“If I'm not breaking ethics or state secrets, what sort of defense do you plan?”
“Temporary insanity. My staff is doing research on it now. We already have found a quote from Dreiser about writers shouldn't be limited to one woman. We'll find... say, maybe you at Longson's can help me get some top authors to testify? Fellows like Hemingway, Faulkner, Ferber, O'Hara, Williams?”
“I doubt that. You're losing me: testify about what? You mentioned temporary insanity, but how do they...?”
“Listen, Connor,” he said and his voice made sure, you listened, “our contention will be that men like Matt Anthony are creators, the rare creatures of our banal earth. Matt is a genius. Laws and conventions can not apply to men like him, they are above such petty mundane barriers. They have a God-given gift that requires them not merely to exist, like you and I, but to really taste of life. They must be allowed to dig into life, experiment with it, if they are to write. In short, they must be allowed to look upon life freely, ordinary standards can not apply to them. Mrs. Anthony failed to understand that; she nagged him, to a point where he broke, and in a blind rage he killed to save his genius!”
I realized my mouth was open. I shut it. Then asked, “Mr. Clair, you believe that?”
“Yes! Leaf through history, every great artist either fought the shackles of convention or was smothered by them. Van Gogh, London, Shakespeare, Gauguin. Remember, even the commandment 'Thou shall not kill' is but a convention.”
“You'll never get away with that.”
He flashed his strong smile. “If I can get the jury to half-believe it, I'm in. I'm aiming at getting Matt off, and that's a long shot. But it will be a feather in my cap. Even if he gets second degree manslaughter, it will be a feather in my cap. I like feathers.” He pointed to his beaded belt. “I'm part Indian, you know.”
And I bet you milk it for all it's; worth, I thought as I asked, “Then you think he's guilty, I mean, he killed her?”
He was wearing out his rug again and he stopped as abruptly as if he'd walked into a wall. He sat down on the edge of the desk, swinging his long legs. Naturally he was wearing hand-stitched moccasin loafers. His eyes bored into me as he said, “He killed her; it would be ridiculous to think otherwise. He's confessed it.”
“Prof. Brown doesn't think so.”
Clair slapped his thigh. “That runt, he's the thorn in my case. One thing that worries me, red-baiting. Mr. Connor, what I'm about to tell you mustn't go beyond this room. I mean that I talked to Matt on Saturday for the first time. He started to babble about Francine falling—on land—and hitting her head, that he was aware of the implications of his threatening her, and so he had dragged her out to the boat to make things look more like an accident. I've defended many people involved in homicide, the scream of innocence is a natural lie. Matt was in bad shape, had a minor heart attack in his cell. I hated to be rough on him, but I told him I wouldn't buy that slop, to get another lawyer. My father, God rest his good soul, was not a material success but he was a very learned man. One of the criterions he drilled into me was—never worry about making mistakes, but be certain you never make a
“What's the D.A.'s chances of proving it murder?”
He batted the air with his hand. “Crap. A bluff. The hick is trying to make a name. Don't pay any attention to it. Be different if a weapon were used. There's obviously no premeditation or intent here. His asking for murder 'one' is a routine bargaining point. He'll want me to settle for murder two.' I won't.”
“You mentioned manslaughter in the second degree, what's the sentence for that?”
“Maximum is 15 years and a fine up to $1000. I doubt if Matt would get more than five years, which means he'll be out in two or three. If I can get a change of venue, and I'm asking for that, he might get a suspended sentence or merely a fine. The big factor right now is money. Research is expensive, and I'll have to engage top psychiatrists. We don't have much time. How soon can Matt get a couple of grand?”
“You'll have to take that up with Mr. Long, himself. If we decide to go ahead with publication, I should think you —Matt—might be able to get an advance. Have you talked with Matt's agent?”
“Yes. Trouble with the world, too many faint-hearted people. I told him to fly out to Hollywood, raise some hell, but he's afraid of the notoriety. I told the sonofabitch he'd only get 10% of it.”
His phone rang and he said, “Jackson Clair. Yes, Ollie. Aha. That's what we expected. Of course we have to talk it through. I'll be here to five. Good, I'll expect you.”
As he hung up I got to my feet, said I was glad to have talked to him. We shook hands, and he had the firm grasp I expected. I told him to call tomorrow afternoon, we would have reached a decision about the book by then.
Chambers Street was hot with home-rushing people. I didn't have any place to rush to. I didn't want to think and I didn't want to get drunk. I phoned Frank. He was just leaving the office, said he had time for a short workout, and where the hell had I been?
I took a cab to the gym and by six we had played two fast games. He wanted me to have supper with him and Liz, take in a preview of the pilot film of a new TV show, but I said I had some work to do, begged off.
I had played hard, beaten Frank both games. I was suddenly fed up with all the phony people I'd known the last few days—including myself.
Frank said, “Let's take a shower. I haven't much time and you know Liz if she has to wait a second.”
“Think I'll hang around, see if I can get a few more games in. I'm restless... without Michele.”
“How's her folks?”
“Coming along. However, she may have to stay there longer than we expected.”
“I thought we could talk over the ad campaign for Matt's book, while showering.”
“I haven't finalized that in my mind, yet,” I lied.
