In 2010, I received a Citizen’s Award from the New Jersey Association for Responsible Citizenship. Just last year, I received a Governor’s Medal from the State of New Jersey for my philanthropic contributions. And next year, it has been promised—(that is, there is a rumor to this effect)—that I will be honored by induction into the New Jersey Hall of Fame as one of the state’s “most cherished” contributors to the arts.
And my most acclaimed works of fiction lie before me. I am sure.
God damn you I am not a thief, and I am not a plagiarist and I am not to be vilified by anyone.
6 “We Will Bury Her”
“It’s a nuisance suit, Andrew. The judge will toss it out. We’ll demand legal costs, and an injunction to block such ‘harassment of the artist’ in the future.”
He spoke with such lawyerly confidence, and such solicitude for me, I felt a wave of relief but also the faint incredulity of one who has expected to hear a death sentence and has heard instead that he has been reprieved.
In the morning I’d done what I should have done as soon as I’d received the summons from the Harbourton court the previous day: I called my editor in New York City who referred me to the legal department at my publishing house and within minutes I was being reassured by a lawyer named Elliot Grossman that there was nothing to worry about, absolutely—“Don’t give this ridiculous ‘complaint’ a second thought. It won’t go any further, I predict. Andrew? Are you listening?”
Am I listening?
I was gripping the phone receiver so tightly, my fingers ached.
“Yes, I—I’ve heard, Elliot. Thank you . . .”
My voice trailed off in wonderment. Was the summons such a trivial matter, were my fears totally unfounded? “C. W. Haider” wasn’t a threat to my reputation? My career? My
life
?
On the phone, Elliot Grossman sounded like an eminently reasonable man. We had never met at the publishing house—we had never had any reason to confer together before this on any matter. He’d asked me to fax the summons to him and after he’d read it carefully he called me back to allay my fears. He seemed to understand that I was one of those persons who, however they know themselves to be “innocent” of any crime, are thrown into a state of anxiety at the mere possibility of a lawsuit.
“I’ll be happy to take the case, Andrew. Of course! I’m a great admirer of your novels.”
To this, I murmured a vague
Thank you
.
Whether Elliot Grossman was sincere or otherwise, it was a courteous thing for him to say. Especially to a writer as uncertain of his worth as Andrew Rush.
“I’ll be in Harbourton on Monday morning for the hearing, promptly at nine
A
.
M
., Andrew. But I’ll go alone, you needn’t attend. As long as you are ‘represented’ there is no reason for you to attend, and I advise you not to.”
“Really? I thought the summons stipulated . . .”
“No. This is just a hearing, not a trial. The judge will be impressed that anyone shows up at all for such a frivolous suit. I seriously doubt that any ‘warrant’ would have been made out for your arrest—that’s ridiculous. The judge will be flattered that a publishing house as distinguished as ours is sending ‘legal counsel’—he’ll dismiss within five minutes. Complaints like these are not uncommon, and frivolous lawsuits against purportedly famous or wealthy persons are not uncommon. It’s a form of blackmail with which the law is well acquainted, and the Harbourton judge will recognize it for what it is. Given the nature of the complainant, as you’ve described her to me, I’d guess that she might be already known to the court—a classic crank.”
Grossman spoke zestfully in the way of one whose profession is such speech: staccato bursts of words, and a pleasure in words that was virtually kinetic.
“I’ve represented a number of writers, over the years, who’ve been sued for ‘theft’—‘plagiarism’—more often ‘libel’ and ‘invasion of privacy.’ With our First Amendment it’s damned hard to make a case even when there
is a case
—which there isn’t here, I’m sure.”
I’m sure
. This did not sound vehement enough to me.
“Andrew, you say you don’t know this ‘C. W. Haider’—yes? You’ve never visited her home, you’ve never read anything she has written?”
“Certainly not!”
“Well, sometimes strangers send writers manuscripts, and it’s not advised to read these manuscripts but, if you can, return them immediately to the sender with a notification, signed and dated, that you have not read them. If you keep a manuscript, that might indicate that you’ve read it; and the writer might peruse whatever you write afterward, to see if you’ve ‘plagiarized’ from him—or her. It isn’t uncommon, Andrew. You’re lucky to have been spared until now.”
