Self-Defence

47

Thirty hours left on the clock. We'd had dim sum at a barnlike place on Hill Street, and it hadn't settled well. I sat alone in that same observation room. No one had cleaned the glass since Graydon-Jones's session, and it was fogged with a distillation of sweat and fear.

Curtis App's counsel was an older man named MacIlhenny, fat and slovenly with the eyes of a sleepy snake and a custom-tailored gray suit that looked cheap on him. He'd managed to get App out of jail clothes. Despite the white cashmere V-neck and the black Swiss cotton shirt, the producer looked weak and insubstantial. Just a few days in jail had wiped out years of Malibu tan.

Leah was inside with them, along with her boss, a grim deputy DA named Stan Bleichert.

MacIlhenny grunted, and App lifted a piece of paper and began to read.

"My name is Curtis Roger App, and I am about to offer into the record a statement prepared by myself, under no duress or coercion, under the guidance of my attorney, Landis J. MacIlhenny, Esquire, of the law firm of MacIlhenny, Bellows, Caville and Shrier. Mr. MacIlhenny is present with me for moral support during these trying times."

He cleared his throat, flirted briefly with the camera. For a moment I thought he'd call for the makeup girl.

He said, "I am not nor have I ever been a murderer, nor do I condone the act of murder. However, I am in possession of information that came my way, by means of no criminal activity on my part, that if pursued competently could lead to the criminal prosecution of another individual and/or individuals for violation of California State Penal Code 187, first-degree murder. I am willing to offer such information in return for compassionate consideration of my current status including immediate release from prison, under reasonable bail, to my family and loved ones, and in return for reduction of present and pending charges."

Folding the paper.

Looking up.

Bleichert addressed MacIlhenny. "Okay, it's on the record, now let's talk reality."

"Sure," said MacIlhenny. His voice was a bullfrog croak and his eyebrows tangoed when he talked. "Reality is, Mr. App is a prominent member of the business community and there's no rational reason to confine him-"

"He's a flight risk, Land. He was apprehended just about to board a helicopter with a connecting flight to-"

"Tsk, tsk," said MacIlhenny, very gently. "Not apprehended. Surprised. At that point in time, Mr. App was aware of no criminal investigation of any sort. Surely, you're not saying that absent such information he wasn't free to travel at will, like any other United States citizen?"

"With his money, he's a flight risk, Land."

MacIlhenny patted his melon paunch. "So you're saying that Mr. App's wealth allows you to discriminate against him."

"I'm saying he's a flight risk, Land." Bleichert's face was round and grim and pinched and he had a five-o'clock shadow. His navy suit really was cheap.

"Well," harumphed MacIlhenny, "we'll pursue that with the appropriate authorities."

"Be my guest."

MacIlhenny turned to Leah. "Hello, young lady. UCLA, class of… around five years ago?"

"Six."

"I lectured to your class. Admissibility of evidence. You sat right up in front- wore blue jeans."

Leah smiled.

Bleichert said, "We're all impressed with the Mr. Memory bit, Land. Now, is your client going to poop or get off the pot?"

MacIlhenny put one hand to his mouth in mock horror. The other shielded Leah's eyes.

"Tsk, tsk. My client is willing to read a prepared statement."

"No questioning?"

"Not at this time."

"That's not very forthcoming."

"That's reality."

Bleichert looked at Leah. Nothing visible passed between them. He said, "Read at your own risk."

"Release on bail."

"Special holding at Lompoc."

"That's still prison."

"It's a country club."

"No," said MacIlhenny. "My client already belongs to a country club. He knows the difference."

Leah said, "With everything your client's charged with, he's lucky to see fresh air. And why should we bargain with him when he's already lied to us, trying to palm off Karen Best on Trafficant. We know from other sources that Trafficant had no involvement in that."

"Tsk, tsk," said MacIlhenny. "There are sources and there are sources."

Through it all, App sat, looking bored. The inanimate calm of the true psychopath.

Bleichert said, "Transfer to Lompoc and that's it."

"It's quite a story," said MacIlhenny. "First-rate drama."

"Sell it to the movies,"

MacIlhenny smiled and pointed a finger at App.

App smiled and took out another paper.

After clearing his throat, he began.

