Trial Run Page 7

  “Let’s talk about TV,” she said. “TV in the courtroom. JusticeTV. I’m sure we’ve all watched it at some point in the last few years.”

  Heads nodded. “It’s like a good soap,” Lila said. She looked as trashy as ever, waving blood-red nails as though drying a new coat of polish. “There’s always some new drama going on.”

  Jerry snorted. “Soap, my ass. This is living history. We’re witnessing our judicial system in action here.”

  “Do you really think so?” someone said. And someone else said, “Absolutely not. The presence of TV cameras completely changes the dynamics of a courtroom.”

  Opinions blew around the table.

  “I’ve seen prosecutors who are as dull as ditchwater. They make a terrible impression on film.”

  “Yeah, well I’ve heard of some who spend all their time preparing a case in front of a mirror, trying to come up with some dramatic gestures to use to make themselves look better.”

  “What difference does it make what they look like on film? It’s the evidence they present that matters.”

  “You think so? You think juries aren’t swayed by appearance? Or by public opinion?”

  “Yeah, but what drives that opinion? I’ll tell you what. The media. They take seven hours of testimony and reduce it to five minutes. Makes the whole thing incomprehensible and biased as hell.”

  “Bull. TV shows you stuff as it’s actually happening. How can that be biased?”

  “If you knew you were going to be on national television, wouldn’t you make sure your shirt was pressed and your hair was combed? These people play to the camera like crazy. It’s a kick for them being recognized on the street like a celebrity.”

  Kerrin spoke above the growing din. “You’re saying, all of you, in one way or another, that the TV image has a major impact on how we view the world. Whether you think it’s a distorted view or not, television influences our actions, our reactions … ”

  “Yeah.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “What about regular programming? The sitcoms, the adventure series … what kind of impact do they have?”

  Thomas Lyons said, “We have to be careful of course, how much influence we allow them to have. They’re just entertainments, after all. Take them with a grain of salt and so on.”

  “Take them with a grain of salt,” Kerrin said. “Okay. But do you think everyone does that, or can do that? Do you think some people are more capable than others of drawing a line between what is true and what is not, what is honest reporting and what has been magnified for effect, what has been done as entertainment and what represents the real world?”

  No one answered. From Jerry’s mulish assertion that the camera never lies, to Lila’s delight in real life drama to Thomas Lyons’s pompous cynicism, it was clear that no two of them were affected by the media in exactly the same way. It was the response Kerrin was looking for.

  “We can never know exactly how another person perceives and interprets what he sees on television. What we do know is that the electronic screen has an amazing power to mesmerize. D’you realize that young Americans today spend about as much time in front of a television as they do in a classroom? That’s right. At midnight, every night, nearly 2 million children under the age of twelve are still watching TV. The average adult watches more than thirty hours a week. Almost as much time as they spend working. And we know what the content of many shows is: violence. Kids see more acts of violence in half an hour of television than most would encounter in a dozen lifetimes. They become inured to it, they begin to accept it as the norm. They begin to have trouble telling the difference between the images they see on the screen and reality.” Around the table, heads were beginning to nod agreement. “Behaviorists are noticing that kids who watch a lot of TV are acting out in the playground, with their schoolmates, on the street. They call it television violence intoxication. TVI.”

  Heads nodded. Jerry muttered, “Here we go with the intoxication theory again.”

  Kerrin pressed her point. “TVI was first used as a defense argument in a case in Florida about twenty years ago. The courts are beginning to accept that repeated exposure to violent programs on television can lead an individual to commit violent acts.”

  Reaction was more subtle now: a raised eyebrow, a thoughtful expression. I had a vivid recollection of the WKPT broadcast filmed in Randy Outray’s home. I remembered how a television screen had dominated the room and I speculated on the role the media might play in a family so often a target of it. From the expressions on their faces, so did the many of my fellow jurors. Only David still looked wary.

  “This ranks right up there with the Twinkie Defense, doesn’t it?” he said. “For those of you who don’t know,” he explained, “That particular argument claimed that the accused ate too much junk food and the resulting chemical imbalance in his system was to blame for his behavior. It’s the current vogue in defending someone in court these days; blame their criminal acts on some other force in their lives. Call it a syndrome. Make the abuser seem like the abused.”

  “Some of those syndromes are real,” objected Lila. “What about the Super Bowl Sunday one? It’s a proven fact that more women get beat up that day than any other.”

  “Actually … ” Thomas Lyons began.

  Jerry cut him off. “Hey, she’s right. There is such a thing as a syndrome. I mean, d’you remember the Menendez Brothers? I saw that on TV.”

  “They weren’t acquitted.”

  “Maybe not, but they got a mistrial. Because some experts testified about parental abuse.”

  “Everyone knows that years of emotional or sexual abuse by a parent can cause a person to lose control,” said Lila. Her tone was authoritative, her expertise gleaned from years of soap opera viewing.

  “How did we get from TV violence to parental abuse?” I asked. “Is anyone seriously suggesting that Randy Outray’s parents abused him? Or that he killed two people because he watched too much TV?”