Desperately I was trying to think: had I ever received anything from “C. W. Haider”? I was too embarrassed to tell Grossman that over the years I had occasionally read manuscripts sent to me by strangers, and, naïvely, I’d even written back to some of them with suggestions for revisions; in most cases, the writers expressed gratitude, though next they usually wanted an introduction to an agent or an editor, which took the correspondence to another level entirely—not always happily.
I told Grossman that I was almost certain, I’d never received any manuscripts or letters from “C. W. Haider” nor had I written to her; and Grossman said, with a chuckle, “If you have, Andrew, we will soon find out. She’ll have the letters with her.”
He went on to tell me that, of the writers he’d represented over the course of a twenty-year career, it was Stephen King who, not surprisingly, was the most frequent target of crank lawsuits; but that King had managed to avoid really serious litigation so far since the cases were usually demonstrably ridiculous.
“You’ve represented Stephen King?”—this was encouraging to me.
“Of course. More than once.”
“Was he—upset at being sued?”
“Initially. But Steve got used to it, as a ‘public figure’—it’s like wearing a large target on your back. The flip side of fame, drawing the attention of the mentally unstable. And the litigious, who are a separate category, though they can also be mentally unstable.”
“Were you always successful in defending Stephen King?”
Though it was not like me to be so rudely inquisitive I had to ask this question. Grossman laughed, obscurely.
“Well, Andrew—I think, in fairness to Steve, I shouldn’t discuss his legal problems any further. Some of these cases are in the public record and you could look them up—others were settled out of court, and privately. And when Steve changed publishers, a few years ago, naturally I no longer represented him. I have no idea what has happened, if anything, in subsequent years. I just wanted you to know, to assuage your anxiety, because you’ve been sounding very anxious on the phone—I wanted you to know that you are not alone. Bestselling writers have always been targets for litigation.”
“‘Settled out of court, privately’—does that mean that Stephen King had to
pay
? Why on earth would he have to
pay
?”
“Andrew, please. It isn’t uncommon for a well-to-do client to settle with an aggressive plaintiff, just to clear the air and avoid ugly publicity. A settlement doesn’t have to be millions of dollars, as you might think from the media; I’ve managed settlements for as little as ten thousand, one notable time just
nine hundred ninety-nine dollars.
”
“But if the writer is ‘innocent’—”
“Of course! Of course the writer is ‘innocent’! Writers of the stature of Stephen King and Andrew J. Rush are hardly likely to ‘plagiarize’ their material from amateurs and lunatics.”
Stammering I told Grossman that I thought, in this case, that the complainant was actually accusing me of breaking into her house and taking something . . .
But a seasick sensation had come over me. I could not have said with any clarity what I did think and I could not have brought myself to re-examine the summons which by this time I’d read, reread and reread to the point of nausea.
Grossman laughed. “Andrew, that’s wild! As long as it doesn’t get into the media, it’s really funny—you must admit. ‘Breaking and entering’—crawling through a window—to steal ideas for your novels from ‘C. W. Haider.’”
I did not think this was funny. I did not laugh.
As long as it doesn’t get into the media.
Better to erase the accuser at once.
In his exuberant way, no longer so reassuring to me as it had been, Grossman spoke for another half hour outlining his strategy for the hearing on Monday, which involved some emergency detective work, and reiterating his advice that I stay away. “The plaintiff will see you and no doubt recognize you and this will be exciting to her. If she’s mentally unbalanced as we think she is, it could provoke an ugly scene. It’s exactly what stalkers want—forcing a confrontation with the rich and famous.”
Stalker? Rich and famous?
Grossman’s words swarmed about me like buzzing gnats. I was trying to feel a small dim stir of pride at being called, however extravagantly,
rich and famous;
I was trying not to feel panic at hearing
stalker
.
So far as I knew, so far as the summons indicated, and our brief phone conversation suggested, C. W. Haider wasn’t (yet) “stalking” me.
The woman lived on Tumbrel Place, however, not far from the courthouse and municipal buildings. By my estimate, less than five miles from Mill Brook House.