"I became acquainted with the writer/artist Morris Bayard Lowell, hereafter to be referred to as "Lowell' or "Buck,' at a party in New York in the summer of 1969. The party I believe to have been at the Greenwich Village townhouse of Mason Upstone, editor of the Manhattan Book Review, though I can't be sure. Lowell and I struck up a conversation, during which I told him I greatly admired his work. Subsequent to that, Lowell and I began a friendly relationship that culminated in my optioning a book of his, a collection of poems entitled Command: Shed the Light, for development as a motion picture. In addition to the advance payment for this option, I advanced him money to purchase land in Topanga Canyon to develop a personal residence and to build an artists' and writers' retreat he called Sanctum. I did these things because even though Lowell had experienced a long hiatus in creative output, his previous accomplishments in literature and art led me to believe he would regain his creative powers and resume his place as a major American writer."

Sniff. He touched his nose.

"Unfortunately, this was not to happen. Command: Shed the Light received highly excoriative reviews and was a commercial failure."

Rattling the paper.

"As part of my relationship with Lowell, I also became acquainted with various artists and writers. Among these was a British sculptor, Christopher Graydon-Jones, whom I aided in attaining employment in an insurance company in which I am a substantial shareholder, and whom I believed, at the time, to be a major talent and of excellent personal character. Likewise, a writer, Denton Mellors, whose true name I have since learned was Darnel Mullins, an African-American novelist, for whom I found employment in the business affairs office of my motion picture production company and, when he proved to lack skills in that area, as a manager of several motor inns that I own."

Throat clearing. "I might add that I am also a substantial contributor to the United Negro College Fund."

MacIlhenny arched an eyebrow and handed him a glass of water.

He drank and read. "Another individual I met through Lowell was a writer named Terrence Trafficant. Trafficant had spent time in prison and wrote about his experiences in a prison diary entitled From Hunger to Rage. Lowell took Trafficant in, as a protégé, helped him get paroled, and aided in getting the diary published. It became a best-seller. At Lowell's urging, I read said book and optioned it for development into a motion picture, advancing money to Terrence Trafficant."

Staring at the camera, as if trying to convince it of something. Sniff.

"I was to find out, subsequently, that I had been defrauded by both Mr. Lowell and Mr. Trafficant, in that Command: Shed the Light had been written not by Mr. Lowell but by Mr. Trafficant and passed off by Mr. Lowell to the artistic and literary community, and to the public at large, as an original work. I learned this in conversation with Mr. Trafficant, who showed me his original handwritten notes for the book and gave them to me for safekeeping in exchange for a sum of money. I remain in possession of said notes and am willing to offer them as evidence in the prosecution of Mr. Lowell for the murder of Mr. Trafficant, a crime I have personal knowledge of because Mr. Lowell confessed it to me, several days after the deed, when I confronted him with the evidence of his plagiarism and fraud."

Deep breath.

"That's all I have to say at this time."

MacIlhenny smiled. Bleichert frowned.

Leah said, "So you want to trade Lowell for everything you've done."

App folded the paper.

"All we've got on Lowell," said Leah, "is your word for it."

"And the notes," said MacIlhenny.

"If they're authentic. And even if they are, all they prove is fraud. On a dead victim. So big deal."

"A murdered victim."

"I haven't heard any evidence of murder except Mr. App's say-so."

"Would a body help?"

"Depending on whose it is."

"Tsk, tsk, young lady. Let's not be coy."

Bleichert said, "Whose corpus, Land?"

"Speaking theoretically? Let's say Mr. Trafficant's."

"Where is it?"

MacIlhenny smiled and shook his head.

"Withholding information on a homicide case, Land?"

MacIlhenny looked down at his chest rolls. His breasts were as big as a stripper's. "I have no personal information, Stan. All my conversations with Mr. App have remained on a strictly theoretical basis."

"Is this body theoretical, too?" said Leah.

MacIlhenny winked but ignored her. "I'm offering you a gift, Stan. Wrapped and ribboned. This could be your biggest case: internationally acclaimed author, major fraud, plagiarism, bloodshed. We're talking Time magazine cover and you write the true crime book."

Leah said, "As opposed to your client the piker, with multiple homicides and enough dope to stuff half the noses in Hollywood."

"My client never won the Pulitzer."

"Your client murdered more than one person."

