"Obviously, this was neither a natural death nor an accident," he lectured. "I believe we can rule out suicide, though that's often an issue in hangings. So, we're dealing with homicide."

"No kidding, Charlie. C'mon, I'm in court. Cut to the chase." I am not usually testy with Charlie or Granny, but my nerves were on edge. I was worried about Sylvester aka Kip; I was worried about Blinky; and I was worried about me.

Charlie harrumphed and continued: "Well then, you might be interested to know what the toxicology report showed. I happened to be there when the chemist-"

"Charlie, please!"

"All right, all right. Vincit qui patitur. He who is patient prevails. Hornback's blood was loaded with barbiturates. Probably pentobarbital, pretty fast-acting, and he was unconscious when throttled by person or persons unknown. If he'd been conscious, there would have been a struggle, and pressure on the neck would have been intermittent. There'd probably be some petechial hemorrhaging, burst blood vessels and the like. With slow, steady pressure, there's less evidence of trauma, and that's the case here. Just a trace of blood in the larynx, some engorged blood vessels in the brain, that's about it. Cause of death was asphyxia. Your tie, and quite a handsome one at that, was the ligature, used much like a garrote. There was a contusion in the middle of his chest. Hornback was probably face-up on the floor when the tie was slipped around his neck. The assailant likely placed a knee on his chest for leverage, then tightened the tie, squeezing off the air supply, and finally tying the knot."

"That it?"

"Just about. Before the M.E. sliced him open, they tried to pull latents off the body. As usual, they couldn't do it. But one of the technicians wanted me to help with a methyl methacrylate test."

"Did you?"

"Of course. We used Super Glue, which converts to fumes quite easily, tented the body, and came up with some nice latents on the neck and chin. Checking them out now."

"Great. I hope there are some besides mine."

"Yes, well next time, don't fool around with murder scenes."

Next time? "Okay, Charlie, thanks."

"Thank you, Jake. You know, I'm never as alive as when I'm poking around in a dead body. Strangulation is quite tricky. Not like the old days of execution by hanging when they'd just tie the knot under the left side of the jaw to throw the head back and snap the odontoid process of the second cervical vertebra. No, that was too easy. As Pierrepoint, the former hangman of London once testified-"

"Charlie, hold that thought. I've got a case to try."

An earnest young woman wearing a blue suit and white silk blouse introduced herself as the assistant state attorney. Her mouth was fixed in a grim expression, and the notes on her yellow pad were printed in precise block lettering. I don't know why, but prosecutors tend to be more organized and less humorous than defense lawyers. And the women prosecutors tend to be very good. Just look at Marcia Clark or Josefina Baroso.

The state began with the theater manager, whose testimony was matter-of-fact. There was a disturbance outside the theater. A lanky blond-haired boy was cursing at the ticket seller. The boy left and came back half an hour later, at which time he began spray-painting the outside of the theater, first with a drawing of Arnold Schwarzenegger, then the phrase, "Hasta la vista, baby." When the manager dashed out of the theater, the boy threw the spray can through a coming attractions display window, breaking the glass. Yes, that boy is present in the courtroom. That's him over there in the Pittsburgh Pirates T-shirt.

That made Kip snicker. "Dork doesn't even know a baseball team from a movie."

I barely cross-examined, except to emphasize that no one was injured.

Next came a policeman who said he found Kip at the scene with blue paint on his hands and an explanation for what he had done. The boy was angry at the cancellation of the film he wanted to see. Again, my cross was concise. I had the officer admit that Kip offered no resistance and told the truth about the incident. That's called putting the best face on a confession. The state rested, and the judge looked at me with raised eyebrows.

"The defense calls Doctor Harvey Kornblum," I announced with a gravity far in excess of my witness's credentials. The bailiff hustled out of the courtroom and into the waiting area. While he was gone, I sneaked a peek at Kip. He was studying a poster on the wall that showed two youngsters, one in a cap and gown, the other behind bars. "School and Job or Jail and Death" read the caption. Subtlety was in short supply in the juvenile justice system.

The bailiff returned with my witness in tow. Dr. Harvey Kornblum might not be the best psychiatrist in town, but he was the cheapest. I choose my expert witnesses based on two qualifications, low fees and a healthy crop of gray hair. The reasons are obvious. Most of my clients can't afford to pay their lawyer and expensive experts, too, so it's easy to see where I'll cut corners. Both judges and jurors like gray-haired doctors, even if they're pompous windbags. Besides meeting my criteria, Harvey Kornblum was also the only shrink who would see Kip on half-an-hour notice this morning and be ready to testify right after lunch.

Dr. Kornblum sat down, unbuttoned his suit coat and let his paunch hang out. He patted his silvery hair and raised his hand to take the oath. I ran through his qualifications as a pediatric psychiatrist, letting him dawdle a bit too long over his internship, his multiple residencies, his fellowships here and there, his long-since outdated papers on bed-wetting and masturbation, and finally, we got down to business.

"Dr. Kornblum, have you had an opportunity to examine the defendant, Sylvester Houston Conklin?"

