Christopher Hacker - The Morels

“He said a few things today that brought me over to the inhouse psychologist to see about some kind of suicide watch for him. He says things that I don’t understand. There needs to be a ‘final confrontation,’ that the only way to resolve this was by ‘the son slaying the father.’ I tell him nobody’s killing anybody, that we’ve got a good case and soon enough he’ll be a free man again, that he just has to hang on and trust me. Then I try to get tough and say, ‘Listen, if you don’t want to fight this thing, then just make a deal with the prosecution and be done with it. Stop wasting my time.’ He’s not shaving. The circles under his eyes lead me to believe he’s not sleeping, and his cheeks are sunken, which leads me to believe he’s not eating either. I thought he’d be happy about these breaks we’ve been given — the time, the support — but each new bit of good news hits him like a blow. The only strategy he wants to talk about is taking the stand. We’ve got a team of Columbia Law students who think Arthur would be his own worst enemy, but he’s adamant.”

Taking the stand? This was troubling news, when one considered what sorts of things Arthur had done in the past with a platform and an audience.

CHRISTMAS EVE, NEW YEAR’S EVE, voir dire.

Soon enough, the first day of trial was upon us.

Each day leading up to this day, it seemed inevitable that we would be saved from having to climb these stairs, if by nothing else the apocalypse, but January 1 came and went without incident. It was surreal. The broad flight before us, the massively looming courthouse blotting out the sun. There were newsvans out, telescoping satellite poles fully extended; they didn’t appear to be here for us, though. Dave remained outside with the video camera, and the rest of us took up the back of the line. Doc panicked when he saw the metal detector, but Suriyaarachchi and I talked him down enough to see him safely through it. Cynthia did a little dance as the guard wanded her down. We traveled several echoey loops of marble hallway to the room Benji had given us.

The place had none of the grandeur of a Law & Order set. No varnished oak banisters, no ceiling-high windows blazing great shafts of dusty light. This place was small, windowless; the acoustic-tile drop ceiling deadened sound, and the fluorescent banks did the same to people’s faces, making this place look more like a hospital waiting room. It was packed, which isn’t really saying much, as there weren’t many seats. We thought we’d arrived with time to spare, but the line at the metal detectors must have eaten through it; the bailiff had just finished his spiel, and the judge was gaveling for people to be seated. We slipped into the back row by the door.

Who were all these people who had come to watch the trial? I looked for familiar backs of heads. Penelope was up front in an aisle seat; I recognized her wild black hair. Her father sat next to her. Will was not in evidence. The familial math suggested that he was spending the day with his grandmother.

The ADA stood and pointed at Arthur, presumably — I couldn’t see him over other people’s heads — and said, “Some would say that this man is a monster. How else can one explain what would move a person to commit an act of incest with his nine-year-old son? To then write a book which recounts this act in all of its lurid detail, publishing it under the guise of fiction. Some might guess that this was a sadistic act meant to torment his family, to rub their noses in what he had done. But the evidence will show us that he is not a monster. Arthur Morel is a man. A very troubled man, who did something awful in a moment of confusion three years ago. The evidence will show that he wrestled with himself about this act for three long years and finally, in a way, using the publication of his book, decided to turn himself in.” Penelope’s mother was right. The damage had already been done. Even if Arthur was found innocent on all charges, even if Will recanted everything he had said, there was no going back from this.

After the ADA had concluded her opening statement, the judge granted a short recess so that Benji could adjust his remarks. We moved up a few rows for a better view of Arthur’s orange-jumpsuited back. For a week and a half now there had been enough money in the legal defense fund for Arthur to post bail, but Arthur had argued, quite reasonably, that it would be better to have the city hosting him with room and board; every dollar spent should be going toward securing Arthur with the best defense he could afford. While they were on the subject, Benji brought up the possibility of replacing himself with any of the half-dozen private defense firms who offered to try this case pro bono, but Arthur wouldn’t hear of this either.

Benji stood. Even from where we were sitting, it was clear he was terribly nervous. His eyes were glassy, and the notepad he held highlighted the trembling of his hands. He approached the jury box. “The prosecutor is right about one thing. Arthur Morel is not a monster. But not because she says he isn’t, but because Arthur Morel is innocent . I don’t know what would possess a man to write such a strange story, whether it was a self-destructive streak in him or a touch of the crazies, and I’ll leave it to the critics to explain what kind of merit there is in such a book, but I do know this. The man before you, my brother, is no child molester, and I intend to show you how and why beyond all reasonable doubt.” By the end of his remarks, Benji’s face was pouring sweat.

True to his word, the judge sped the proceedings along, and after a break for lunch, the prosecution began laying out its case. There wasn’t much to it: Will’s testimony, Arthur’s book, an expert witness. The court clerk played Will’s recorded statement and read the relevant passage from the novel into evidence. It seemed that Will hadn’t been subpoenaed to testify, which Benji’s experts interpreted as good news. It meant that Will had become shaky as a witness for some reason. Either his story had changed since he’d talked to the police, or there was something wrong with his manner — that he seemed to be lying or was unsympathetic in some way. Benji considered calling him to the stand for the defense, against the prosecution, but Arthur stood in the way of this, too. “Is he trying to get himself convicted? Is that what this is? Somebody please tell me!” The fact of Will’s absence was more good news. Just sitting there, Will was a persuasive tool in the courtroom. His presence would have meant the mother was of the same mind as the prosecution or that the prosecution had enough pull with the mother to make her do it. His absence suggested the opposite. It meant Penelope had become uncooperative.

Day 2 opened with the prosecution’s psychologist, who had spoken to Will, testifying to the cues Will gave that indicated his story was not a fabrication. He also gave his opinion of Arthur’s book, which he saw as enough like Will’s version of events to be mutually corroborative. He had also spent time with Arthur at the detention center; in his deteriorated state, Arthur seemed to him very much a man wracked by self-loathing and guilt. The psychologist admitted that, on first reading, the book was perplexing, and he hadn’t known what to make of it, but after interviewing Arthur it became clear to him that it was a cry for help. Arthur couldn’t turn himself in, for whatever reason, so his unconscious had done the job for him.

On cross, Benji said, “Is it possible, in your educated opinion, that William Morel is somehow confused? That he is mixing up what he’s read with a memory?”

“No. That’s just not feasible.”