"Tsk, tsk." MacIlhenny laughed softly. "Slander and libel. Where's your proof?"

"I've got eyewitness testimony."

"Tainted witness. Long history of drug abuse, and your own case against him for attempted murder gives him an obvious motive to lie. His word against my client's?"

"Biggest case of the year," said Leah. "Does Mr. App get to buy the film option?"

MacIlhenny gave her a pitying look. "Mr. App will no longer be engaged in the motion picture business. When the dust clears, Mr. App will be retiring."

"When the dust clears?" she said. "I see dust storms on the horizon. Tornadoes."

MacIlhenny turned away from her and back to Bleichert. App remained silent and motionless.

"You're offering squat, Land," said Bleichert.

"On the contrary, I'm offering you fame and fortune and the chance to put an icon on trial in return for dropping all charges on a couple of diddly cases you don't stand a chance of proving."

"If you think we're so weak, why bargain?"

MacIlhenny pulled shirt fabric out of a fold of flesh. "In the interests of justice and efficiency. Mr. App is no youngster. Every day spent away from hearth and home wears on him severely. He recognizes he has certain… personal problems due to chemical dependency. He is willing to undergo medical and psychiatric treatment for these problems as well as to offer his considerable talents to the community in exchange for no jail time, beyond what's been served, and no full-court attempt to employ the confiscatory powers of the RICO statutes."

"Betty Ford and community service for multiple murder and dope laundering?" said Leah. "When do you take this act to Vegas?"

Bleichert said nothing. She tried not to look at him, but failed.

MacIlhenny was looking at him, too.

"There has to be some time served," said Bleichert. "But I can conceive of its being at Lompoc or somewhere like that. As far as RICO, you know that's not our bailiwick."

"I've already talked to the DEA, Stan, and they're willing to go along with partial confiscation in return for some valuable information about foreign narcotics commerce currently in my client's possession. The hang-up's these alleged homicides. They don't want to be put in an awkward position."

"Like going easy on a multiple murderer?" said Leah.

Bleichert raised an eyebrow at her. She crossed her legs and looked away. MacIlhenny allowed himself a tiny smile.

Bleichert said, "Some jail time. I mean it, Land."

MacIlhenny glanced at App. "I suppose we can live with that. At a federal facility, protective custody."

"So what happens on Mellors and Barnard?" said Leah, looking at MacIlhenny but adressing Bleichert. "Talk about being in an awkward position. Especially when Lowell's case hits the fan. We'll never be able to keep it quiet. The minute his attorney finds out about the deal and squawks, we'll come across softer on crime than the ACLU."

"Tsk, tsk-"

"She's got a point," said Bleichert.

"Come on, Stan," said MacIlhenny. "What kind of crime are we talking about? A scumbag private eye blackmailer and the scumbag motel manager who killed him? Weigh that against the chance to try Lowell."

"Afro-American scumbag motel manager," said Leah. "Trading black life for white life? Can't you just see the NAACP having fun with that? And let's not forget, Lowell's victim was no choirboy, either. Is anyone going to care what an old man did twenty years ago?"

"There's a substantial difference, young lady."

"Sure, someone else's client'll be facing the heat."

Bleichert chewed his lip. App looked at him. First interest he'd shown in the proceedings.

Bleichert said, "I hear everything you're saying, Land, but she raises a valid consideration."

Talking about Leah as if she wasn't there.

MacIlhenny thought for a while. "There could be other evidence, Stan. Theoretically."

"Like what?"

"Audiotapes. Terrence Trafficant telling his story."

Leah said, "Theoretical." She looked disgusted.

MacIlhenny shrugged. Pounds of flesh shivered. "It's been a long time. Memories fade. Clean out an attic, no telling what you'll find."

"Malibu attic?" said Leah. "Or the one in Holmby Hills?"

"Here's my offer," said Bleichert, "take it or leave it. Mr. App confesses to his involvement in Karen Best, Felix Barnard, and Denton Mellors. Involuntary manslaughter on Best, conspiracy-second on Barnard because Mellors was the shooter, and straight second degree on Mellors, all sentences to run concurrently. If we avoid a trial-"

"Stan, Stan."

"Hold on, Land. If we avoid a trial and if Lowell is convicted of first degree because of information provided by Mr. App, Mr. App's sentences are suspended."

