"We'll win it," Sam said. "Willow's a good lawyer."
"Is he Jewish?"
"I don't know."
"Brackman is," Kessler said. "Never sell a Jew short."
"With all due respect, Leo, he's made a few mistakes already."
"Good, he should only make a hundred of them. I'm not worried about what happens if we win this case. I'm worried… about what happens if it looks like we're losing it."
"I don't get you," Sam said.
"You don't get me?" Kessler paused. "Did he steal that play or not, Sam?"
"I don't think so."
"But will the judge think so?"
Sam shrugged. "That's why we're having a trial, Leo."
"What do you think the judge will think?"
"I think the judge will decide against Constantine."
"You think we'll win?"
"Yes. I think we'll win."
"But when will we know?"
"When the judge gives his opinion."
"Which will be when?"
"He can give it immediately after our summation, or it can take as long as two months. Who knows?"
"Two months after the trial ends, do you mean?"
"That's right, it could take that long."
Kessler nodded. He walked to the leather chair behind his desk, slumped into it, and laced his thin fingers across his chest. "You know, of course, that Ralph Knowles is flying in from the Coast, don't you? To testify."
"Yes, I know that."
"I want protection," Kessler said.
"Against what?"
"Against being kicked out of this company, what the hell do you think I've been talking about here for the past ten minutes?"
"How can I give you that?"
"By making sure that Ralph Knowles is very carefully prepared before he goes on that witness stand."
"All witnesses are prepared, Leo. Knowles will—"
"We had nothing to do with this," Kessler said.
"What do you mean?"
"Neither API nor Mr. Leo Kessler had anything to do with this."
"With what?"
"I bought a book. I paid thirty-five thousand dollars for it in good honest American money. I bought it from galleys even before it became a bestseller. It was a good book, I thought it would make a great movie. I had no way of knowing it was stolen from a play written back in 1946."
"Who says it was stolen?"
"If we lose," Kessler said.
"I'm having trouble following you," Sam answered.
"If we lose — and don't tell me this can't happen, Sam, don't tell me innocent men haven't been sent to the electric chair or the gas chamber for crimes they never committed — if we lose this case, I want it to be clear in the record that James Driscoll was the crook. We had nothing to do with it, Sam, we had no way of knowing."
"Granted. But, Leo, I think he's innocent. I think he really did write the damn book all by himself, without ever having heard of Arthur Constantine or his play."
"Sam," Kessler said, "I respect your opinion highly, but I must tell you that your opinion isn't worth two cents. It's the judge's opinion that matters. And if the judge says James Driscoll stole that play, then James Driscoll did steal that play, and that's all there is to it."
"Well, that's not quite all there is to it. We can still appeal."
"Fine, we'll appeal. And by the time we appeal, I'll be out on my ass in the street selling pencils."
"Or chestnuts," Sam said.
"Everything is funny to you," Kessler replied. "I'm a man gasping for breath, and you make jokes. When I want comedians, I'll hire Charles DeGaulle."
"Okay, what do you want?"
"Ralph Knowles is the biggest horse's ass I know, and there are some very big horse's asses in this industry. I want you to make sure he understands exactly what's he's going to say before he testifies, and that he doesn't say a word that would lead anyone to think he even suspected there was a copy of Catchpole in our files out there on the Coast."
"Did he know there was a copy of the play in our files?"
"I don't know what he knew or didn't know. Directors are to me traffic cops, and worse than actors. The only good director I ever met was the one who dropped dead on the sound stage of a picture we were making, causing us to abandon it. He saved us a half-million dollars."
"All right, I'll see that Knowles is carefully prepared."
"See that he's more than carefully prepared. Put the words in his mouth, let him memorize them. He wrote his screenplay from Driscoll's book, he consulted only Driscoll's book, he followed Driscoll's book to the letter, making only those changes necessary to adapt it to the screen. Like everyone else at API, he had no idea Driscoll was a crook."
"Leo," Sam said, "do you want to win this case, or simply lose it with honor?"
"I want to keep my job," Kessler said.
"Un-huh."
"Win it, lose it, I don't give a damn — so long as API comes out clean. And if that means throwing Driscoll to the wolves or the lions or whoever, then throw him and good riddance. I'm not married to him."
"Well," Sam said, and paused. "If it's any consolation, I think we'll win it, anyway. In fact, I don't see how we can lose."
"So win it. Am I telling you to lose the damn thing? What do you think this is, a club fight in New Jersey? I saw that picture, thank you. It was with Robert Ryan."
"Julie Garfield."
"That was another one."
The office went silent. Sam looked at his watch. "What time does Knowles get in?" he asked.
"Late tonight. He'll be ready for you tomorrow morning."
"We'll be starting with Chester Danton tomorrow morning."
"Well, when will Knowles go on the stand?"
"In the afternoon, most likely. That's up to Willow. He's running the case, we agreed to that."
"Then you've got plenty of time to talk to him."
"Yes."
"What's the matter?" Kessler asked.
"Nothing."
"What's the look on your face?"
"I was thinking of Driscoll."
"What about him?"
"All the poor bastard did was write a book."
By six-thirty that evening, the three men had each consumed four martinis, and the atmosphere at their table was convivial and relaxed, to say the least. Even James Driscoll, whom Jonah usually found rather reserved, seemed cheerful and optimistic, and it was he who suggested they have another drink before parting. Jonah was not ready to part just yet, not until he had fully discussed what was on his mind. He readily agreed to the fifth drink, and Norman Sheppard raised his arm to signal the waiter.