“I’m going to overrule your objection, Mr. Thurbridge,” Judge Quigley said. “A published article written by the defendant, or a book, if relevant to the subject matter at trial, would certainly be admissible. By that standard, a song written and performed by the defendant can be equally illuminative of attitudes and state of mind. You may proceed, Mr. Heffner.”
“Thank you. Your Honor.”
Heffner smiled at Buford Delray, who pressed PLAY on the little cassette player, then held it over his head as the music began.
It was an old song and an old recording, heavy on the electric guitar and the fake Hawaiian sound of that era. The machine was not at all high fidelity, but when Ray Jones started to sing, the words came through loud and clear.
Jolie, who knew the song — she knew all Ray’s songs — watched Sara Joslyn’s profile next to her to see how the song would go over with somebody hearing it for the first time.
Not well.
It’s too bad nobody dropped a pin; you would have heard it. The click-click of the little machine as Buford Delray switched it off and the foom-squll of his trousers as he sat down were audible to every stunned ear in the room.
Jolie looked at the jury. They looked as though they had been condemned to death.
Fred Heffner milked the silence beautifully. Jolie watched him do it. She had to admire the slimy bastard. It wasn’t until Ray had actually opened his mouth and just started to make a sound — Don’t do it, Ray, she thought; nothing you can say will make anything better — that Heffner, as though letting Ray off the hook (though he wasn’t; he was fixing Ray more firmly than ever onto the hook), said quietly, somberly, “No further questions.”
“Perhaps it’s time to break for lunch,” Judge Quigley said, and when there was a gasp in the room, a sudden intake of many breaths as though the awful tension was about to be broken by even more awful laughter, she reared back, glared the assemblage into ongoing silence, and announced, “Court is adjourned until two P.M.”
Into the sudden rush of comments, shiftings, chair slidings, Warren called, “We reserve a right to redirect.”
“Of course!” Judge Quigley cried, and almost ran from the room.
Ray’s friends in the front row continued to sit there as the jury was led out, stumbling, like trauma cases off to rehab. “I don’t feel much like lunch,” Jolie said, and thought that was probably the first time in her life she’d ever made that statement.
“I may never eat again,” Sara said, which Jolie considered extreme.
On Sara’s other side, Cal leaned forward to tell the row of people, “You know, that was just a joke. Back then, when Ray wrote that, that was just a joke goin around. So he turned it into a song. Like ‘If It Ain’t Fried, It Ain’t Food.’ It was just a joke, that’s all. And he don’t even sing it anymore.”
“It isn’t a joke now,” Jolie said. “Every single member of that jury is thinking. Belle Hardwick was turned into a pizza at three o’clock.”
“Please,” Sara said.
A shadow fell across Jolie — another shadow. When she looked up, Leon Caccatorro was standing there with the strangest and most wrinkled smile Jolie had ever seen. “As it turns out,” he said, “the paperwork isn’t quite finished. We won’t be able to have our signing today, after all.”
Well, here’s a hell of a silver lining. “Back on your branch, buzzard,” Jolie said, and when Caccatorro faded away like Bela Lugosi, she looked around at all the long faces and suddenly, for no reason at all, felt better. “It isn’t over,” she announced, “until I sing. Let’s go eat, I’m starved.”
40
“I don’t care,” Ray said. “I’m not goin’ onto that witness chair again.”
They were gathered around the table in the conference room in Warren’s offices, Ray and his defense team, but none of them except Jolie could actually be said to be eating lunch. The rest of them pushed sandwiches around on their plates, not quite looking at the food.
Warren said, “Ray, you dug yourself into this hole; now it’s up to you to dig your way out again.”
“Not a chance,” Ray said.
“Ray, stop and think for a second. Is that really what you want in the jury’s minds when they go in to their deliberations? ‘My Ideal’?”
“They’ve heard it,” Ray pointed out. “It’s over and done with.”
“If you go back on the witness stand,” Warren told him, “I’ll be the one asking the questions. Heffner already said he was finished with you.”
“He sure was,” Ray said, and ruefully shook his head.
“So,” Warren went on, “I’ll take you through your history, the evolution of your thinking away from that song.”
“Aw, come on, Warren,” Ray said. “What are you gonna do, start playin songs yourself? Play The Hymn? You’re not a disc jockey. Anyway, then Heffner gets another crack at me, doesn’t he? If you take a double dip, he gets to do the same thing, doesn’t he?”
Reluctantly, Warren said, “Yes, he does.”
“So then he plays ‘The Dog Come Back.’ It isn’t a trial anymore; it’s a greatest hits. Warren, I made a big-enough fool of myself out there. I’m not gonna go do it again, and that’s that.”
Warren looked deeply pained. “It’s the wrong image to leave with the jury,” he insisted.
Jim Chancellor said, “Warren? Don’t we have other witnesses?”
“Oh sure,” Warren said. “I was going to put on half a dozen character witnesses, but how can I, in the teeth of that song? I’ll be maligning their characters instead of boosting Ray’s. Milt Lieberson flew in from L.A. to testify, and wouldn’t that be great, a Hollywood Jew agent telling these fine folk what a great character Ray Jones has.”
Jolie, around a mouthful of sandwich, said, “Forget character witnesses.”
“They’re forgotten,” Warren assured her. “And I also had three Ray Jones Theater employees to say there was never anything between Ray and Belle Hardwick, but so what? A guy who prefers his women to turn into pizzas at three in the morning isn’t likely to be known for his long-term relationships.”