  There was some confusion around the table as people tried to sort out their opinions. Kerrin shot me a look. I saw where she was going. A specific charge of abuse might not even be necessary. It could be enough to create the illusion, to have an expert or two suggest it. These days, we accepted excuses for the most vile behaviors. Instead of individual responsibility, we have societal blame. The violent act can come first; an excuse for it can be found later. Kerrin had been right when she said that the defense didn’t have to prove anything. It only had to create doubt.

  “Reasonable doubt,” I’d amended.

  Kerrin had smiled. “Of course.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  David picked me up at seven on the dot and ushered me to the car. I sat rather shyly beside him, my hands in my lap, watching the road twist up to meet us as we picked our way down the icy hill to the bridge before gathering speed on River Road. Frost-covered trees streamed by, drenched briefly in the gold of our headlights, dimming, fleeing, gone. The city glittered with Christmas lights whose reflections swayed and bobbed in the dark waters of the Old Harbor.

  We had a wonderful dinner at a place where clothes didn’t matter and the food was excellent. We didn’t dance there, because, we agreed, eating was too important for the distraction of gymnastics but later, somewhere else, we danced and later still, we went to a club and listened to jazz and drank brandy and laughed a lot and then, at last, drove home.

  David was an easy person to be with, direct, undemanding, not interpreting occasional silences as personal insults nor rushing to fill the space.

  He asked about my job and my family and I found myself talking quite naturally about Brian and Rory and my life on the fringes of Kingsport’s rich and famous. In turn, he talked of his own, much broader world as an engineer engaged to build bridges in remote areas of the globe. He didn’t specify what business had brou
ght him from Pago Pago to Kingsport, but I had the impression it was something personal, though not an ex-wife or old flame.

  “I have a theory about marriage,” he said. “How many people do you know who rushed into marriage at twenty-one or twenty-two, only to have the whole thing fall apart once they grew up and the passion died? I believe that if you can withstand the early impulse to jump into marriage, you’re safe till you hit your thirties. By then, passion is still a factor but it’s likely to be grounded in something more substantial than simple lust. You’ve had time to look around, try a few things, decide what you want from a partner. And what you’re willing to give.”

  “Lots of early marriages succeed,” I objected. “And plenty of later ones fail. How do they fit your theory?”

  He grinned. “They don’t. So I ignore them. I only consider the evidence that supports my own hypothesis.”

  “That’s not very scientific.”

  “Maybe not. But it gives me an excuse for still being single.”

  “Do you need an excuse?”

  A waiter sidled up and deposited our bill, laying it between us with a bright meaningless smile. Not like the good old days, when they knew for a fact that the gentleman was paying.

  We collected our coats, buttoning them tight in anticipation of the cold blast that met us when we stepped outside. David turned the defroster on high. It took a few minutes to clear the windshield.

  “How did you wind up at Kerrin’s?” I asked.

  “I met her through the friend of a friend. The mock jury thing sounded interesting and I was at a bit of a loose end, so I more or less invited myself to join. How did you?”

  “I’m a regular. Kerrin is my sister.”

  He gave me a swift sidelong glance and the car swerved as it hit a patch of ice. David regained the wheel easily, but the light mood of the evening seemed to drop from him. He drove on in an abstracted, frowning silence that I put down to the slippery conditions and the winding road.

  It was one-thirty when we reached my place. I invited him in for a nightcap but he pleaded an early engagement. “Rain check?” he said, as he waited for me to unlock the door.

  “Sure,” I said, and held out my hand.

  He took it and leaned down and kissed my cheek. His beard tickled. We looked at each other, my hand still in his. David bent his head and kissed me again, this time on my lips.

  I watched him down the drive and he dipped his headlights twice, briefly, in farewell. I shut the door and leaned hard against it, wishing he had stayed.

  • • •

  The next day passed in a whirl. I spent the morning at Reidmore, supervising the arrangement of flowers brought in by the vanload. Tiers of pink and red poinsettias were stacked to resemble Christmas trees, with fairy lights twinkling among their leaves. Pine wreaths were interlaced with tiny rosebuds; holly swathed the main staircase; and vase after vase was filled with sprays of white anemone. The musicians tuned their instruments in the upper gallery; the caterer’s assistants laid out silverware; the bartenders set bottles of champagne on ice. At one, Sonja returned from Anitra’s Beauty Salon. Every visible inch of her had been styled and buffed to a high gloss. In the noon light, she looked slightly surreal but in the muted glow of candles and dimmed chandeliers, she would look magnificent. She laid one perfectly manicured hand on my arm.

  “My dear, you should have told me you had a friend. I never thought … but of course, I would have been more than happy to invite him. Anyway, Max has taken care of it and I’m so looking forward to meeting him.”

  “Him who?”

  “David Maitland, of course.”

  “David?” I repeated stupidly.

  “Yes. Max had a game of squash with him at the Clubbe. Absolutely charming, he says. Some kind of engineer. Anyway, this David mentioned that he was a friend of yours, and naturally, Max invited him along tonight. Isn’t that nice?” She patted my arm. “But you will still keep an eye on things for me, won’t you.”