Leah's huge eyes were hot skillets.

MacIlhenny pretended to deliberate.

"Just one thing, Stan," said Leah. "By all accounts, Barnard was premeditated. We could go for Conspiracy One and by the same token, straight One on-"

Bleichert shushed her with a short, angry hand movement.

MacIlhenny said, "What do you mean by confession?"

"Written, sworn, all the details, no evasion of questions, full acknowledgment of complicity."

"Like in church," said App softly.

MacIlhenny's eyebrows sank. "What about the dope?"

"If you can work it out with the feds, total walk," said Bleichert. "But only if he admits guilt in writing and only if his information leads directly to Lowell's conviction. And no own-recognizance, he stays put. What I said before about Lompoc stands, and I'll grant you the protective custody- hell, I'll put him on a cellblock with ex-senators."

Leah cracked her knuckles.

Bleichert said, "Why don't you go get all the files, Lee? So we know what to ask Mr. App."

She stomped out of the room and walked right past me.

Just as the door to the hall slammed, MacIlhenny said, "Pretty girl."

App and MacIlhenny conferred with the sound off and App started dictating to the lawyer.

During the break, Bleichert returned to his office and Leah Schwartz to hers.

Before she left she said, "Going to wait here?"

"Till Milo gets here."

"Well, be careful. Hang around here too long, you'll need to be disinfected."

She slammed the door and App heard it through the glass and jumped. His fear had always been there, hiding just beneath the cashmere.

MacIlhenny patted his shoulder and App resumed dictating.

Twenty minutes later, Milo still hadn't come back from accompanying Lucy and I wondered why.

A half hour after that, MacIlhenny stopped writing.

Bleichert ran his finger down the center of the page. Speed-reading. Then a slower perusal.

He put it down.

"It says nothing in here about who shot Mr. Mellors."

"A guy named Jeffries," said App, as if it didn't matter. "Leopold Jeffries. He got killed himself, five years ago- check the police files."

"What did you have to do with Mr. Jeffries's death?"

App smiled. "Nothing at all. The police shot him, in the middle of a robbery. Leopold Earl Jeffries- check it out."

Calm again.

Bleichert read the confession again. "This is okay, for a start." Putting it in his pocket. "Now fill me in on Trafficant."

App looked at MacIlhenny. The fat lawyer sucked his cheeks.

"There are tapes," said App. "At my house in Lake Arrowhead. Feel free to get them without a warrant. They're in the basement, behind one of the refrigerators."

"One of them?" said Bleichert, writing.

"I have two basement refrigerators at Arrowhead. For parties. Two Sub-Zeros. Behind the one on the right is a wall safe. The tapes are in there, I'll get you the combination. They've got Terry Trafficant telling me everything. I taped him because I thought one day it might be historically significant. Terry got fed up with Lowell's manipulation and looked to me as someone he could trust. I paid him every penny of his option money. I also paid him for a screenplay he did. Every penny."

"In return for all his future royalties?" said Leah.

"That, too," said App. "He got the better end of the deal. I haven't earned a thing in years."

"What kind of screenplay?" said Bleichert.

"Not really a full script, just a summary of some horror flick- Friday the Thirteenth type of thing, women getting chopped up by a maniac."

"Title?"

"The Bride."

The treatment I'd read, Trafficant's. Title stolen from a dead man's novel. For the petty thrill? The allure of crime had never left him.

"I thought," App was saying, "with a few changes- more character arc- it had potential. If Terry hadn't disappeared, I probably would have produced it."

"Hooray for Hollywood," said Bleichert. "So far I don't know much more than when I came in."

App wore a meditative look.

MacIlhenny handed his client water, and App sipped delicately.

Putting the glass down, he said, "The key to all of it is Lowell's creative block. He went into a massive block years ago- thirty years ago. Just couldn't break out of it, maybe because of his drinking or maybe he'd just said all he had to say. But Trafficant didn't know that. He spent most of his youth in prison, found Lowell's old stuff, and read it, had no idea what was going on in the outside world. Then he ended up in some sort of creative writing program the prison was experimenting with and got the idea he could write. So he wrote to Lowell, stroked Lowell's ego, the two of them started a correspondence. Trafficant started writing poems and keeping a diary. He sent it to Lowell. Lowell was impressed and started working for Trafficant's parole."

