these matters.”

Arthur was remanded until he could post bail. The bailiff cuffed his hands in front of him and led him out a side door, Benji following on his heels, talking in his ear until the bailiff warned him off.

Benji came by some hours later filled with theories and rage. “Two weeks? It’s absurd! Judges allow more time to traffic cases. This is a man’s life! I’ll tell you what I think. I think they’re in cahoots, judge and prosecution. Why didn’t she object? Because she doesn’t want more time. She’s ready to roll. She tries several of these kinds of cases a week. She’s a specialist. The judge knows I’m not a trial lawyer, knows I’m out of my depth. He’s trying to force my hand, get us to plead. Make this thing go quickly into that good night, it’s exactly like Tomlinson said. Two weeks! But Arthur doesn’t want to plead — what am I supposed to do? Fucking Giuliani. You know that prick used to be the New York DA, right? He was notorious for all sorts of underhanded shit. During those junk-bond cases back in the eighties, he didn’t have enough to prosecute these guys, but he would have the police come down to where they worked and drag them out in handcuffs, out through the front door, and put them in a squad car. Just for the show of it, just to humiliate them. That’s who we’re dealing with here. And it’s not only about the time; it’s about the timing, too. Trying to squeeze us in before the end of the year. What’s coming? The millennium. Oooh! This thing is generating so much noise now, with all the stockpiling and the Walmart rednecks crapping their pants over it, that’s all you’re going to be hearing about for the next month. By then, this case will be over and done with. But what would happen if he set the trial after the New Year? Millennium bullshit blows over, now the media’s looking for something to fill the vacuum, and there it is, ‘Art on Trial,’ front-page news. That’s why he set the bail so high. Keep Arthur away from the press, away from book signings. High potential for antics . Or maybe this old fucker is actually scared about the coming millennium. Maybe he wants to put away one more pervert before the lights go out. All I know for sure is timingwise, this thing stinks. How am I supposed to prepare for this? Christmas is coming, my wife’s on me about gifts and cocktail parties, my son wants me to take him to Santa this weekend. I’m a legal counsel for a software company, for Christ’s sake! I need more time!”

We returned to Dave’s. The editing suite looked like a crime scene, the command center dismantled, rack of blinking equipment an empty shell, leather sofa gone, brushed-steel coffee table and matching coasters gone, cockpit chair gone. All that remained was a computer, a monitor, a few stray cables, and neat divots in the carpeting where the rest had been. I was sent down the hall to see if Penelope was in the mood to talk or, at the very least, to not call the police. They wanted an interview. I told them that she wouldn’t be interested, but they kept after me until I relented.

She answered the door as though she had been expecting me and, as it turned out, she had. The prosecutor’s office had instructed her to make available to the defense Arthur’s effects. She let me in.

“I went ahead and packed up his desk drawers. There were also a few shoe boxes on the top shelf of the closet, a plastic bin under the bed.” It was all stacked neatly against the wall by the door.

We both considered the boxes for a moment, then she said, “You’re not here for Arthur’s things.”

“I’ve missed you.”

“Really, don’t.” She opened the front door. “I’m in the middle of — and I have food on the stove.”

“Tell me what I can do to get you to look at me, Penelope. Just look at me.”

She looked at me.

“Okay, now kiss me.” I puckered up. At this, a slight smile. “Just kidding,” I said.

“You weren’t.”

“I wasn’t. It was worth a shot.”

“I’m not mad at you. I know it seems like I am, but I’m just trying to survive this. I figure if I can just get through the next six months with my head down — I’ll look up, and things will be saner. They’d have to be. It can’t get any more insane than it is right now.”

“Where’s Will?”

“With my parents. They’ve taken him to a show. And don’t think I haven’t noticed that Trojan horse you’re holding very nonchalantly at your side. There’s no way you’re coming any farther into my house with that thing.”

I held out the video camera. “I thought you might want to see what’s on it.”

“Arthur?”

“Over the past week or so.”

She sighed and let the door go. The whistling of a teakettle had been sounding, which she now went into the kitchen to deal with. She emerged with a steaming mug, set it down on the kitchen table.

While I cued the tape for playback, Penelope cracked a window and lit a cigarette. I handed her the camera. She sat down cross-legged on the couch and watched, making a visor of her hands over the small flip-out screen. I plugged in a set of earbuds for her, and she put them on. To give her some privacy I stepped out onto the patio. It was frigid. Their view faced west and allowed an unobstructed patchwork quilt of tar-black and silver-painted rooftops, not high enough to see the Hudson River but high enough to catch a glimpse of just how broad this tiny island was. The days were getting shorter. It was not yet four thirty, and the sun was already setting directly ahead. A little more than a dozen of these and it would be setting in another millennium. Until now, if you wanted to indicate a time far in the future, you placed it here, on this horizon — or just beyond it. I was still too caught up in the sci-fi novelty to think what this new dawn might really look like. And yet here we were, on the threshold, the merger of present and future, fact and fantasy. I looked south toward the carriage house and wondered what Doc and Cynthia were planning for dinner.

I went back inside. “Poor Arthur,” Penelope said. She had taken the headphones off. “How could it be that for eleven years I never saw it?” She wiped her eyes and nose with a corner of her sleeve. “He really is crazy.”

“I think the stress has gotten to him,” I said.

“No, he’s still Art. That’s my Art. I just never put it together. But how could I not have seen? Between his mom and dad he looks like a big, goofy disabled kid.”

“Do you think he’s guilty?”

“I don’t have a choice but to believe it. My obligation is to Will. If he says this happened, then it happened. To keep second-guessing him like I have been — I can’t second-guess him anymore. I’ll go nuts. And I can’t afford to, as I said. My obligation is to my son.”

“So you hope he’s convicted?”

“I’m not like my parents. The things my father says, what he hopes will happen to Art in prison, are just awful. I don’t want these things to happen. And my mother is unforgiving. Art’s dead to her. She says it doesn’t matter whether he’s guilty or innocent. The damage is done.”

“Could you ever forgive him?”

“If he’s found guilty?”

“Either way.”

“I feel this thing has gotten out of hand. I’m not in control of it, Art’s not in control of it. Neither is Art’s brother or the prosecution. It’s taken on a life of its own. But once it’s over, we’ll be in control again, and once that happens, who knows how I’ll feel, what I’ll do.”