By Ayesha Haqqiqa
“Manhattan in the early twenty-first century,” Jack McCoy mused as he leaned back in his chair. “I was at the top of my game then. Important cases, important people, I knew them all. Are you getting this all down?”
“Yes,” said the author.
“One case went right up to the
Supreme Court,” McCoy smiled at the memory.
“It was about that Chilean Pinchet-no, not Pinchet, the other one. That colonel I prosecuted for killing that
American. Won the case in lower court,
you know, thanks to the legwork of that detective, Jerry Morrison.”
“Jerry Morrison?” asked the
author.
“Yes, that detective who went over
to the French wine country and wound up
sleeping with a woman who was protecting her daughter because of a
drowning death. Poor guy threw his gun
in the pond, but then he…”
“Of course,” said the author, scribbling furiously.
“The cases involving writers were
the most interesting,” McCoy said.
“Like that fellow who was gunned down for his tabloid journalism. His name was Bryan-C.D.B. Bryan, to be
exact. Drove a VW van with Connecticut
plates, that’s how the killer found him.
He was hot on the trail of a mysterious killing of a soldier in Viet
Nam….or was it Cambodia? And was the
name Sydney something or other? Oh yes,
of course! Another case, another
time, this fellow Shanburg went to
Cambodia and wound up losing his contact man and feared he’d been lost to the
killing fields while Sydney….”
“Yes, Manhattan in the early
twenty-first century,” McCoy frowned.
“I was at the top of my game then.
Had an important case involving stolen diamonds. I remember getting an expert witness to help
with the investigation. Native American
named Cecil Colson. True, his thefts
were of cattle out West, but the technique was the same. You know, go off in your truck, take out a
shotgun, shoot….”
“Are we talking about the diamonds
from Africa?” The author made a note.
McCoy looked at him
disdainfully. “Didn’t I say so? We even got the CIA involved. Joe Cutter was one fellow’s name, but he
wasn’t so swift. Kept getting tied up
with one thing or another. But we got
the fellow in the end, and that’s what’s important.”
“Any cases in which you felt
personally involved?” the author asked.
“Oh yes,” McCoy frowned. “There was Paul Koppel. We went to school together, but when Paul
got his degree, he went to work for the Mob.
Got corrupted by them, too. Cal
Morris helped me find the evidence against Paul. Morris saw the warning signs, and leapt into action, even though
he wore a leg brace because of polio.
Battled those ugly monsters and was able to get the evidence we needed
to close down the operation.” McCoy
smiled in satisfaction.
“Any regrets?” the author asked as he turned a page in his
notebook.
“Any man who has lived has
regrets. I regret the fact that the
Supreme Court ruled against me-against me!
And in favor of Pinochet-no, no, the other one! What was a triumph before a jury-a jury,
mind you, of good Americans, was taken from me by the Nine Old Men, even though
a couple were women.” McCoy shook his
head.
“Do you feel that your emphasis on
career effected your personal life?” the author asked.
McCoy nodded. “You’re after the Diana Hawthorne case,
aren’t you? I won’t deny that I had
affairs with some of my female assistants, but I don’t hold a candle to the
playwright William McClusky, whom, I believe, seduced several woman at
once.” McCoy leaned over. “Please
put it down for the record that, although I referred to pickles in
conversation, I never never ate one on a picnic, especially in the nude!”
“The Hawthorne case?” the author
asked.
“Yes. Diane-or Diana, take your pick-totally misread me. Misread my intent. I was always after the truth, no matter what. I wanted to raise my daughter right, you
see. So what if I went fishing on
Sundays instead of going to church? I’d
like to think I instilled values in her-something to rely on better than the
man in the moon.”
“And Diana Hawthorne?” the author
urged.
“Ah, yes. Well, it wasn’t as if I were a married man
with a daughter and two sons, living in a small Southern town where I had to
hide my adultery. And I did prosecute
some Civil Rights cases, come to think of it.”
“So you’re not going to go into
details over the Hawthorne case,” the author concluded.
“Oh, I don’t know,” McCoy
mused. “In my life as a prosecutor,
I’ve learned three things. Either you
tell the truth, or you’re discreet. If
you’re discreet, you don’t necessarily have to tell the truth. And the third thing….I forget.”
“Come on, Jack, it’s time for your
nap,” the nurse at the home said.
“Nap? It isn’t time for court yet?” Jack asked.
“No. You just finished watching the Sam Waterston movie marathon on
television before this young man came. You
missed your nap.”
“But this fellow here, wants to
write my life’s story—“ Jack protested as he was wheeled out of the lounge of the nursing home.
“And he’ll be back tomorrow to
continue,” the nurse assured him.
The author stood up. “Thank you for your time, Mr. McCoy.” To the nurse he whispered, “It was an
interesting time, and I’ll try again, but I think it’s a travesty….”
Dedicated to THE MAN who made Travesties
come alive. My apologies to fellow fans
who may find a bit of Henry Carr creeping into the McCoy character. Sam is much better at keeping them separate.