  • • •

  Dressing for my first dance in years … and David somewhere among the crowd of guests. I fought to keep the butterflies at bay but my fingers shook as I opened a bar of scented soap and bobby pins scattered like confetti when I gathered my hair high onto my head. The blue velvet gown soothed my nerves a little and my mother’s diamond eardrops very nearly calmed me.

  By nine-thirty, the Reidmore Ball was well under way. Max and Sonja had finished receiving and their place near the banked flowers at the foot of the staircase was empty.

  The hall was brilliant with a shifting mass of people, the men elegant in black tie, the women dazzling in shimmery gowns and radiant smiles. Mel Deloitte was there, partnering a blonde with slanting eyes and a beautiful mouth. She was dancing very close to him, talking rapidly, with flickering upward glances through long lashes. He was smiling.

  On the far side of the room, Sonja was charming an elderly man whose face looked vaguely familiar but whose name I couldn’t place. Max sat on a small sofa chatting with General Sanderson. The general had stationed his wheelchair by the fireplace, out of the way of the dancers, but well in the line of sight of anyone headed for the bar. His wife, looking wonderful in a gown of royal purple, was being lectured by a woman with dyed hair, wearing emeralds and dramatic black.

  The music stopped and people drifted to the sides of the room. In the moment of silence that followed, John and Zoe Outray appeared in the doorway as though cued by a stage director. They were flanked by their children, Randy and Simone.

  Every eye turned to look at them, and for the space of a heartbeat, there was total silence in the room. Then, somewhere to my left, a glass shattered; a woman gave a shrill little laugh; and in the gallery upstairs, the musicians began to play again. Max and Sonja were on their feet, he with hand outstretched in polite welcome, she with the gracious smile of a hostess firmly in place. Murmured comments rippled around the room.

  The man next to me said, “Hell of a nerve.”

  His companion sniffed. “Pathetic really, isn’t it? And just look at that dress!”

  The dress in question was worn by Simone Outray, the least advertised member of the clan. Drab silver drapery hung in folds on a frame too gawky and unformed to carry such sophisticated styling. I knew the girl must be at least sixteen, but she had the thin shapelessness of a twelve-year old and the sullen look of a bad-tempered child.

  The woman beside her, on the other hand, looked the part the way her daughter never would. Perfectly groomed, she radiated chilly elegance. Her husband’s austere profile was somewhat marred by the bulbous red nose of the heavy social drinker.

  Of course it was their son, John Randall Outray III, who claimed most of the attention.

  Having seen his face so often in the news, it was intriguing to see him in the flesh. He was taller than his father, with the lean, hard musculature of an athlete. He favored the unkempt, who-gives-a-damn look of stubbled jaw and messy hair but his gray silk suit was from Armani. He looked surprisingly young, completely self-possessed, and curiously blank around the eyes.

  There was no time for a more detailed appraisal of the family. Party guests swarmed around them like baseball fans around their heroes. Several women, not all of them young, reached out to touch Randy. I half-expected him to pull out a handkerchief, wipe his brow with it and throw it to the adoring crowd. Notoriety breeds its own cult worship, and here, among the members of the Clubbe and the Porsche set, a murder trial had simply become the latest party game. I doubted that Randy would fare so well in the streets, where placard-waving protestors insisted on “Death for the Angel,” and new petitions were signed daily demanding safer streets for women and children.

  Sonja caught my eye and used hers to indicate the kitchen.

  It was easy to slip unnoticed through the crowd to check on the supplies of food and liquo
r, much more difficult not to look too obviously for David. I wondered what his impression would be of the criminal in our midst.

  When his voice said, “Hello there” just behind me, I jumped like a thief caught in the act of stealing the silver.

  “You startled me,” I said a shade breathlessly, as David, looking incredibly handsome in a dinner jacket, appeared at my elbow.

  “Where have you been hiding?”

  The music swelled into a waltz, obliterating my reply. David spun me onto the floor.

  His voice murmured in my ear, “Surprised?”

  “Not entirely. Sonja told me you were invited.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “Do you mind?”

  “Be my guest.”

  He smiled and swept me round with the music in a quick turn. A pillar swirled past, a group of men, a wheelchair. In the middle of the bright kaleidoscope loomed a gray shadow. Randy Outray was watching the dancers, like a spider at the knot of a web. I shook my head to dispel the fancy. David slanted a look at me and I gave him a brilliant smile. We were dancing at the edge of the room, near French windows that stood open to the mild night. Before I knew quite what he intended, we were out of the room and on the wide veranda, slipping out of the crowd as easily as a floating twig slides into a backwater. The music followed us through the long windows. We danced without speaking along the moonlit arcade and in again through the windows of the library, where firelight warmed the deserted shadows. In one of the logs, I could hear the whine and bubble of resin. The music sounded very far away. Still without speaking, David stopped. His arms tightened around me and I melted into them.

  • • •

  When at length he let me go and spoke, his voice was unsteady. But it still held that little undertone of laughter that was unmistakably his.

  Holding me at arm’s length, he said, “Well, aren’t you going to ask it?”

  “Ask what?”