This was a new fear, which Grossman had unwittingly put into my mind—
stalker
.
Better to make the preemptive strike, friend.
Better to kill at once.
As if he’d just thought of it Grossman asked if I had ever spoken with “C. W. Haider”—on the phone, for instance?
Now the seasick sensation deepened. For of course I should not have called the person whose name was on the summons as a complainant—I’d known better, and yet I had called her. Shamefaced now I told Grossman that yes, unfortunately I had called the woman yesterday afternoon, soon after receiving the summons. “I’d just wanted to know what the charge actually was—what I’ve been accused of stealing. The conversation did not go well.”
For a stunned moment, Grossman was quiet. That so verbal a man was without words was not a good sign.
“The woman did sound unbalanced—it was hard to understand her. She has a strange, high, wild laugh . . .”
My voice trailed off, weakly. I felt like a child who has not only disobeyed an elder, but stupidly disobeyed.
“Well. This is unfortunate, Andrew. You should never have tried to contact the plaintiff, of course. I would have thought that someone of your intelligence and experience . . .” Grossman paused, pointedly. I did not want to imagine the expression on his face.
Guiltily I tried to explain: “I’d meant only to ask a few questions. It was a short exchange. I spoke very courteously.
She said that I’d taken things ‘out of her house’—and that it ‘had to stop . . .’”
“You didn’t threaten
her,
I hope?”
“Of course not. I would not ever threaten anyone.”
“We can pretend this didn’t happen. That might be for the best. If there were a trial—(which I’m sure there will not be, please don’t panic)—the phone record would be put into evidence, and you couldn’t deny it. But this isn’t a trial, and no one is sworn in. And you won’t even be there. So let’s just hope for the best. Maybe she won’t mention a call.”
Still I blundered, shamefaced. Badly I wanted to regain Elliot Grossman’s regard for me. “The worst of it was, I’d known beforehand that I shouldn’t have called her. But I guess I hoped that she would listen to reason. That she would see that I’m a nice person . . .”
I could not bring myself to tell him—
I wanted to avoid calling a lawyer. I am afraid of lawyers.
“Andrew, you should know that your legal adversary does not want to perceive you as a
nice person
and there is nothing you can do to convince her that you are not her enemy but a
nice person
. It wasn’t a smart move to contact her, my friend, but at least you told me. I’m grateful for that. As long as you didn’t threaten her, or try to cajole her into withdrawing the complaint, and she hasn’t recorded the conversation—I think we will be fine.”
Grossman’s voice had shifted its tone. He was businesslike, brusque.
“I’ll call you immediately after the hearing, Andrew—no need to call me. Just put this out of your mind entirely. I assure you—nothing will come of ‘C. W. Haider.’
We will bury her
.”
7 A Kiss Before Killing
“Andy, Julia is upset about something.”
Irina spoke hesitantly. By her tone I understood that our youngest daughter’s distress had something to do with me and that Irina was being cautious in bringing the subject up to me as if—absurdly, and unfairly—she feared my reaction.
It is very annoying to me when members of my own family approach me with caution. It is utterly baffling.
“What? What is Julia upset about?”
“A novel she read by someone who calls himself ‘Jack of Diamonds’—I think that’s the name. She says she thinks that this writer is someone who knows you, a mystery-writer friend of yours, and she thinks that the writer, whoever he is, used something that had happened to
her
in his novel.”
“Wait, Irina. I don’t follow this. What are you saying?”
It was the eve of the hearing. Sunday night, and less than twelve hours until nine o’clock Monday morning in the Hecate Municipal Courthouse.
I had not told Irina, of course. My dear wife must be spared emotional upsets.
My heart beat hard. Guilt, guilt.
It is very hard to be a parent of integrity.
“Julia will tell you herself, Andy. But she called me first, and she was crying. This awful ‘Jack of Diamonds’—”
“Who? What?”
“—a mystery writer who calls himself ‘Jack of Diamonds’—or maybe it’s ‘Jack of Hearts’—some sort of hard-boiled crime writer, definitely a misogynist, and a brute, like Mickey Spillane . . .”
