The Morels (43 page)

If the courtroom was a bore, the same could not be said of the goings-on outside. The first day I had seen a few people with small flip pads taking notes and wondered if they might be reporters. That evening, eating dinner at the carriage house, Doc pointed at the television with a speared floret of curried broccoli. It was the final segment of the local news, usually reserved for items that would be introduced with a phrase like
Now
here’s
an interesting one
. It showed a small insert of Arthur’s dust-jacket photo. Doc stumbled to his feet to turn the volume dial on the small portable television just in time to catch the anchor say, “…  but the author claims he made the whole thing up. Wonder what the
next
book will be about!” The following day, a CBS-affiliate anchor and her cameraman approached Benji and his assistants on their way up the courthouse steps, and that night we all waited impatiently through the day’s leading stories for the footage, which appeared along with a court sketch of grizzle-bearded Arthur. We cheered, and Cynthia declared, “Our fifteen minutes have begun!” The day after that, it was all three of the major networks following Benji up the stairs, along with half-a-dozen photographers clicking and flashing in their faces. It became the evening’s top story. The day after that it was the front page of the
Post
and the
Daily News
.

Benji had been right. In the vacuum of the millennium story, this one entered to fill the void. There were other “bigger” stories going on inside the halls of 100 Center Street that week—a grisly murder, a mafioso on trial—but this was the one that caught the public eye. The Brooklyn Museum exhibit was still fresh in people’s minds. It was also a time of brazen sexual transgressions, from our president’s to nannies caught on video to the several high-profile cases of teachers tried for statutory rape—both male and female—and the trial of Arthur Morel found itself as somehow the quintessence of all this, the last straw perhaps. So in spite of what the judge had said about what this trial was and wasn’t, to those following its progress outside the walls of the courtroom, it
became a referendum on the limits of artistic freedom. The papers took pleasure in the possibilities of his name, which—if you substituted
e
with
a
—seemed designed to comment ironically on his situation.

The announcement, in the middle of all this, that
The Morels
had been nominated for the Faulkner Award was rocket fuel that set the debate aroar and helped launch it past the local news and into the seven o’clock national slot. Two
New York Times
op-ed columnists took up the debate over several days, one arguing for literature’s return to its historical imperative of extolling our better angels and the other arguing for the prerogative of literature to be whatever it needed to be.

And as unreal as this short account of Arthur’s ascent may seem to read, this was exactly how it felt to live through: unreal. Dreamlike. It happened so quickly. We sat watching the news at the carriage house, the five of us, the day’s papers scattered around us, scarcely believing what we were reading, what we were seeing.

Suriyaarachchi clapped Doc on the back. “What did I tell you? Okay? This movie is going to be enormous. Your two sons will see this thing through, and Arthur will come home safe—and be able to share in all of this. Just trust, just trust. And I know the phone is tempting you right now”—ringing off the hook with offers,
Hard Copy, Jerry Springer, Larry King
—“but your silence is worth more down the line. How does it feel to be the father of a rock star?”

But I think Suriyaarachchi misinterpreted Doc and Cynthia’s disbelief at all of this. Because what Arthur had achieved here wasn’t fame; it was infamy. He was tarred by the tabloids, already tried and found guilty by New Yorkers at large. And who could blame them? His own book seemed to convict him of this crime, and even assuming his innocence, the act of publishing it alone was thought by most who were talking about it to be a kind of abuse. It was, at best, a perverse and downright mean thing to do.

But Doc and Cynthia didn’t understand the hostility. “Even if he did do it,” Cynthia said. “Is it really something to get this worked up over?” They had thought themselves one with the city.
Their open door to the sidewalk had been a thirty-year testament to this. Neither of them had ever considered there were people who thought differently than they. To find out, finally, that most of the city thought they—and their son—were repulsive freaks must have been a crushing blow.

From a moving car raw eggs were pelted at the carriage house, whipping through the open doorway. One connected with Doc’s shoulder. He lifted his shirt to reveal a palm-sized welt. After this the doors remained permanently closed. All through the night intermittent hollering from outside reached us down in the basement, a ghostly noise, the pounding of fists on the metal garage door echoing somberly, an uneven drumbeat. In the morning, we found scrawled on it
MONSTERS
in dripping purple spray-paint.

