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."