Small Town

But he could think about it now. On a night like this, flushed with triumph, high on success, he could afford to think about it. What if there was a trial, and the prosecution presented their case and his lawyer did his best to refute it, and the jurors came back and he heard the words Will the defendant please rise? and he rose, and he heard all the other words, so familiar now to everybody from Law & Order and Court TV. All those words, and the last one: Guilty.

It could happen. He hadn’t done it, but they didn’t know that and he couldn’t prove it. And all of them — Esther Blinkoff and all the other bidders, and all the people in the upstairs offices who green-lighted the bidders and told them how far they could go, Jesus, they all knew it could happen, and they went ahead and placed their bids just the same.

Because it didn’t matter.

Just as it didn’t matter to his own lawyer, Maury Winters, whether he was in fact guilty or innocent. It didn’t matter and shouldn’t matter because the lawyer’s job was to get him off, and his guilt and innocence were consequently irrelevant.

So why should they be any more relevant to Esther Blinkoff, whose job was to generate revenue for her employer? She did this by publishing books that would sell, and his book would sell because of who he was and what he might or might not have done.

His book might very well be out before the jury came in. That would make the verdict moot, wouldn’t it? Or, if the trial began and ended before publication day, all it would do was generate publicity for the book. A guilty verdict wouldn’t make the public yawn and turn aside. If anything, an acquittal might diminish their interest somewhat, in which case it would be his job to go on all the talk shows and stir things up again.

Either way, though, Crown was looking good. Either way, John Blair Creighton, Author, was a success. Hell, if they sent him to Sing Sing or Attica or some other state-sponsored Xanadu, somebody would make sure he had a PC in his cell, or at least a typewriter. Book Two of his famous seven-figure two-book contract could be a prison novel. Always a popular staple, and the film prospects should be terrific.

This seemed to call for a drink, and he could skip the ice this time.

Another revelation, more bracing than the whiskey:

He wasn’t going to be found guilty.

It was possible, because nobody knew how a trial would go or what a jury would do. But it wasn’t going to happen, and not because he hadn’t killed Marilyn Fairchild. That only mattered if he could prove it, and he couldn’t.

There was a very simple reason why they’d come back and say Not Guilty, and that was because, as of today and forever after, he was a success.

And that was why Roger Delacroix, the Roger Delacroix, had not only congratulated him on his book deal, had not only shaken his hand, but had also taken the trouble, quietly, graciously, discreetly, to tell him he knew he was innocent. Not because he knew squat about the case, or about him. But because he knew, deep in his gut, way down in his bones, that no writer with a three-million-dollar contract could be guilty of splitting an infinitive, never mind wringing a woman’s neck.

Imagine if OJ could write like Faulkner...

They wouldn’t convict him. They wouldn’t be able to, any more than they’d been able to with OJ. Not because he had money. The rich had an edge in court, but they didn’t get a free pass. Look at the Menendez brothers, look at Michael Skakel. Once in a while, even the rich got the judicial shaft.

It wasn’t OJ’s money, or his Dream Team of lawyers, or the inept prosecution or the flaky judge. It wasn’t because he was black and so were most of the jurors. None of this hurt, but that didn’t explain why he got off, and it seemed so clear now.

He got off because he was OJ Simpson.

He was a success, he was a star, he had that glow, that magic. How could twelve people get in a room and convict him? They must have known he did it, or else they were the only twelve people in America who didn’t, but it didn’t make any difference. They couldn’t help themselves. He was OJ Simpson and they had to cut him loose.

The glass was empty, but he wouldn’t fill it up again. He was feeling the drinks. The alcohol had carried him through the long evening. It wasn’t fuel, but it worked as if it were, lifting you on its wings, keeping you from feeling your exhaustion. He’d had just enough to keep that edge, and now he was ready to put himself to bed.

Undressing, he came across the card the woman in black had given him. I’d love to get to know you better / Susan. She was a beauty, too, self-possessed and radiant. If she were here right now, he thought, she could get to know him in a hurry.