On the morning I was to testify, we pressed through a throng of jeering pedestrians before making our way up the courthouse steps. Suriyaarachchi following with the camera merged with a dozen others taping our ascent.

We were made to wait. Benji and the ADA were conferring with the judge in the emptied courtroom. A guard stood at the doors, which barred any substantive eavesdropping, but I could see the jury was in attendance as well.

I took a seat on a bench, across the narrow hallway from Mrs. Wright and Will. They were sorting foil-wrapped items out of a plastic bag. While Mrs. Wright kept a wary eye on me, Will was pretending not to notice. It was the first time since the trial began I’d gotten more than a passing glimpse. He kept a blinkered focus on his sandwich, which sat on its foil wrapper in his lap. He carefully removed the top and peeled off two soggy lettuce leaves. In his hunkered-down posture—his twitchy fingers, the dark hollows under his eyes—I saw someone utterly besieged. As though he were ducking not only me but everyone else in the world. I detected something else as well. Guilt. Not the guilt of a betrayer. The guilt of a liar.

Will and I needed to talk.

The opportunity presented itself a few moments later when, speaking to Mrs. Wright, his lips formed the word
bathroom
. Penelope and Frank were not far off, standing against a wall. Frank had been keeping his eye on me. I got up, casually, ahead of Will, and rounded the corner, making my way to the water fountain just outside the men’s room door. I leaned in for a warm coppery draft, lingering until I saw Will’s sneakers pass my line of sight.

I rose, wiped my mouth, and ducked in after him.

A line of enormous urinals like marble bathtubs. Will was at the one in the far corner; I took the one next to his. “You’re lying,” I hissed into his ear. “Aren’t you?”

Will blanched, stepped back a few paces, fumbling with his zipper.

A tall gentleman emerged from a stall and walked over to the line of sinks. Will and I watched as he rolled up his sleeves, pumped out some soap from the dispenser, and washed his hands. The man became aware of us watching. He stared back through the mirror.

After he left, I crossed over to the door and kicked the rubber doorjamb into place.

Will ducked into a stall and latched it shut.

I stood for a while staring at the stall door, long enough to consider the implications of being caught in here, intimidating the lead witness.

Then, very softly, came Will’s voice. “I don’t care what happens to him. I hate him.” His voice sounded different in here—thin, crystalline—cupped by the dozen marble basins, as though it were being transmitted from somewhere else.

“How can you say that? If you knew what you were saying, how jail would be for a man like your father—you wouldn’t say such a thing.”

“I wish he were dead. We’d all be better off. Mom’s so sad, and it’s because of his lies. Why shouldn’t I lie, too? Then he’ll be put away, and it’ll be over, and we’ll all be happy. It’s what he deserves for writing what he wrote about me. Grandma says it. Grandpa says it. Joanna Brady says it. Even Mom says it.”

“Will,” I said. “I’m not defending what your father wrote. It’s a terrible thing. But what you are doing here is wrong. Evil, in fact. You know that, don’t you? Are you evil? Do you want people to think of you this way?”

“I’m not evil,” he said. The stall door rattled. “I’m not evil!”

“Then you’ve got to make this right, Will. You’ve got to tell people the truth.”

Someone was knocking outside. Voices.

“I’ve tried,” Will said.

“What have you told them?”

He opened the stall door, peered up at me. “I said I was confused. That I’m not remembering right.”

“That’s not the same as telling them you lied.”

“But I can’t! I’ll get into trouble. Serious trouble—you don’t understand. Please.” Tears wobbled in his eyes. “Please don’t tell Mom.”

“Will, this is bigger than you getting into trouble. I have to tell her—don’t you see, I have no choice.”

“Please don’t. I’m begging you. Listen, okay? I’ll tell her myself. Let me do it. Please.”

More banging. Frank’s voice:
My grandson, that’s who!

“Okay,” I said. “Fine. Now switch places.” I pushed past him into the stall and hopped up onto the toilet, pulling the door shut. “I’m not here,” I whispered, crouching.

Benji was able to get me five minutes alone with Arthur. I waited for him in a closet-sized space down from the courtroom. A glass door looked out onto the busy corridor.