As if Irina had ever read a novel by Mickey Spillane!
In my collection of first edition American mystery fiction there were a number of Spillane titles from the 1950s, purchased in secondhand bookstores; but no one in my family had touched these since we’d moved into Mill House and reshelved the books, I was sure.
“Julia says there’s a scene in this ‘Jack of Hearts’ novel she just read that replicates almost exactly the time when she fell through that rotted pedestrian bridge in Battlefield Park, and might have been killed—except in the novel, the child
was killed
.”
This was a melancholy memory! I would rather not have been reminded.
Julia had been four years old. A lively, inquisitive little girl. We were living in Highland Park at this time, adjacent to New Brunswick; one day I took Julia to Battlefield Park a few miles away, and there (to my shame) I’d become distracted by taking notes, working on a scene in one of my novels, and Julia wandered off beside a creek following some quacking geese and without my noticing she climbed up onto a pedestrian bridge that was no longer in use; such a little girl, she had no trouble crawling through the blockade, laughing at how clever she was to slip away from Daddy though Daddy had told her not to wander off—Daddy had certainly warned her
not to wander off
. And suddenly then Julia’s little foot plunged through the rotted wood of the bridge. She screamed as part of the bridge collapsed, and she fell about twelve feet into the creek bed, her fall miraculously interrupted by underbrush so that she was unhurt except for scratches, bruises, and the trauma of the fall.
“Julia says there’s a scene in this novel that is almost exactly like her accident, it’s even set in a place called ‘Battle Park’—not in New Jersey but upstate New York.”
“A coincidence . . .”
My voice was faint, quavering.
Battle Park! How stupidly renamed, when the original had been Battlefield Park.
“I told Julia, of course it’s just a coincidence. But it is strange and upsetting, isn’t it?”
“I suppose it would be, if Julia takes it so personally. Is the little girl in the novel anything like her?”
A strange question! Fortunately, Irina didn’t seem to notice.
“Julia said that, in the novel, the little girl dies—her skull is broken in the fall. The father who has taken her into the park is an evil man who is in fact the little girl’s stepfather, not her father. He resents his wife’s children and plots to kill them, through ‘accidents.’”
Vaguely I recalled the plot of
A Kiss Before Killing
. It was characteristic of the pseudonymous novels that, rapidly written as they were, in a kind of white-heat of inspiration in the early hours of the morning, I could not remember them in much detail even by the time they were published, let alone a few years later.
“Julia said that the plot of the novel was very clever—but repulsive. The evil stepfather is never suspected of arranging any of the ‘accidents’—he is always stricken with guilt, it seems genuinely, and feels remorse; until another ‘accident’ happens to another child. Julia said she couldn’t continue reading the novel any further, to see how it ended.”
“Well, good! Just throw ‘Jack of Spades’ out.”
“‘Jack of Spades’? Is that the name of the—writer?”
Irina blinked at me as if a bright blinding light were shining in her face. Though I love my dear wife very much there are moments when Irina’s very sweetness—the
simplicity of her sweetness
—is deeply annoying.
“Yes, darling. You’ve been talking about ‘Jack of Spades’ for the past ten minutes—how Julia has been upset by a novel of his.”
“Yes. Julia is upset. And I am upset, to think that a private, very personal incident in our lives has been exploited by a stranger . . . If that is what happened.”
“Well, darling—that’s a big ‘if’! I doubt we could sue ‘Jack of Spades’ for invasion of privacy on such slender evidence.”
“No one wants to sue anyone. But . . .”
I was feeling edgy, impatient. I wanted to protest to Irina that I was in no way responsible for this latest crisis of Julia’s.
Since they became teenagers, and now that they are adults, there are too often crises of some kind in our children’s lives. A call home, a conversation with Irina, the latest debacle, the latest disappointment or reversal of fortune or betrayal, a need for emotional support,
a need for money
—all too familiar.
Though I am the quintessential American father—dear old Dad with open arms, dimpled smile, checkbook.
Dimply-smiling Dad. Asshole.
Hadn’t I warned Julia not to read Jack of Spades? Hadn’t I hidden the damned books away? Obviously, Julia had disobeyed me—as she, and her older brothers, had so often disobeyed their clueless Daddy when they’d lived in this house.
