martyred bulldog.
âCome on, Richard. Talk.â
Heâd have to talk fast and she found herself interested in what he might say. The truth would be that Richard didnât like to be witnessed. Anywhere. Either in the john or in bed. A witness could testify, go before the court, interpret reality a very different way, could even be encouraged to abet the prosecution. It occurred to her that living, for Richard, was a trial; so of course heâd be a lawyer.
What he said was, âItâs difficult to say this, Joanna, but youâre trying to exploit me. You used a position of advantage this morning and youâre trying to abuse my connections with the firm. So letâs get it down. If youâre imagining Iâll help you get an interview with Mitchellââ
âDid I ask you to?â
âImplicitly.â
âOh,â Joanna said.
âAnd further,â Richard told her, âI wouldnât have to guess that youâd been rifling my files.â
âWell, there you have it, Your Honor. Case rests.â
âSo.â Richard nodded.
Joanna shook her head. âI donât believe this,â she said. âI really donât believe this. Whateverâs in your files is in the library, Richard. Christ, I couldâve gone to the library, Richard.â
âBut you didnât. Thatâs the point.â
She said nothing for a second. Then she said, âBoy, you really lost me there, Richard. I mean figuratively too. I donât know what youâre talking about. Point of what? Point of honor? Point of order? Point of departure? Deci mal point? What the fuck are you talk ing about, Richard? The point is itâs absolutely pointless, is the point. So why donât I come over and pack what Iâve got there and leave you with the keys.â
He looked at her grimly. âItâs a shame, Joanna.â
âI donât think so,â she said.
Her last shot of Richard: he was standing there nodding philosophically at air; looking less like a lover whoâd been losing his lover than a lawyer whoâd fucked up a thorny little case.
And oh Joanna, sheâd been thinking as she turned, you mustnât do this again. You should just go gently into those bad nightsâget a cat, read a book, do some macrame, jog; give it up. Youâre not even any heroine here. Richard was Richard. He was always Richard and you knew it from the start.
She looked at her watch again: twelve on the nose.
A man at the microphone was testing for a level.
Richard was standing at the back, on the aisle, his head bent forward as he listened intently to a natty-looking fellow in a tan worsted suit.
Leo Blackburn , she wrote in her notebook. Hollywoodâs answer to questionable acts . Leo had handled the public relations for David Begelman and Stacy Keach. So judging it correlatively, why not for this? Everything was show business, wasnât it? she thought. There was no business that wasnât show business. No tragedy or damage that couldnât be interpreted with hard-driven patter and a soft-focus lens. Wink, talk fast, throw sequins in their eyes.
Richard and Leo were moving down the aisle.
***
A reporter was asking, â⦠what you know about the poison. Theyâre saying itâs a legal synthetic narcotic. Is it anything you make?â
Mitchell peered out: Preppy-looking kid, twenty-two, twenty-three. He angled his head. âWhat paperâre you with?â
âWhy?â the kid said. âDoes it make any difference?â
âNo, Iâm just figuring it wasnât High Times, Rolling Stone , like that,â Mitchell said. âThe drug hereâs a variant of TMFâthatâs tri-methyl-fentanyl. Synthetic heroin. It isnât made from poppies, itâs made out of greed, but the technical difference makes it technically legal. What youâve got hereâs a question of It looks like a duck, it
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