“Okay,”Jim Klein says.“Let me ask you something, Kate Ellis.You’ve been perceived by some as O.J.Simpson’s most potent enemy in the press, and there have been a few—and I’m sure you’ve heard this, so I’m not saying anything you haven’t dealt with, and I’m certainly not trying to imply any agreement with this statement—but some have said that your articles about the case…”Klein picks up a thick, glossy magazine and holds it up to the camera:the cover is a portrait ofO.J.,his skin sev-eral shades darker than its actual color, posed on a dark street, grinning, holding a pair ofleather gloves in one hand, with the other hand hidden behind his back.“Show a certain insensitivity to the racial implications of the case against Mr.Simpson.”
“There are no racial implications, Jim.None that matter, anyhow.”
“Mighty easy for you to say, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says with a laugh.
”This is a murder case, Mr.McTeer,”Kate says.“Not a debate about civil rights.”
“Are you a lawyer in your spare time, Miss Ellis?”McTeer asks.
”No.But, ifit matters, I happen to live with a lawyer, and a very fine lawyer…”
Instinctively, Daniel grabs the remote control, but then is unsure whether he wants to turn the volume up or down.He points it toward the set without pressing any buttons.Behind Kate, not quite in focus, is the fireplace, the mantel covered with framed snapshots ofthe three ofthem.
“I fell asleep.”
Startled, abashed, as ifcaught with pornography, Daniel looks at Iris.
She, too, is naked, with one hand massaging her eyes and the other fig-leafed over her middle.
“A woman has been brutally murdered,”Kate is saying,“and there is at this point a good chance that the man who is clearly responsible for her death is going to go free.All the talk about racist cops…”
“What is this?”Iris asks, sitting next to Daniel, draping her leg over him.
”TV,”says Daniel.
”Who is she talking about?”
“O.J.Simpson.Who else?”
“I don’t know.”
“That this man has become some sort ofrebel-hero to theAfricanAmerican community,”Kate is saying,“is completely ludicrous, and of-fensive.That rappers and other prominent blacks are wearing‘Free O.J.’ T-shirts is also ludicrous and offensive.We have to ask ourselves:Are we a nation oflaws, or aren’t we?”
“We are a nation oflaws,”McTeer says.
”Who’s that freak?”Iris asks.
”Reginald McTeer, a lawyer.”
“And the foundation ofour legal system,”McTeer continues,“is a man or a woman is presumed innocent until proven guilty.Without that presumption, there is no justice.And without justice there is no peace.”
Kate rolls her eyes.“I don’t know anyone who doesn’t believe that O.J.Simpson murdered Nicole Brown and Ron Goldman.”
“I know plenty ofpeople who have grave doubts about that, Miss Ellis,”McTeer says.“You should get out more.The whole world isn’t in the editorial offices ofsome fancy magazine.Go into the kitchen in some of the lavish restaurants where you eat and ask the people who have been cooking your food, ask them what they think, or ask the woman who cleans your house.”
“I’m the woman who cleans my house, Mr.McTeer, and I say he’sguilty.”
“She’s in your house,”Iris says.
”I know.”
“Look at the windows.It’s light out.When was this?”
Daniel puts up a hand to silence her.“Wait.”He has surprised himself.A few months ago he would have gone to practically any lengths to hear the sound ofIris’s voice and now he is shushing her.“I just want to hear this,”he adds softly.Then, still nervous that he may have hurt her feelings, he further adds,“It was videotaped earlier today.”He pats her knee reassuringly.
Iris grabs his hand, ferocious yet playful.She kisses the back ofit, turns it over and kisses his palm, and then puts first one finger and then a second into her mouth, and sucks on them, and then, when he lets out a little involuntary whimper ofpleasure, she slides offthe sofa, positions herselfbetween his legs, forces his knees apart—not that he resists her in any but the most perfunctory way—and buries her face in his lap, kiss-ing his cock until it rises, at which time she moves her head back a little and accepts him into her mouth.
“We have witnessed a travesty ofjustice,”Kate is saying.
Daniel, his eyes closed now, gropes for the remote control and turns offthe set.
Iris leaves shortly after.Daniel returns to his bed, which is full ofthe warmth and aromas ofsex.He tries to sink into it, but sleep seems to have turned its back on him, and he gets dressed and drives into the vil-lage for a drink or two (or three or four—who cares?) at theWindsor Bistro, though it is after midnight.As he nears the Bistro and sees that its dark-red neon sign is still lit, bleeding its deep, pleasantly lurid colors into the black air, he feels a little swoon ofpure gratitude for the place and everyone who makes it run:how monstrous the night can be with-out a place to go.
It’s crowded at the Bistro, more crowded than he’s ever seen it.Is the entire town wracked with desire, unable to sleep? Daniel stands near the entrance, next to the coatroom, which, now that it’s summer, is filled with elaborate arrangements offlowers.He looks in on tonight’s crowd, he is not quite ready to venture further in.It’s not as ifthe people here tonight are strangers to him—everyone in Leyden is familiar, to a cer-tain extent—but they are not people he really knows, not people he can confidently call by name.They’re a boisterous bunch, gathered together in groups ofsix, seven, or eight, with wild laughter being the order of the night.Tonight’s customers are acting as ifthey were having their last manic round ofgrog on a sinking ship.The owner’s normally saturnine boyfriend, rather than playing from his usual repertoire offolk-rock torch songs, is leading some ofthe customers in“Rainy DayWomen.”
And I would not feel so all alone / Everybody must get stoned.
Daniel thinks ofhimself as one ofthe original customers ofthe Bistro, one ofits founding fathers, but whatever favoritism Doris Snyder, the Bistro’s owner, used to show him is not available tonight.She works feverishly behind the bar, mixing margaritas with one hand and filling bowls ofpretzels with the other, and when Daniel makes a little implor-ing gesture in her direction her eyes are as expressive as thumbtacks.
He finds a small, empty table in a distant corner and sits down, resigned to a long wait before he is served.He scans the room, looking for Deirdre, Johnnie Day, Calliope, or any ofthe other college-aged girls who have not yet managed their way out ofLeyden, and who supple-ment their lives ofpottery, yoga classes, organic garden design, and whole foods catering with employment at the Bistro.However, the first person with whom he makes eye contact is Susan Richmond, who is holding a beer mug and swaying to the music, like a shy person all alone who wants to appear to be enjoying herself.
An hour ago, she was back at Eight Chimneys, lying in her own bed, unable to sleep, and her mind in that vulnerable state had been seized with a desire to see her husband—it was as ifwakefulness had compro-mised her mind’s autoimmune system, made it easy prey to resentment and longing.The jealousy was like rabies, it commanded her, the infection ofit made her want to sink her teeth into something.She felt helpless against its power.She paced through the vast gloom ofher sighing, creak-ing house, turning on lamps, going into rooms she hadn’t visited in months, surprising the visiting Bulgarian folk dancers who were drinking gin and poring over old maps in the library, and then coming in on the busy chipmunks in the ballroom, the circling bats in the kitchen, and even braving a peek into Marie’s little cell.
Susan has agreed to let Marie stay on at Eight Chimneys.It seems less humiliating that way.The girl can stay but whatever happens between Ferguson and his blind whore must remain private, not only from Susan herselfbut from the outside world—particularly that, particularly the outside world.Yet despite the agreement, Susan knows that sometimes Ferguson and Marie slip offthe property, and the Bistro is one ofthe places they go.Susan has come here to find them, and has not, though she has remained here for over an hour, partly to prolong the charade that she is simply out for a bit ofnight air and a couple ofdrinks, and partly because those drinks have made her drunk.