I wanted to protest to Irina that I was not a friend of Jack of Spades and even if I were, I’d never have spoken to him about our little daughter’s near-fatal accident in Catamount Park. And in any case Julia hadn’t died—had she?
How strange I was feeling! Perspiration on my face, beneath my arms, inside my clothes. Between my fingers a glass of wine—tart white wine, from a local New Jersey winery whose owner is a “great admirer” of Andrew J. Rush—which I didn’t remember pouring.
Or maybe, Irina had brought me the glass of wine. To placate me, to make me less anxious.
I was remembering now: not Catamount Park, but Battlefield Park.
And Julia hadn’t died. Had not.
Irina was telling me that Julia would be joining us for dinner that evening, but was really coming over to speak with me about
A Kiss Before Killing.
Irina didn’t plan to be part of the conversation—“It’s between you and her. You know how emotional Julia can be, and how she depends upon your advice. I hope you’ll be patient with her, Andrew.”
This too was annoying. Subtly insulting for my wife to suggest that I am less patient with the children than she is.
“Daddy, it can’t be just a coincidence! I don’t believe that.”
Julia looked at me with an expression of childish hurt and exasperation. As if somehow, but how would Julia
know how,
Daddy was to blame.
It seemed that, though Julia had forgotten to take the Jack of Spades novel with her last week, she’d remembered the unusual pseudonym and picked up
A Kiss Before Killing
on her own.
Plaintively she was saying: “In the novel, the little girl dies when she falls and cracks her skull on the rocks in the creek bed. The stepfather is sorry—sort of—though he’d been imagining that she might fall. Then, later, there’s another ‘accident’ involving her brother—and her brother dies. I stopped reading at that point.”
Smiling, I tried to console my daughter. Since childhood Julia had always been unduly
serious.
“It’s just fiction, Julia. By a ‘fictitious’ author.”
“What do you mean, ‘fictitious’?”
“I mean that ‘Jack of Spades’ is a pseudonym, as you know.”
“You said you didn’t know him. The author.”
“I don’t
know him
. It’s possible that ‘Jack of Spades’ is a woman, in fact.”
Julia laughed. “Oh no, Daddy. ‘Jack of Spades’ is male—sick-macho. No doubt about that.”
Sick-macho.
I felt a stirring of guilt, but also pride that I could disguise myself so thoroughly. My own family could not recognize me!
I assured Julia that she was exaggerating the coincidence. Best to toss the offensive novel away, and forget it.
“Could it really be a coincidence, Daddy? That’s all?”
“That’s all.”
“So strange! I hate it.”
“Well. I do, too.”
“This ‘Jack of Spades’ is no one you know—you’re sure?”
“Yes.”
“Do you have any idea who he is?”
“It’s said that he’s a ‘retired professional’ who lives in the New York City area. He’s a relatively new and very minor
noir
writer with a small following. Not worth your concern, Julia.”
“He’s a vicious person, you can tell.”
“Really? I’ve never been able to get through one of his novels, which his publishers send to me for blurbs. They’re so crude, violent—evil isn’t sufficiently punished. Like action films for teenaged boys.”
“Oh no, I don’t think so, Daddy. Not teenaged boys. These are novels to make you
think
—but not nice thoughts.”
Julia spoke shrewdly. This was an astonishing revelation to come from her, which I was reluctant to believe.
Julia persisted: “What I think, Daddy, is that this writer is someone who knows you, and our family. He based the ‘accident’ in
A Kiss Before Killing
on what happened to me. I just feel so
weird
.”
“Julia, many people are certain that they’re in works of fiction. It’s like seeing a reflection in a mirror, believing it’s you when it isn’t.”
My smile felt twisted as a corkscrew, burrowing into my face.
“Daddy, come on! If you stood in front of a mirror and saw a reflection, it would
be you
.”
Julia laughed. But why was this funny?
I had only the vaguest memory of
A Kiss Before Killing
. I don’t even know how it ends. I wanted to protest to Julia—
But in actual life, I am your loving father. And you did not die, after all.