"I remember it because I wrote a note to Hollis the next day, just before I delivered the book."
"I show you this and ask if it is the note to which you just now referred."
"It is," Driscoll said.
"I offer it in evidence, your Honor."
"No objection," Brackman said wearily.
"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit Q,' " the clerk said.
"What did you do with this note, Mr. Driscoll?"
"I put it in the box containing the completed manuscript, and I delivered the note and the manuscript to Hollis Marks."
"When?"
"That Monday. January 28th."
"May I ask how you happen to recall this date?"
"I marked it on my desk calendar."
"I show you this page torn from a desk calendar for January 1963, and ask if this is the notation to which you just now referred."
"It is."
"I offer the calendar page in evidence, your Honor."
"No objection," Brackman said.
"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit R in evidence.' "
"Mr. Driscoll, would you please read the notation to the Court?"
"It just says 'Deliver PD,' that's all. And the date is circled, January 28th."
"Is this your handwriting?"
"It is."
"And by PD, did you mean The Paper Dragon?"
"Yes, that's what is was called by that time. That was the new title."
"Mr. Driscoll, when did you receive galley proofs of your book?"
"At the end of May sometime."
"What did you do with them?"
"I corrected them and sent them back to Mitchell-Campbell."
"Did you request a set of corrected galleys from them?"
"I did."
"For what purpose?"
"I wanted my uncle to read the book before it was published."
"Did you subsequently send those corrected galleys to your uncle?"
"I did."
"I show you this and ask you to describe it," Willow said.
"It's the carbon copy of a letter I wrote to my uncle in June of 1963, telling him the galleys were on their way, and asking him for his opinion of the book."
"I offer it in evidence," Willow said.
"Your Honor, I cannot see its relevance."
"If a man has stolen another man's work, your Honor, he does not send galley proofs to his uncle for an opinion. I am merely trying to establish a logical order of events, culminating in the finished product which Mr. Driscoll showed to his uncle, a man he loved and respected, for his approval."
"I will admit the letter," McIntyre said.
"Mark it 'Defendants' Exhibit S in evidence.' "
"Your Honor," Brackman said, "we had Mr. Willow's promise to watch his P's and Q's, but we have come beyond those and now seem to be up to our S's in documents."
McIntyre burst out laughing. Brackman chuckled quietly, pleased by his own wit. Even Willow and his assistant began laughing. The laughter continued for perhaps a minute. Driscoll, observing the others, did not crack a smile. He noticed that Arthur Constantine, sitting at the plaintiff's table, was not smiling either.
At last Willow said, "There will be no further documents, your Honor."
"I guess that answers your doubts, Mr. Brackman," McIntyre said.
"Yes, and I'm greatly relieved, your Honor."
"Mr. Driscoll," Willow said, still smiling, "when your book was completed and delivered to Mitchell-Campbell, did your agent request a second copy of the manuscript?"
"He did."
"For what purpose?"
"For serial rights submission."
"Do you mean for submission to the magazines?"
"Yes."
"Did you sell first serial rights to the book?"
"Yes, sir."
"Which magazine bought the rights?"
"The Saturday Evening Post — and not McCall's or Redbook, as Mr. Knowles surmised yesterday."
"When did it appear in the Post?"
"In September of '63."
"And when was it published as a book?"
"In October of '63."
"Was the book successful?"
"I suppose so."
"Well, would you know how many copies it sold in its hardcover edition?"
"Chester Danton would be able to tell you that more accurately. I believe it was something like fifty or sixty."
"Fifty or sixty?" McIntyre asked.
"Thousand, I mean."
"Fifty or sixty thousand copies of a first novel, your Honor — and the figure may be a shade higher than that — is considered phenomenal. And this was exclusive of the book club edition, was it not, Mr. Driscoll?"
"Yes."
"It was a book club selection?"
"Your Honor, what is the purpose of all this?" Brackman asked.
"Mr. Willow?"
"If your Honor please, I wish to demonstrate for Mr. Driscoll only what Mr. Brackman earlier attempted to demonstrate regarding the plaintiff: that he is a man of recognized talents."
"How would this be any more relevant than plaintiff's—"
"If your Honor please, the Court permitted Mr. Con-stantine to go on and on about his screenplays, most of which were obscure and frankly mediocre works. It would seem to me that Mr. Driscoll should in all fairness be permitted to enumerate the very real honors bestowed upon his novel."
"Your Honor, I don't see how playing the numbers game, telling us how many copies were sold and all that, is going to indicate anything about Mr. Driscoll's talents."
"We did permit Mr. Constantine, however, to list his credits. All right, I will allow it. Go ahead, Mr. Driscoll."
"May I answer the question?"
"Yes, go on."
"It was a book club section. Book-of-the-Month took it."
"Was a paperback edition sold?" Willow asked.
"Yes, to Camelot Books."
"Would you happen to know how many copies were sold in that edition?"
"We sold a quarter of a million copies in the first eight days of sale."
"And afterwards?"
"It went on to sell something more than two and a half million copies."
"May I say, your Honor, that this constitutes a wildly successful sale in paperback."
"What time is it?" McIntyre asked the clerk.
"Eleven-fifteen, your Honor."
"Let's take a ten-minute recess."
The little Egyptian had obviously dressed for the occasion, and looked considerably more formal than he had on the night of the accident. Uncomfortable and a trifle embarrassed, he informed Sally that his name was Ibrahim Hadad, and then took a cigarette tin from his pocket and nervously opened it. He was wearing a rumpled brown suit and white shirt, a striped brown and yellow tie hanging down the shirt front and tucked into the waistband of his trousers. He wore yellow socks and brown shoes, and his heavy brown overcoat and brown fedora rested on his lap as he fumbled inside the tin, spilling a half dozen cigarettes onto his lap, retrieving them with fingers caked with the grime of his trade, impregnated in every wrinkle and pore. He smiled up at her palely, white teeth appearing in a sickly grin below his long hooked nose, his face the color of dust, the thin smile doing little to add a semblance of cheer to the solemn purpose of his visit. He put one of the cigarettes between his lips and then belatedly offered the tin to Sally, who shook her head.
"Very good cigarettes," he said. "Turkish."
"Thank you, I don't smoke," she said.
Hadad shrugged, closed the tin with a suggestion of finality, adjusted his coat and hat on his lap, put a lighted match to the cigarette tip, shook out the match, exhaled a giant cloud of smoke, and then nervously smiled again at Sally, who tented her fingers and waited for him to resume.
"Criminal assault," he said. "That is what." He shrugged. He puffed again on the cigarette. "When was it, the accident? Monday night?"