The witness looked confused until I pointed toward the defense table.

"Ah yes. Kip. I have examined him at some length."

Technically, that was true, the length being twenty-five minutes. "Can you tell the court what your examination revealed?"

Dr. Kornblum opened a thick file that must have contained his autobiography because it couldn't have been the notes of his meeting this morning. He hadn't taken any. The doctor put on a pair of rimless eyeglasses, stared at his file, removed the glasses, and began speaking in deep, magisterial tones. "Kip, er, Sylvester, is a handsome and well-nourished, though thin, lad of eleven years. He has no physical abnormalities and is above average in intelligence, far above average, I must say. Psychologically, I would term him emotionally isolated. He does not know his father. He has, de facto, been abandoned by his mother, and is being raised by a woman he calls Granny, though she is not his grandmother."

Dr. Kornblum paused to look at the judge and let the weight of his testimony sink in. Then he continued. "The child spends much time alone, watching television, especially movies. He is not a happy child. Indeed, his reality is one of pain, isolation, and abandonment. For this reason, he seeks escape. His reality becomes the fantasy of movies."

"How important are these movies to the boy?" I asked.

"Very important, indeed. This child doesn't just watch movies. He becomes a character. The movie is real."

"And is there a difference between seeing these movies on television and in a theater?"

"Quite so. For him, seeing a movie on the big screen enhances that reality. In the theater, he can lose himself, can be enveloped in the sheer size of the picture, the depth of the stereophonic sound."

Now we were rolling. "And what happens, Doctor, if someone takes away that opportunity?"

"Clearly, they have stolen his reality. His reaction is far out of proportion to the harm done, at least it would seem that way to those of us for whom movies have not taken on such importance. You see, the boy has his depression under control, in a steel box if you will. He escapes this depression in the movies. Take that away, the depression becomes anger and rage, and the consequence, as we have seen, is an antisocial act in protest of cancellation of his favorite film."

"Would you expect him to repeat this conduct?"

"Most likely not. The conduct was aberrational. It resulted from the highly unusual combination of his high expectations at seeing Casablanca in the theater and the unannounced cancellation of the film after he took a bus to Miami."

"Do you see that incarceration would serve any purpose here?"

"No. What the boy needs is a strong male figure, someone he can trust, someone he can look up to. He doesn't need jailers."

"Thank you," I said, nodding to Dr. Kornblum for a job well done.

The state had no questions, and my witness stepped down and took a seat in the front row of the gallery. I could have called Kip to testify, but after his earlier outburst, I didn't think I could trust him. Besides, Kornblum had done the job. I wouldn't have to pay him for his services, but I would defend him gratis on his pending DUI charge.

I told the judge the defense rested, and that set T. Bone to mashing his knuckles into his forehead. "Counselor, Ah just don't follow all that psychological mumbo jumbo. You're saying the movies made him do it."

"Not exactly, Your Honor. The deprivation of the movie unleashed his anger at earlier abandonments."

"Well, we can't have him painting up the town every time they change the double feature at the mall, can we?"

It is difficult to respond to a complete non sequitur, so I didn't try.

"Jake," the judge said, his face lighting up with an idea, "do you mind if Ah ask the lad a question?"

I wasn't sure. It wasn't the question that worried me, but the answer. Besides, I wanted to give my closing argument, telling the judge how graffiti has been around since ancient Rome. But all I said was, "Go ahead, Your Honor."

"Son," the judge asked, looking at Kip, "do you remember having done this terrible act?"

"I remember every detail," Kip said. "The Germans wore gray. You wore blue ..."

"Your Honor, that's from Casablanca!" I bellowed.

"...and orange," Kip continued, looking at the judge's two-tone robes.

"Judge Coleridge," I said, intending to filibuster, just to keep the kid quiet, "it's apparent Dr. Kornblum is correct. The child is bewildered by life and confused by the movies. He doesn't know what he's saying. He's-"

"Clam up, Jake! Now, son, look me in the eye. Help me out here, 'cause Ah don't know what to do with you. Ah could put you on home detention or in community control. Ah could put you in the Crossroads program or in intensive control. Ah could enroll you in the marine institute or maybe the alternative assistance program. Lord knows, we got more programs than a dog's got fleas."

Kip just stood there, a faint smile on his face.

"Son, do you have anything to say to the court?"

Oh no.

"Yeah, Judge. Are you eating a tomato or is that your nose?

The few spectators, mostly distraught parents, laughed. My eyes pleaded with Kip for a credit line.

"Charlie McCarthy to W. C. Fields in You Can't Cheat an Honest Man," he said.

"You see, Your Honor!" I shouted, stepping in front of Kip, as if to shield him from harm. "He can't help it. These words just keep popping out."

Judge T. Bone Coleridge rolled his eyes toward the ceiling, then spun around in his high-backed chair. When he spoke, it was to the wall behind him. "The question for the court is, should this boy be in Youth Hall, where he can learn some discipline and maybe get therapy from left-wing, pot-smoking county-payrolled, thumb-sucking shrinks, or should he be on the streets?"