Pausing.

"That's the part the public knows. The truth is, Lowell and Trafficant cut a deal, back when Trafficant was still in prison. Lowell hatched the whole thing, telling Trafficant poetry was a financial loser in the book business, it was almost impossible to get published. Except for a few famous poets like him. Lowell promised to agitate until Trafficant got early parole; meanwhile he'd also be editing Trafficant's poems, then submit them for publication under his own name. Trafficant would get the money and Lowell would also get the diary published under Trafficant's name."

"And Trafficant went along with this?"

"What did he have to bargain with, a loser behind bars? Lowell was offering him freedom, lots of money, possible fame if the diary hit big. So he wouldn't get credit for the poems; he could live with that. He was a con, used to deals."

"How much money did Lowell get for the poems?"

"A hundred and fifty thousand advance against royalties. Lowell took fifty for himself, Lowell's agent got fifteen. The retreat- Sanctum- was started as a way to transfer the rest of the eighty-five thou to Trafficant."

"Sounds like you were in on it from the beginning," said Bleichert.

"I helped finance the retreat because I believed in Lowell."

"Idealism."

"That's right."

Bleichert said to MacIlhenny, "So far the tone of this is very self-serving."

MacIlhenny said, "Be frank, Curt. This old nose tells me they're operating in good faith."

App hesitated.

MacIlhenny patted him.

"All right," the producer said. "I used the retreat too. To launder money. Nothing big. Some friends of mine- kids, people in the industry- were bringing marijuana up from Mexico. We didn't consider it really a drug, back then. Everyone smoked."

He picked something out of his sweater.

Bleichert moved his head impatiently. "I hope there's more."

"Plenty," said App. "Lowell was hoping the poems he stole from Trafficant would put him back in the spotlight. They did, but in the wrong way. All the critics hated them and the book bombed. Meanwhile, Trafficant's book became a fu- a best-seller." He chuckled, wanting everyone else to join in. No one did.

I remembered the enraged letter Trafficant had written to the Village Voice in support of Lowell. Mustering the only real passion a psychopath can ever develop: self-defense.

"What made Lowell think Trafficant would keep quiet about the deal?"

"Lowell was desperate. And naive- most arty types are. I've dealt with them for thirty years; take my word for it. And the fact that the book failed protected Lowell. Why would Trafficant want to claim authorship of a turkey, especially with his other book doing so well? But Lowell wasn't even thinking in those terms at the beginning. He was obsessed with his place in history, freaking out that his reputation was rotting. He used to sit in that cabin on his property all day, trying to produce, but nothing came. He kept drinking and doping to forget, and it only made matters worse."

"How'd the failure of the poetry book affect him?"

"He drank himself unconscious, then came out of it saying it was Terry's work anyway, Terry had no talent, was just a slick criminal who'd taken advantage of him. Meanwhile, Terry's doing interviews with The New York Times and selling a thousand books a week. Lowell stopped talking to him, and Terry knew it was only a matter of time before he'd be leaving Sanctum. That's when he transferred his royalties to me for safekeeping. For all his tough talk, he was still a con, had no idea how to cope with the world, so he came to me."

"And you taped him."

"For his protection."

Bleichert grunted.

"Irony," said App. "It's the key to a good story line. Lowell's name on that book of poems was supposed to buy success but it didn't. Trafficant became the darling of the literary set. You could package it as a comedy and sell it to cable."

Bleichert said, "So Trafficant spilled his guts to you because he was worried about making it in the outside world."

"That, and he wanted to talk. Cons always do. No self-control. Never met one yet who could keep a secret."

"Know lots of cons, do you?"

App folded his hands across his sweater. "I meet all sorts of people."

"I still haven't heard any details about murder," said Bleichert.

App smiled. "Lowell killed Terry. Two days after the Best girl's accident. Things finally came to a head, because Lowell was shaken up by what had happened, ready to close down the retreat. And still pissed at Terry. He ordered Terry off the premises. Terry cursed him out and threatened to go public with the whole book scam. When Terry turned his back, Lowell hit him on the head with a whisky bottle, kept hitting him. Then he panicked, called me, blubbering. I went over and we buried Trafficant."

Clapping his hands once.

