"I did. At every performance."
"Am I to understand, then, Mr. Constantine, that with respect to these two lines — which you claim have their counterpart in the book titled The Paper Dragon and also the film of the same name — with respect to these particular lines, unless James Driscoll actually saw a rehearsal script of the play, he could not possibly possess any knowledge of these lines, is that correct?"
"No. He could have seen the play in performance."
"We have got down to the point, have we not, where in order to show access, we must also show that Mr. Driscoll saw the play during its twelve-day Broadway run. Otherwise he would not have known of these lines inserted during rehearsal, nor would he have known of the division insignia bearing the number 105. Isn't that correct?"
"Your Honor," Brackman said, "I would like to remind Mr. Willow that it is not our burden to prove that James Driscoll actually attended a performance of the play, no more than it is the burden of a plaintiff to prove, for example, that a defendant actually read a novel he is said to have plagiarized. It is sufficient to show that the opportunity for copying existed. The play Catchpole was there to be seen in New York City, and I think we are very very safe in assuming James Driscoll was also here in New York City at the time and perfectly capable of visiting the Fulton Theatre to take a look at the play. I would not like Mr. Willow to lead us into believing it is our burden to supply witnesses who actually saw James Driscoll entering the theater and taking notes on the play."
"I believe Mr. Willow is sufficiently aware of the meaning of access," McIntyre said. "Please go on, Mr. Willow."
"I have no further questions," Willow said.
"Thank you," McIntyre said. "Mr. Genitori, I know you would like to begin your cross, but I see it's ten minutes to twelve, and I think we had better take a recess for lunch."
"Certainly," Genitori said.
"This Court is recessed until two p.m.," the clerk said.
6
The snow on the ground before the federal courthouse seemed an extension of the white steps themselves, blanketing sidewalk and street, blurring the denning lines of the five concrete islands that formed Foley Square. The largest of these islands was directly opposite the courthouse, across a narrow stretch of pavement that seemed more like an expanded footpath. Duane Street on the left of the courthouse, and Pearl Street on its right bracketed the building and pierced the square which was not a square, Duane continuing west toward Broadway, Pearl abruptly ending against a long green fence behind which construction was in progress, the fence surrounding a barren lot where pile drivers, tractors, and trucks were inactive during the lunch hour. The benches on the island opposite the courthouse were lightly dusted with snow, as were the green shrubs backing them. The steps leading down to the BMT subway were similarly covered with snow, and a man coming up from underground looked skyward as though surprised to find it was still snowing, and then hesitated at the top of the steps to adjust his muffler and to put on his gloves. The area from Reade Street north was dismally gray except for the bright orange sign of the Nedick's on the corner of Duane. There was another touch of color looking south, where a tall building on Centre Street rose out of the swirling snow, its red brick and green trim lending a festive look to the area.
There were two good restaurants on Duane near Broadway, both of which were habitually frequented by the men whose business was the law — Gasner's, and slightly further west, Calate's. In addition, there were dozens of small coffee shops and cafeterias, delicatessens and hamburger joints, a Schrafft's on Park Place, and a Long-champs on Murray Street across from the statue of Nathan Hale. The restaurant Sidney chose was on Reade Street, closer to the courthouse but not as popular as Gasner's. Mother Sauce's featured an authentic Jewish cuisine and a proprietress named Martha Schwartz, who had earned her nickname, or so the legend went, the afternoon she drank three off-duty detectives from the D.A.'s office clear under the table and almost through the floor. Sidney could not vouch for the authenticity of the legend but he recounted it nonetheless to Arthur as they entered the place and waited for Mother Sauce to seat them.
She was a woman in her late sixties, silver-haired and sharp-eyed, wearing a white apron over a severe black dress, and moving around her small crowded restaurant with uncanny speed. The place had been designed with total architectural disregard, its low ceiling supported by a myriad of wood-paneled columns and partitions, tables and booths shoved into niches and nooks or built around posts and into crannies and cul-de-sacs, jutting from behind paneled walls, angled against sealed doors, nestled against windows. In the midst of this monumental disorder, Mother Sauce moved swiftly from table to table, around column and post, into paneled alley and byway, along a labyrinthine route to the kitchen, haranguing and harassing her waiters, circuitously back to the cash register, carrying a menu to a hidden booth, rushing toward the paneled bar, coming again to the door, where she greeted Sidney by name, beaming a smile, and then leading them to a booth at the rear of the restaurant, partitioned on each side to conceal the booths flanking it. Sidney excused himself at once — "A courtroom is bad on a man's kidneys," he explained — and left Arthur alone at the table. A waiter appeared immediately and took his order for a Dewar's on the rocks. Mother Sauce handed him a menu and then hurried away. The booth was small and cozy, upholstered in rich green leather like the table-tops in the courtroom. A pair of small shaded lamps hung on the wall over the booth. The tablecloth was spotlessly white, and the drink when it came was more than generous. Arthur felt himself relaxing for the first time that day. Grateful for Sidney's absence, he studied the menu in silence and with increasing appetite, only vaguely aware at first of the voices coming from behind the paneled partition on his left.
"… in command of the situation, I would say," a man's voice said.
"Are we?" a woman asked.
"Yes, I would say so."
Arthur glanced at the partition, and then studied the menu again. He was ravenously hungry, and everything looked good, the consommé with noodles and matzoh balls, the borscht.
"I don't think we have anything to worry about," another man's voice said. "We're not going to let them get away with anything."
"Except maybe Dris's reputation," the woman said.
"No, not that either," the first man answered, and Arthur suddenly recognized the voice as belonging to Jonah Willow.
"We won't let them get his reputation, either, don't worry," the other man said. "Only a miracle could convince McIntyre there was any plagiarism here."
"That's right," Willow agreed. "In fact, this case should never have come to trial."
"Then why did it?" the woman asked. She had been speaking with a Southern inflection that suddenly disappeared, leaving behind a voice honed razor-sharp.
"An offer to settle would have been an admission of guilt," Willow said.
"Even a token settlement?" the woman asked.
"Any settlement. Besides, these people aren't looking for tokens. They've asked for damages and an accounting of profits."
"Will they get it?"
"I've never met a Harvard lawyer I couldn't beat," Willow said.
"I'm a Harvard lawyer," the other man said.
"Yes, but unfortunately you're on my side."
Arthur started to rise. He knew for certain now that one of the men in the adjacent booth was Jonah Willow, and he was fairly confident that the other man was his assistant. In which case, the woman was undoubtedly Mrs. James Driscoll, and Arthur had no right sitting there listening to them talk about the trial. As he rose he wondered whether Driscoll himself was at the table, maintaining a discreet silence, and he suddenly wanted to hear whatever Driscoll might say. Abruptly, he sat, telling himself again that he really should leave, he really should move out of the booth and away from this conversation, but remaining where he was, fascinated, compelled to listen, and actively hoping they would reveal a piece of information that would prove helpful to his case.