William Kennedy - Roscoe

“We need time to investigate this, Your Honor,” Marcus said. “The paternity of Yusupov has never been in question before today.”

“Very true,” Roscoe said. “Yusupov rejected the child and behaved as if he never existed, and we now know he had good reason. And that’s how it remained until Pamela became a blackmailer. Her story of rape, however true, will be just another lie when her blackmail and perjury go public, and you should convey to your client, Marcus, that we stand ready to prosecute her for both blackmail and for perjury in representing Mr. Yusupov as Gilby’s father when she knew he was not. Let’s face it, counselor, your client is a scheming and perpetually lubricious woman, and I will celebrate that fact with exuberant fanfare if we go forward. I also admit the possibility that she was truly confused and believed she had diddled Yusupov when it was actually Elisha, or Elisha when it was actually Yusupov. Or maybe it was John Gilbert, for whom Gilby was named. Perhaps she could track down Mr. Gilbert’s blood type and seek relief from his estate. I don’t want to seem too severe with Pamela for losing track of her multitudes, and for the sake of Elisha, we will not bring any charges at all if she desists from this charade.”

Roscoe closed his briefcase.

“I trust, gentlemen, that these hypothetical facts will be kept confidential. Elisha’s death, which is not provable in this context unless we decide to prove it, stands as a heroic act of redemption — a beau geste, if you will — a noble gesture, a self-martyrdom by a saintly man, and his good name must not be despoiled. I have no intention whatever of prolonging this hearing any further, and if opposing counsel has no objection, Judge Finn, I move that you quash the custody petition, considering perhaps J. Hogan, ‘In the Matter of Gustow,’ that, ‘while the parent ordinarily is entitled to the custody of a child, the welfare of the child may be superior to the claim of the parent.’ I hope we can now have a speedy conclusion.”

The judge looked to Marcus, who said, “I’ll speak to my client.”

In the Courtroom

Veronica’s and Gilby’s smiles radiated sunbeams as they heard the judge say, “. the home life of the child for his entire life has been so fortunate that it certainly should not be changed in favor of a technical mother’s care, and all parties now agree the boy should stay where he is, with the relator having the right to visit at reasonable times. The habeas corpus writ is quashed and dismissed.”

Roscoe recognized fury in Marcus’s look, deceived by his client, a perjurer who didn’t even tell her lawyer the truth. Losing your touch, Marcus? Can’t tell the real ones from the fakers anymore? Roscoe felt warm palpitations in his pericardium imagining Pamela baffled by Marcus’s attack on her. Rape? Elisha? What has rape got to do with anything? I never said Elisha raped me. But Marcus can’t quite believe her. Even if there was no rape, there was action, and Gilby is over there to prove it. But Daddy Yusupov was no daddy, and that’s a fact. He was just an ex-Georgian prince, professional Russian exile, who had three million once, so they said. Pamela tried to tap into what was left of it and, another fact, she failed. Fashionable in black chalk-striped jacket and burgundy dress, her cubist bee-stung lips so out of fashion they are back, Pamela sat beside Marcus in stunned condition, hit by a brick she wouldn’t be quieter, eyes glazing as she wonders how the world could have changed so suddenly. She was yesterday’s darling and the world was still possible, with money on the table. But this is today, sweetheart.

Roscoe insisted that Gilby speak to his mother before they left the courtroom. He was wearing his blue suit and a new red-and-blue necktie Veronica had bought him for this event. The necktie aged him five years, Roscoe decided.

“I don’t want to talk to her,” Gilby told Roscoe.

“Just say goodbye, that’s enough.”

“The judge said she could visit me.”

“She probably won’t.”

Gilby went across the courtroom to where Pamela was hiding under her picture hat. “I came to say goodbye,” he said to her.

“I’m so very sad to be losing you,” Pamela said.

“I’m not. Goodbye.”

Roscoe saw the sag of Pamela’s shoulders, her collapsed expression. She seemed to be shrinking as he watched. He stayed at a distance from her but walked to Marcus to offer a collegial handshake.

“I’m glad we didn’t get into hand-to-hand combat,” Roscoe said.

“I underestimated you, Roscoe. You are utterly without scruples. I congratulate you.”

Roscoe spoke a few sentences of gratification to several news reporters in the hallway and then walked down the corridor with Veronica and Gilby on either side of him, the three arm in arm, so cooing, so happy they couldn’t, didn’t have to, wouldn’t talk about this thing, it was such a fat, happy, obvious fact of life. They giggled as they waited for the elevator, and when it came they all stepped on together, single file, arms still locked, and Roscoe said to the elevator man, “I greet you in a state of bliss, Webster.”

“Win one, did you, Mr. Conway?” Webster asked.

“I think I did.”

“You’re not sure?”

“I’m being modest.”

“He won,” said Veronica. “He so won. We all won.”

Webster closed the accordion gate of the elevator but saw another passenger coming and reopened it. Pamela. Roscoe saw Marcus walking alone in the opposite direction, toward the far stairway. Pamela stepped toward the elevator, unaware of the enemy within. She stopped as Webster opened the accordion.

“Going down,” Webster said.

“You goddamn lying bastard,” Pamela said, seeing Roscoe.

Roscoe stepped off the elevator into her words, moved into her face to block her eye contact with Veronica or Gilby. “What was that, my dear? Were you speaking to me?” And without turning he added, “Webster, take my friends down. I’ll only be a minute.” And Webster shut the elevator door.

“Rape?” Pamela said. “Rape?”

“Why not rape?” Roscoe said. “It’s as popular as blackmail.”

“Liar, liar, liar!” Pamela shrieked.

“Ah me, the perjurer offended by a falsehood,” Roscoe said.

There was no rape by Elisha. Roscoe invented that. But truth is in the details, even when you invent the details. It was sweet the way true and fraudulent facts wrapped themselves around each other so sleekly. The next sentence is a lie. The preceding sentence is true. Which means the first sentence is a lie, and the second sentence is true, which means the first sentence is true and the second is a lie, which means the first was a lie again, or does it? A pair of impregnable truths. True-and-false equality, we call that.

“It wasn’t rape,” said Roscoe, “and it wasn’t even Elisha, was it?”

“You think you’ve won,” Pamela said.

“Elisha won. He prepared us for you. Nobody will believe anything you say from now on, my dear.”

“There are many ways of letting the truth be known.”

“Yes, and if anything is said anywhere, anywhere, we will prosecute you, in this city Give scandal, you’ll get jail time, and that’s a guaranteed fact of your future. Don’t bring your venal jealousy back to this town, Pamela. Leave the family alone.”

The elevator arrived and Webster opened the doors. Roscoe gestured to Pamela and they stepped into it.

“Do you have any money?” he asked.

“Millions,” she said.

He took a roll of cash from his pocket and peeled off two one-hundred-dollar bills. He offered them to her. She stared at them.

“Take a train somewhere. Shuffle off to Buffalo.”