As the detective began his side of the serpentine tale — how he was the officer who happened to have been assigned months ago to the very case in which the arrestee now prominently figured, and how the arrestee was a suspect in the murder of a woman who happened to be the mother of the same girl who’d been harbored by his own grandchildren — well, as Samson began to unwrap and exhibit these astonishments, the old man listened with a preternatural interest that turned preternaturally painful; clutching his throat, he collapsed. He rallied in time to greet the paramedics, declining their offer to ferry him to St. John’s. (The world was filled with St. John’ses.) Epitacio, he said, would take him to Cedars. Within minutes, the chauffeur had alerted the emergency room to their imminent arrival; Mr. Trotter’s internist was on his way; VIP liaisons were dispatched and a deluxe room prepared. Samson wished to accompany him in the Rolls, but the old man insisted that he follow, which of course he did, though not before quietly advising Epitacio to take the quickest route to UCLA if so much as the shade of a need grew apparent.
Mr. Trotter, never one for hospitals, even those with wings graced by his name, refused to be admitted. He had no fever. His throat was sore, and gave him some trouble swallowing; he was routinely cultured for strep. Bedford Drive’s pre-eminent ENT man was enlisted to examine the tycoon, and palpated the mass (the thing that had been giving his topmost buttons their workout), declaring it to be something more than a swollen gland, though how much more he couldn’t say. It was not “pulsatile,” yet it didn’t feel like a tumor, and that was odd; they would have to rule one out. The medics weren’t happy with the headstrong patient taking his leave, but wangled a promise that he would return later in the week for an outpatient biopsy.
On Monday, the digger burrowed into “the case.” Powerhouse attorneys were hired to represent the captive, who naturally proclaimed innocence in all matters relating to the grotesque assault and death — and subsequent rape — of a prostitute and drug addict called Millicent “Geri” Kornfeld. Per Detective Dowling’s instructions, the Adirondack Park sheriffs of Essex County, New York, had already been contacted, and while those lawmen were able to dredge up a record of his detention, the defendant’s fingerprints proved more elusive; they had some more rummaging to do. As far as anyone knew, Marcus Weiner had never been enlisted in the military, so the detective’s fears might indeed be realized — there was the chance that an official identification would never be made. He remembered seeing a French movie about a man who returned to a village claiming to be someone he wasn’t; by the end no one, not even family and old lovers, knew truth from fiction.
Now that aka William had “lawyered up,” Samson Dowling received a call from said legal counsel, telling him to have no further contact with the defendant. Even though it was a “friendly” notice — they knew of his special connection to the case — Samson got depressed. But he gladly told them all he knew: of his informant, whose whereabouts were unknown, and how the victim’s daughter, AWOL from MacLaren at this time, had some months ago identified the telltale ascot as having belonged to the suspect.
A meeting with his son-in-law could easily have been arranged, but the benefactor felt his place for now was behind the scenes. At his prompting, a medical team examined the prisoner; the psychopharmacologist who looked after Dodd was enlisted to provide one or two cutting-edge prescriptions cropped from the latest harvest of smartbomb antipsychotics. The old man didn’t wish the story leaked to press, so made sure that the more celebrated attorneys on the team avoided the arraignment. (He himself chose not to come.) Eulogio embarked for Redlands to pick up Harry and Ruth, who Mr. Trotter felt should be present.
Tuesday morning, the defense met with judge in chambers. They informed him the suspect had been I.D.’d by his father-in-law, who had in fact engaged their services on the defendant’s behalf; no further details relating to their unusual employer were discussed. (The judge listened with a glacial reserve broken only at the mention of the famous surname, when an eyebrow rose involuntarily with near comic effect.) Mr. Weiner, they added, had been diagnosed as schizophrenic, but a full psychiatric evaluation was not yet complete. One of the lawyers then remarked that the parents of aka William Marcus aka Marcus Weiner would be in attendance this morning and would provide definitive witness to his identity, though it had been roughly fourteen years since they’d seen their son last.
Once in court, the ascot was presented as damning evidence and a trial date was set. DNA had been collected from the victim shortly after her death; a sample from the defendant was ordered for comparison. In spite of eloquent pleas and the unusual circumstances surrounding the detainee, owing to the nature of the crime and aka William Marcus aka Marcus Weiner’s alleged flight from the facility in upstate New York, bail was firmly denied.
After the prisoner was led away, the judge asked if Ruth and Harry Weiner — their names had been written down for him at the preliminary meeting — were in court. They eagerly stood, or it should be said that Ruth eagerly stood, followed by her less spry mate. The judge asked if they knew the accused.
“He is my son,” said Ruth, voice quavering. An expensive attorney on each side held her steady. She cleared her throat and said again, “Your Honor, he is my son!”
That afternoon, Epitacio drove them to Twin Towers. Visitors waited to see loved ones, but it had been so arranged that the elderly couple would be spared the queue. Harry peered through the tinted glass of the Silver Seraph at the men with tattooed foreheads loitering across the street from jail, and remarked how they looked like prisoners themselves. He puzzled over them while Ruth remained silent. The skin of her chest was stretched so taut she feared it might split open at any moment, like papyrus — with each inhalation, her caged lungs shook as if invaded by moths.
Neither remembered much of the half hour or so that passed from the time they stepped from car to visitors’ room.
There was a metal grille between them, and he was shackled.
He sat down and they all blinked at each other.
Harry was the first to speak. “Son?”
Sitting opposite the enormous stranger, the retired baker had a momentary doubt; but then the roots of his boy, so to speak, grew toward him as in time-lapse photography — tiny green buds rapidly bloomed, stems thickened and curled themselves about the elder’s ankles, tugging him closer.