"Someday," Kip piped up from behind me, "a real rain will come and wash all this scum off the streets."

"What'd you say?" the judge demanded, spinning his chair back toward his supplicants.

"All the animals come out at night," Kip said, a faraway look in his eyes. "Whores, skunk pussies, buggers, queens, fairies, dopers, junkies."

"Your Honor," I leapt in. "I'm sure there's an explanation." I looked at Kip, who rewarded me with a maniacal grin.

"DeNiro in Taxi Driver," he said.

"Of course it is!" I shouted triumphantly to the judge, as if Kip had just revealed a major discovery in theoretical physics.

"Skunk pussies?" the judge said, shaking his head.

Thankfully, Kip didn't elaborate. The judge asked if I had anything more to present before he announced his ruling. I declined, and Kip started to say something. I tried to clamp my hand over his mouth, but he wriggled away from me. "Just one thing, Judge. My lawyer's my uncle. He's my uncle Jake."

"What movie's that from?" T. Bone Coleridge asked, wearily.

"None," I admitted. "It's true. Sylvester Houston Conklin is my nephew, my half sister's son."

"Why'nt you say so, first thing, Jake?" the judge demanded. "Hell's bells, where's that low-rent shrink of yours?"

"Right here," Dr. Kornblum called out from the gallery, knowing when his number had been called.

"Did Ah hear you say something about this boy needing a strong male figure, someone to look up to?"

"Exactly, in lieu of a father, he needs ..."

I knew where this was going, and so did Kip. He was grinning, but I wasn't.

"Your Honor," I said, "if you're thinking that I-"

"Don't tell me what Ah'm thinking. Ah'll tell you, Jake. It's like this. It's either Youth Hall or your house. You heard it yourself, from your very own witness. Ah'm remanding the boy to your custody. You're blood kin, after all. You'll file monthly reports, and if there's any problem, you'll both be back in here." T. Bone cleared his throat, the sound of a shovel digging into gravel, and turned to the young miscreant. "How 'bout it, son? You want to bunk with your uncle Jake?"

"Sure, Judge," Kip responded. "It's like living at the Bates Motel."

"Then it's a done deal. Now, we've got to find a way to keep you out of trouble. You got any hobbies, besides all that movie watchin'?"

Kip shook his head "Well, how would you like to play some Pee Wee League football? Your uncle can show you a thing or two."

No again.

"What do you want to do, son?"

"Make movies," Kip said.

T. Bone thought about it a second, then turned to me. "Buy the boy one of those video cameras, and turn him loose. In my day, a boy was rotten, we locked him up and strapped him. Now, we try to let him express himself. Who knows, maybe this'll work. Strappin' never did. Maybe the rapscallion will turn out to be one of your Hollywood moguls."

The judge gave himself a satisfied look. Then he banged his gavel, declared a recess and bolted through the rear door to his chambers, blue and orange robes flapping behind him.

Now what? I hadn't gotten the hang of being an uncle, and I was going to be a father. I looked down at Kip, confused and embarrassed. He had heard me try to weasel out of taking responsibility for him. He was biting his lip.

"Kip. It's not that I don't want you around. It's just that-"

"It's okay, Uncle Jake. Never apologize and never explain. It's a sign of weakness."

I didn't ask, but he told me anyway.

"John Wayne," Kip said, taking my hand and lacing his fingers through mine.

Chapter 8.

Motive, Opportunity and Means.

After court, or apres cour, as one of my worldly partners insists on saying, I was back in the office, not answering my mail, when Abe Socolow called on my direct line. He barked out his usual greeting, which consisted of my last name in an accusing tone, then told me to get my ass over to Blinky Baroso's apartment. I told him I'd do better than that: I'd bring all of me.

So I abandoned my stacks of opposing lawyers' testy correspondence that begged for even more obnoxious responses. It is a game we play, scrivening abusive letters, insulting the other's client in increasingly harsh terms until one or the other files suit. Once, in a petty dispute over a property line, H. T. Patterson wrote a twelve-page letter, accusing my client of everything from deceit, deception, and duplicity to being on the grassy knoll in Dallas. Pressed for time, I responded simply, "Fuck you; strong reply to follow." As Goethe said, or was it Shula, "When ideas fail, words come in very handy."

Before leaving, I checked on Kip who was installed in the conference room, a splendid place of dark wood, tinted glass and marble, all paid for by grateful, or at least, intimidated clients. Word had gotten back to me that the lad had been videotaping all the female employees in the office, telling them he was the casting director for Porky's IV. No one seemed to mind until he asked the receptionist to take off her blouse for her audition. So I grounded him for the day, which he didn't seem to mind, inasmuch as television came with the punishment.

My secretary, Cindy, and two young female paralegals were making a fuss over my ward, who sat in one of the leather swivel chairs, sneakers propped on the marble slab of a conference table, watching a black-and-white movie on the TV tastefully recessed into a teak wall unit. The women were feeding him doughnuts and sodas from the office kitchen and cooing about his blond hair and blue eyes.