Arthur was led in by a guard. The guard removed the shackles, then let himself out; he stood watch on the other side of the door. Arthur sat. He really was unrecognizable in his orange jumpsuit, with his hair so shaggy, his beard so thick.

I relayed the details of my recent conversation with Will, and Arthur nodded, frowning slightly. Then, still nodding, said, “That’s not going to work.”

“What’s not going to work?”

“If Will confesses he was lying, then the prosecution will have nothing.”

“Exactly!”

“There won’t be a trial. But there needs to be a trial, for this to work there needs to be … you see, Will has to accuse me, to put me away for—”

“Arthur. This isn’t a novel. This is your life.”

He licked at the corners of his mustache. “You need to stop him,” he said. He was agitated. He ran his fingers through his hair. “You need to talk to Will.”

“I’ve already talked to Will.”

“Before he confesses to Penelope! Don’t you see? Once he tells Penelope, this will all be over.”

“Come on. There has got to be a better way to atone for things, Arthur. Stop being so grandiose. You’ve hurt your wife and son, yes. And you will one day find a way to get them to see how very sorry you are for what you’ve put them through. But this is not it. This is suicide.”

“It has to happen this way.”

“You know what? I’ve tried. Fuck you, Arthur. If you want to stop Will, ask him yourself.”

“I can’t! Nobody will let me talk to him!”

“Well, figure it out. I’m done. I refuse to be a part of this game.” I stood.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “At least don’t tell Benji. Do that for me. Please. Don’t tell Benji.”

“Too late,” I said.

I had been put on the witness list ostensibly to speak to Arthur’s sanity, to have me talk about
The Morels
—there had been debate among Benji’s team on the merits of trying to explain to a jury Arthur’s nuanced reasons for writing the book. Benji argued that it would be better to offer some explanation, however incoherent sounding, than none at all but had run into resistance, yet again,
from Arthur, who wouldn’t hear of testifying about it. Which was where I came in.

But when I told Benji of Will’s confession, the plan changed. Benji was ecstatic. He clapped me painfully on the back. “We can put an end to this farce today,” he said. “Right now!” He also asked me several times whether I wasn’t making this up, that he would totally understand my motivation to do so, but this was not the way to help his brother. I could go to jail for perjury.

I assured him that I was telling the truth.

He nodded. “Okay,” he said. “Okay!” He told me to be myself and reminded me again that whatever I did, seriously, not to perjure myself.

If such a thing had crossed my mind, the thought would have evaporated upon being sworn into the stand. It was a powerful ritual that humbled me before judge and jury and those hundred pairs of eyes in the gallery. It had been years since having this many eyes on me, and that sweaty-palmed dread brought me back to the Concerto Concert. The judge up there might have been Mr. Strasser at the podium if one swapped the gavel for a baton. Even the way he looked down at me—the slight nod, the smile in the eyes—reminded me of the way I had been looked at by Mr. Strasser, the warm good grace of being judged as sound, satisfactory. I felt the same sense of responsibility to do my best, to honor the attention I was being given.

From up here I had a clear view of every face in the room. Arthur watched his hands move in front of him on the table. Benji sat next to him, checking his notes. I looked for Penelope and found her in her usual spot up front, behind the ADA, her father next to her. I tried meeting her gaze, but she would not look at me.

Benji stood, addressed me by name. “How long have you known Will Morel?”

“Since September.”

“Four months. And in that time, have you ever known the boy to lie or practice willing deceit?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Would you describe these occasions for us now?”

I looked over at the jury box, a subway car of faces—black, Asian, white, Hispanic. A mute city chorus to witnesses this tragedy. At first they had been a serious-minded bunch, several of them taking their own notes, all eyes forward, ears craning to catch every word. But by day 3, several had succumbed to the boredom of the proceedings. At one time or another they would nod off, a couple openly reading newspapers. But once the story broke nationally, they seemed to snap back, to return to the solemn duty they’d sworn to uphold. At the end of the day yesterday, the judge had ordered them sequestered in a nearby hotel. This morning they sat wide awake, the full force of their attention coming at me from that side of the room like heat.