Brackman turned to look at the empty jury box where Driscoll and his wife sat, and then turned to the judge again.
"Your Honor, the thief has left behind his fingerprints in this case as well. I refer now to the numerical designation of the 105th Division, which is identical in both the play Catchpole and the novel The Paper Dragon, and which has been carried over to the film produced by—"
"Your Honor, this does not pertain to my motion," Genitori said. "I made no reference to the 105th Division."
"I appreciate that, Mr. Genitori," McIntyre said, "but if I understand Mr. Brackman correctly, he's saying there is a cause of action and that it goes beyond the six incidents and includes all of the other similarities as well."
"That's exactly what I'm saying."
"I'll continue to hear argument on the point."
"I was saying, your Honor, that the thief's fingerprints are clearly visible without the need of a magnifying glass, they are able to be seen with the naked eye, the 105th Division. If I may, your Honor, I would like to point out once again that there were only sixty-seven actual infantry divisions in existence during the time of the Eniwe-tok campaign, and that when we come to the divisions beyond the designation '100' we have the 101st, 102nd, 103rd, 104th, and 106th. There is no 105th division. Nor was there a 105th division in 1950. There were only seven actual infantry divisions at that time, the 1st, 2nd, 3rd, 7th, 24th, 25th, and the 1st Cavalry. Today, there are twelve infantry divisions and, needless to say, none of them is the 105th, either.
"Perhaps Mr. Driscoll can adequately explain to this Court how he happened to hit upon those three digits in sequence. Until he can do that, I will continue to be amazed by the remarkable use of this designation, appearing again and again and again, first in the play, then in the novel, and again in the motion picture. Out of all the possible numbers Mr. Driscoll could have used to label his infantry division, he chose the identical number that appears in Mr. Constantine's work. This is an amazing coincidence, your Honor, it is almost an impossible coincidence."
"Now, your Honor, in much the same way that there are laws governing our society, there are also laws governing chance, and these are called the laws of probability, and it is against these that we must examine this use of an identical division number. If we were to take all the digits from zero to nine and try to figure out all the possible different combinations for any three of those digits, we would have to raise ten to the third power, which means we would have to multiply ten times ten times ten, and that would give us an answer of one thousand possible combinations. In other words, the odds would be a thousand to one that any man would choose a specific combination over any other possible combination. A thousand to one, your Honor. And those odds, as impressive as they may sound, are only the odds for a single event. When we come to two mutually independent events, the odds are overwhelming.
"What exactly is the probability that both these men, given the same ten digits, would then arrange three of them in identical order? I will tell you, your Honor. The laws of probability state that in the case of two mutually independent events, we must multiply the odds against Event One happening by the odds against Event Two happening. In other words, we must multiply a thousand-to-one by a thousand-to-one, and we then discover that the odds against Driscoll hitting on this same combination were a million to one. He had one chance in a million, your Honor, a deplorable cliché to use in a case dealing with literary matters, but those are the true odds nonetheless, a million to one, the figures do not lie. And even if we wish to give both men the benefit of the doubt, and say that neither of them would have designated an Army division with the number zero-zero-zero — although stranger things have happened in fiction, as we well know — even if we were to exclude this possibility, the odds for both men would be 999 to one, and when we multiply that by itself, the odds against Driscoll hitting on the same combination would be 998,001 to one. A million-to-one is a neater figure, your Honor, and will serve our purposes here, I believe.
"And I believe, too, that with odds such as these, we are justified in demanding an explanation, beyond the labeling of such similarities as flimsy and absurd. Thank you, your Honor."
"Do you now wish to reply, Mr. Genitori?"
"Only to say, your Honor, that my motion did not concern the 105th Division or any other similarities common to both the novel and the film."
"Yes, I understand that. Well, I want to reserve decision on your motion, and on Mr. Willow's as well."
"Your Honor?"
"Yes, Mr. Willow?"
"I understood you earlier to say you were denying my motion."
"If that's what I indicated… no, Mr. Willow, I meant that I'm reserving judgment on it."
"Thank you, your Honor."
McIntyre looked up at the wall clock. "It seems to be the end of another day," he said. "So unless there's anything further, we'll recess until tomorrow morning at ten o'clock."
7
Thick white snowflakes were swirling in the air when Sam Genitori and his assistant came out of the courtroom. A cover of white clung to rooftop and pavement, hushing the city, and snow shovels scraped on courthouse steps and sidewalk, a rasping steady counterpoint to the metallic jingle of skid chains on distant streets. Genitori put on his hat, ducked his head against the fierce wind, and stepped into the vortex of flying flakes. Beside him, Michael Kahn sucked in a draught of cold air and shouted over the wind, "I love snow, I love snow." Sam lost his footing on the slippery steps at that moment and would have gone tumbling to the sidewalk below were it not for Kahn's suddenly supporting arm. The assistance annoyed Sam more than Kahn's redundant confession had — "I love snow, I love snow" — an emotional involvement Sam could neither share nor understand. Sam detested snow. It was cold and wet and damned uncomfortable, and besides it caused accidents and traffic jams. Leo Kessler was waiting for him uptown, and he didn't need a snowstorm to delay his arrival. He looked up, squinting into the wind, and saw the chauffeured limousine across the street, on Duane. "There it is," he said to Kahn, and walked swiftly toward the big car, its roof and hood covered with snow, its sides a wet shining black. The chauffeur was reading a copy of Mad Magazine; he barely looked up when Sam opened the back door. Kahn climbed in, and the chauffeur reluctantly put aside the magazine. Then, with the unerring instinct of all servants everywhere, he lunged straight for the jugular.
"This snow'll make us late," he said.
"Just get there as fast as you can."
"580 Fifth?" the chauffeur asked.
"No, Malibu Beach," Sam said dryly.
"By way of Santa Monica or the freeway?" the chauffeur asked, deadpan.
"580 Fifth," Sam answered, demolished by superior wit. He stretched his legs, took off his hat, patted his thinning hair into place, and then tilted his head back against the cushioned seat.