Warren was at that moment murmuring something in Ray’s ear about some sort of statement he ought to make to the judge — an apology, no doubt — so it was up to Jolie to deal with the creep from the IRS. As journalists up and down the corridor snapped to attention — or as close to attention as a journalist can snap — yapping out dumb questions at the moving clump of Ray and his advisers, questions that were unheeded and unanswered and asked for God knows what reasons of personal ego gratification, Jolie veered off to say to the taxman, “Not now, for God’s sake.”
Caccatorro was a happy man, far too happy for Jolie’s bad mood to bring him down. “No rush,” he assured her. “At the lunch break, your client might want to sign a few papers.”
“You have them ready? That was quick.”
Caccatorro showed his small sharp teeth in a Cupid’s bow smile. “It was an easy decision to make, actually,” he said. “Between earnings from past endeavors and earnings from future endeavors.”
“Let me guess which one you picked.”
“We feel,” Caccatorro allowed, “that Ray Jones is still a vibrant and creative force in the country-music industry. I hope he’ll be pleased by our vote of confidence.”
“He’ll jump up and down,” Jolie predicted. “Excuse me.”
The others had gone on ahead into the courtroom, leaving the squall of journalists to blow itself out in muttered asides to one another. Jolie bumped her way through them like a beach ball through bowling pins and made her way to her seat in the front row, near Cal and the ever-present ever-present ever-present Sara Joslyn. Looking back just before taking her seat, Jolie saw that Caccatorro had come in as well and was showing some sort of ID to the bailiff back there. Another ever-present son of a bitch. Gloat, you bastard.
Warren was on his feet at the defense table, saying, “If the court please, Mr. Jones would like to make a short statement before resuming his testimony.”
“He already made a short statement,” Fred Heffner commented. He was so pleased at having rattled Ray Jones that he was beside himself over there, grinning and winking at Buford Delray and the distinguished little man whom Sara had said was some sort of journalist. Takes one to know one.
Warren had ignored Fred Heffner’s remark and kept his eyes and attention on Judge Quigley, who pondered a moment, pushing her reddened lips in and out in a disgusting fashion before saying, “Very well, Mr. Thurbridge. A short temperate statement.”
“Thank you. Your Honor.”
Warren sat, and Ray stood. “I want to apologize to everybody in this courtroom,” he said, “and especially to you. Judge, and to the prosecuting attorney, Mr. Heffner, who was just doing his job. And I hope the jury will remember that a weak man isn’t necessarily a killer. Thank you.”
Good boy, Jolie thought. You do come through, Ray, more often than not. Ray’s manner was so offhand and shitkicker, it still came as a surprise to Jolie every time he revealed the good and devious brain tucked away inside there. Ray was deep, and he was always playing his own deep game, and Jolie had to keep that in mind.
Now he was going back to the witness stand, where Jolie was sure he wouldn’t let himself be caught out again. As the old saying goes: Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.
The judge assured Ray he was still under oath, Ray thanked her and sat down, and here came Fred Heffner, grinning like a fox, looking less like Lincoln now and more like John Wilkes Booth. “Mr. Jones,” he said, “before the break, we were just about to discuss a song, I believe a sing you wrote. Is that right?”
“I’ve written some songs, yes, sir.”
“I’m referring to a specific song, Mr. Jones, as I believe you know. You did have a specific song in mind, just before the break, did you not?”
“Yes, sir, it’s called ‘My Ideal.’ ”
“And what is the name of — Um, yes.”
“It’s called ‘My Ideal.’ ”
“Yes. Thank you.”
“I wrote it a long—”
“Thank you, Mr. Jones, I don’t need your professional biography at this point.”
“I haven’t sung that—”
“The song is called ‘My Ideal.’ Do you happen to remember the words to that song, Mr. Jones?”
“I haven’t sung that—”
“Do you remember the words?”
“No, sir, I don’t believe I do. It’s been so many—”
“It’s your own song, Mr. Jones. But I take the point. You’ve written so many songs, it wouldn’t be reasonable to expect you to remember every word of every one of them.”
“No, sir, I’m saying—”
“And yet, Mr. Jones, you have a sufficient memory of that song, of its subject matter and terminology, let us say, that the photo I showed you recalled the song to mind, did it not?”
“No, sir.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Jones, but it was on seeing the photo that you—”
“You said that poor dead woman looked like a pizza. I thought that—”
“Mr. Jones, I asked you what she looked like.”
“—was a disgusting thing to say about a poor dead—”
“Mr. Jones, I would ask you to be responsive to the question.”
“—woman. I didn’t think she—”
“Your Honor, would you ask the witness to be responsive to my question?”
“—looked like a pizza. I thought she looked like a poor dead woman that was being made fun of when she couldn’t defend herself.”
Judge Quigley said, “Mr. Jones, have you quite finished your speech?”
“Your Honor,” Ray said, “somebody ought to defend poor Belle Hardwick from being made fun of when she can’t stand up for herself. If the state of Missouri won’t defend her, I guess it’s up to me.”
Judge Quigley pounded her gavel, outraged. “Mr. Jones!”
Now Warren was on his feet, and Jolie thought it about goddamn time. “Your Honor, I’ve been a patient man,” Warren said, with which Jolie could only concur, “but it seems to me we’ve all heard enough by now of the prosecutor’s bizarre ideas of what a dead body looks like. Perhaps some in this court have cast-iron stomachs, but I do not.”
Judge Quigley raised an eyebrow in Fred Heffner’s direction. “Counsel, is there a purpose to this line of questioning?”
“Your Honor, when the court hears the song to which Mr. Jones and I have been referring, the direction and intent of my examination will be made clear.”
Surprised, the judge said, “You aren’t going to ask the defendant to sing, are you?”
“Alas, no. Your Honor,” Fred Heffner said. “I am sorry to miss the opportunity to hear Ray Jones live, in person, but I can understand that he might be reluctant, under the circumstances, so we have brought into court a recording, which, with the court’s permission, we will now play.”
Buford Delray was already on his feet, holding up the cassette player, but Warren, who hadn’t sat down, said, “Objection, Your Honor. A song written eighteen years ago and not performed by the defendant for some eleven years can hardly be germane to a crime that occurred in July of this year.”
Good, Jolie thought. They wouldn’t let Ray make that point, so Warren made it for him.
Fred Heffner said, “Our purpose is to establish character and motive. The jury cannot have a clear idea of Ray Jones or of his attitudes — particularly when he’s being just a bit less gallant than he was a moment ago in this courtroom — unless we are permitted to hear him express himself in his own words.”