"And with that," said Bleichert, "you were able to buy Lowell's secrecy on Karen Best forever."

"Keeping quiet about that was in Lowell's interest, too. His reputation was lousy enough without someone dying at his party."

"Where's Trafficant buried?"

"Right underneath Lowell's writing cabin- Inspiration he called it. That's where he killed him. The floor was dirt; they just dug down."

"Who's they?"

"Lowell, Denny Mellors, Chris Graydon-Jones."

"Why Mellors?"

"He was a weeny- and I'd say that if he was white. He hated being black, as a matter of fact. Denied it. He thought if he just kept writing and kissing ass, he'd be rich and famous. Anyway, that's where Terry is. I don't know if the cabin's still standing, but I can find the spot- right near the pond."

"Not far from Karen Best," said Bleichert.

App didn't answer.

"Any other bodies we should know about?"

"Not to my knowledge. You'd have to ask Lowell. He's the creative one. Did you know that he published his first book while in college? Everyone told him he was a genius. Fatal error."

"What was?"

"Believing his own reviews. Now can we get the ball rolling on transferring me to a decent place?"

"So you've been collecting Mr. Trafficant's royalties all these years."

"After the first few years it was chicken feed. Nothing's come in for the last five."

"How much chicken feed?"

"I'd have to check. Probably not more than a hundred and fifty thousand, all told."

"And Mr. Trafficant's advance payment for his book?"

"Seven thousand dollars. He blew it all in a crap game the same day he cashed the check. That's why he was so uptight when Lowell threatened to kick him out. Here he was a best-seller, eighty-five g's dropped in his bank account, and he had no idea how to handle it. Now can you get me to a decent place?"

"We'll work on it, Mr. App."

"Meantime, can I have my own food brought in? The crap here is loaded with fat and grease. I have my own chef, he could-"

Bleichert reread the confession and his notes of App's recitation.

The door from the hallway opened, and a stocky black jail deputy came into the observation room.

"DA Bleichert?" he said, scanning my consultant's badge.

I pointed at the glass.

"They in the middle of something?"

"Just finishing up."

He looked through the one-way. Bleichert was still reading. App and MacIlhenny sat in silence.

"Hmm," said the deputy. Then he knocked.

"Yeah?" said Bleichert, annoyed.

The deputy went in. "Sorry to bother you, sir, but I've got an urgent message."

Bleichert was annoyed. "From who? I'm busy."

"A Detective Sturgis."

"What does he want?"

"He said to tell you in private, sir."

"Okay, hold on." To MacIlhenny and App: "One sec."

He came out of the room, closed the door, and tapped his foot. "Okay, what's so damned urgent?"

The deputy looked at me.

Bleichert walked to a far corner well away from me. The deputy followed and whispered something in his ear.

As he listened, Bleichert's sour face lightened. "I'll be damned!"

"Everything okay with Lucy?" I said.

Bleichert ignored me. To the deputy: "You're sure?"

"That's what the man said."

"How long ago?"

"Hour or so."

"And this is definitely confirmed?"

"That's what he said, sir."

"Well, I'll be damned-unreal… goddammit… okay, thanks."

The deputy left and Bleichert stood thinking. Then he returned to the interrogation room.

"So," said App, "can we start the paperwork?"

"Sure," said Bleichert. "We've got lots of paperwork." Big smile.

App said, "I eat a high-carbohydrate, low-fat diet."

"Good for you." Hard voice.

MacIlhenny said, "Stan?"

Bleichert opened his jacket and hooked his thumbs in his belt loops. "Bit of a new development, gentlemen. I've just been informed that Mr. Lowell passed away this afternoon: massive stroke. So all deals are null and void and we'll be filing that confession as evidence against Mr. App."

App went white as his sweater.

MacIlhenny shoved his bulk out of the chair, charged forward, waving his hands as if warding off hornets. "Now, see here-"

Bleichert whistled and collected his papers.

"This is unconscionab-"

"Not at all, Land. We negotiated in good faith. You yourself said so. No accounting for acts of God. Guess God didn't approve of the deal."

MacIlhenny tottered with rage. "Now you just-"

"No you just, Land. All bets are off and this stays on the record."

Waving the confession.

"Always put it in writing," said Bleichert, grinning. "I learned that watching The People's Court."