"It would seem, Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said, "that there is an overlap here."
"May I explain, your Honor?" Arthur asked.
"Yes, please."
"In developing a work of fiction," Arthur said, "the interplay between plot and character—"
"Your Honor," Willow said, "I do not believe this Court is interested in fiction techniques. We are here to determine whether or not an act of plagiarism took place. It is hardly to the point—"
"Please let him finish, Mr. Willow," McIntyre said.
"I was going to say," Arthur said, with a sharp glance at Willow, *"that character and plot are inseparable in a good work of fiction. Character determines plot, and in turn plot shapes character. In other words, it would be practically impossible to discuss either without referring to the other."
"Yes, I understand that," McIntyre said. "But it would seem that the character similarities you are now listing were adequately covered when you testified about plot. In that respect, I would agree with Mr. Willow."
"This is merely an amplification, your Honor," Brackman said.
"Well, I will allow the witness to continue," McIntyre said, "but I think we would all appreciate the elimination of material already covered."
"This is simply backing and filling, your Honor," Willow said.
"Whatever it may be, Mr. Willow, the witness may continue — with the reservation I have already mentioned."
"Well," Arthur said, and hesitated. "I'm not sure I understand, but…"
"We would like you to continue with character similarities," McIntyre said, "but we ask you to limit—"
"I understand that," Arthur said, "but it seems to me…"
"Yes?"
"I don't know if I'm allowed to say this," Arthur said, and looked at Brackman.
"Allowed to say what, Mr. Constantine?" McIntyre asked.
"Well, it seems to me that the only opportunity I'll get to present my case…"
"The Court has asked you to continue with your testimony," Brackman said, a note of warning in his voice. "If you have a question concerning—"
"I will hear the witness," McIntyre said.
"No, nothing," Arthur said, and shook his head.
"We're not trying to give you a fast shuffle here, if that's what you think," McIntyre said, and Arthur turned to look at him, and saw him as a person for the first time. He was close to fifty years of age, Arthur supposed, partially bald, with mild blue eyes and a pink face. He was frowning now, and his hands, delicate and small, were folded on the bench before him as he looked down at Arthur and waited for an answer.
"I didn't mean to imply that, your Honor," Arthur said.
"We have, I believe, allowed you every opportunity thus far to present your case fairly and adequately. I assure you that we have already studied the play and the novel and that we saw a screening of the film on Friday. We have read the pretrial examination transcripts, and we have carefully studied the charts prepared by you and your counsel. You will remember that we yielded to your counsel's request to have you elaborate on these similarities in your own words, despite defendants' objection. We are now asking, in the hope of saving time, only that you limit your testimony to similarities not already covered by your previous testimony. We believe this is a reasonable request, Mr. Constantine."
"Yes, it's reasonable," Arthur said.
"Very well, then."
"But…"
"Mr. Constantine," Brackman said sharply, "are you ready to continue?"
"Is something still troubling you?" McIntyre asked.
"Yes, your Honor."
"Then please say what's on your mind."
"Your Honor, this case is very important to me."
"I realize that. I'm sure it's equally important to Mr. Driscoll."
"I'm sure it is, sir, but… well, Mr. Driscoll doesn't happen to be on the stand right now, and I am."
"Your Honor," Willow said, "I must object to the witness engaging this Court in argument. We are trying—"
"I will hear the witness," McIntyre said flatly. "Go on, Mr. Constantine."
"Your Honor, tomorrow morning Mr. Willow will begin his cross-examination and that, I'm afraid, is that. If there's anything I left out or forgot today, it'll be just too bad. I know the charts are a help, but…"
"That, I'm afraid, is not that," McIntyre said, "nor will it be just too bad, either. Your attorney will have ample opportunity to conduct a redirect. I'm sorry, Mr. Constantine, but I must now agree with Mr. Willow. This is a court of law and not a first semester course on evidence or tactics. You will please continue with your testimony, and you will limit it to similarities not previously covered."
"I apologize for the witness, your Honor," Brackman said. "Please continue, Mr. Constantine."
"Yes, sir," Arthur said, and swallowed. He was embarrassed and angry. Alone on the witness chair, feeling abandoned even by his own lawyer, he searched in his mind for character similarities, every eye in the room upon him, foolish and stupid, struck dumb by the judge's reprimand, his anger building, eyes smarting, hands trembling in his lap.
"If the witness would care to examine the charts to refresh his memory. " Willow said.
"I don't need the charts, thank you," Arthur snapped, and looked at Willow in anger, and then at Brackman in anger, and then glanced up at the judge in anger, the son of a bitch, shutting him up that way, humiliating him, Brackman allowing the humiliation and adding to the indignity by apologizing. The anger and embarrassment were identical to what he had felt the night the critics killed his play, those rotten egotistical bastards sitting in exalted judgment on something about which they possessed no real knowledge. How could McIntyre or Willow or even Brackman hope to understand the intricacies of a work of fiction? Oh yes, they would nod their heads in accord as they had this morning. Willow and McIntyre, two legal masterminds agreeing that an author's intent had no place in a court of law, no place in the judgment of a plagiarism suit, casually eliminating the inexplicable beginning of creation, snuffing out the spark of idea, eliminating conscious direction from the work — "I maintain, your Honor, that any similarities must be solely between the works in question."
"I would agree to that."
"And that therefore the author's intent is irrelevant." Oh yes, irrelevant, and why hadn't Brackman objected, or had he secretly agreed with his colleagues? Perhaps he had only wanted to apologize at that point, perhaps that was it, apologize for Arthur ever having conceived and written Catchpole at all. How could one possibly hope to explain anything to them if they had already ruled out intent, already decided that only words were on trial here, words and nothing more? Never mind the act itself, the intent or its realization, hadn't he been a little bit insane when he created the psychopathic colonel, hadn't he hated with Janus and suffered with the lieutenant, loved the nurse and died with D'Agostino, never mind, never mind, it is all cut and dried. There are only one hundred and twenty mimeographed pages of a play called Catchpole, there are only four hundred and twelve pages of a pirated novel called The Paper Dragon, there is only an hour and fifty minutes of a film supposedly based on the novel, that is our concern here, the comparison of the works. The author's intent is irrelevant, the author is irrelevant, the self is irrelevant, the man is irrelevant. That almighty God son of a bitch McIntyre will sit there with his watery blue eyes and his pink puffed face and humiliate him the way the critics had humiliated him in October of 1947, the shame and embarrassment of meeting people you knew, the goddamn solicitous smiles as though a stranger had passed away, but not a stranger, something very real and intimate called Catchpole which had taken four months to write and five months to sell, and two months to rehearse, not a stranger at all. The guarded knives, the secret delight behind the words of condolence. You have dared, my friend, you have dared to expose yourself, and they have killed you, and I am glad, I am secretly and enormously delighted, how sorry to hear that your play closed last night, but after all what do the critics know? Yes, after all, what do the critics know, or the lawyers or the judges, Arthur thought. He had tried to explain how important this trial was to him, and McIntyre had countered by saying it was important to Driscoll as well, yes. Yes, assuredly, oh certainly but not in the same way. There was more on trial here than words, more than the comparison of two similar works of fiction, more even than the enormous amount of money that would go to the victor. There was an identity on trial, there was this very self McIntyre refused to allow, there was a man. And if Arthur allowed Driscoll to steal the work of fiction, then he also allowed him to steal the intent and the realization, the self and the person, the man. And then there would be nothing left, nothing at all.