The Weatherman (32 page)

Even before jury selection got under way courtroom seating became an issue. The ghouls start lining up in the hallway hours before court. The entire right side of the spectators’ area was reserved for the media, one person from each news organization. Rick Beanblossom was back there on most days.

The first two rows on the left side were reserved for family members of the victims. The only regular was an old black man, usually dressed in janitor garb. Rick learned that he was Officer Sumter’s grandfather. Behind the family members sat the ghouls, people who liked to watch. The courtroom next door had also been reserved for the trial, but people there had to sit and watch the proceedings on television like everybody else.

The trial was being broadcast on national cable television, a station called Court TV. Dixon Bell had never heard of the show, but he correctly guessed they broadcast sensational trials from around the country.

The local stations tried live coverage, but they soon learned what any criminal lawyer could have told them from the start: real trials are long and tedious and often boring. In this trial the prosecutor was going through seven murders, one at a time. Jurors were told they could expect to be sequestered three to four months. The local stations, including Channel 7, killed their live coverage fast and only summarized the juicy stuff on the evening news. They promised to cover the Weatherman’s testimony live should he decide to take the stand.

Stacy Dvorchak was unhappy about the draw that turned the trial over to Judge Lutoslawski, a silver-haired hangman’s judge whom defense attorneys out of court often referred to as Judge Polack.

The prosecutor was Jim Fury, a man cunning and scholarly in appearance but cheap in dress. The trial was a career opportunity for him. He had two assistants, both women, but they never questioned the witnesses.

The jury was young. Dixon Bell liked that. With the three alternates there were eight women and seven men. Each of them was made to swear he or she had never watched the news show on Channel 7. Half of them swore they didn’t watch television at all. The TV camera next to the jury box was small and unobtrusive. Although Stacy tried her best to kill the television coverage, everybody but Dixon Bell forgot about the camera after the first day.

Police Captain Les Angelbeck was one of the early witnesses. For somebody who was supposed to be retired and dying of emphysema, he was moving around pretty damn good. He kept telling reporters he’d live to see the Weatherman fry. Dixon Bell thought the captain had a remarkable gift for manipulating the media-just the right sound bite at just the right time. In the good-cop-bad-cop bit, he always played the good cop, and he was very good at it, but Dixon Bell knew from experience Angelbeck could be one mean and devious son of a bitch. Answering the state’s questions, the captain was fluent, almost mellifluous. But during questioning by the defense he had a hundred coughing spells and even more apologies.

Angelbeck was followed by Lieutenant Donnell Redmond, who was even more polished and articulate than the captain. Although the diary letters remained missing, nobody could argue the fact that the task force had put together a compelling case.

The fight over the fingerprint broke out during testimony about the first murder. Prosecutor Jim Fury made a major point of it during his opening statement. “Beyond the overwhelming weight of circumstantial evidence,” he told the jury, “we have physical evidence that puts Dixon Bell at the scene of murder number one. We have his fingerprint.”

An
FBI
expert flew in from Washington and explained to the jury the history of fingerprinting and how Dixon Bell’s name came out of the
APIS
computer. He testified that of all the names on the list of probables the computer put the Weatherman’s name at the top, and that the
APIS
computer was 98 to 100 percent accurate in its ability to search and match a print. The partial fingerprint found on the transformer atop the Sky High parking ramp was blown up to poster size along with the print taken at the detention center after Dixon Bell’s arrest. The
FBI
agent stood with a pointer, talking about similarities. Anybody watching the jury’s reaction could see they were impressed.

The first break for the defense came when the state made the mistake of putting Minnesota’s own fingerprint expert on the witness stand to bolster their argument. Stacy Dvorchak cross-examined Glenn Arkwright from her electric wheelchair at the defense table. “This
APIS
computer reads digits assigned to so-called points of minutiae, correct?”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“How many points of minutiae are in a good fingerprint, Mr. Arkwright?”

“A good one has a hundred.”

“One hundred.” Stacy held up the fingerprint card. “And how many points of minutiae-that is, digits-did this fingerprint found on the transformer atop the Sky High parking ramp have?”

“Seven.”

“What is the least number of points that a man has been arrested and convicted on based on a partial fingerprint found at a crime scene?”

“To the best of my knowledge, one jurisdiction, I don’t remember where it was, reported a hit made on only eight points of minutiae.”

“So to convict Dixon Bell on the basis of this fingerprint, the jury would be asked to set a new low record for this
APIS
computer?”

“To the best of my knowledge, that would be the case.”

“Mr. Arkwright, how many names did this computer give the Calendar Task Force to work with?”

“I believe when the suspect was arrested there was a total of sixty-two names.”

“And the computer eliminated sixty-one of those names and said Dixon Bell is the man you want?”

“No, that’s not the case.” Arkwright explained. “An
APIS
system makes no decisions on identity. It only lists suspects. Its function is to reduce the number of comparisons a fingerprint expert has to make. The final conclusion still rests with the experts.”

“So you had to examine sixty-two sets of fingerprints, just like our
FBI
friend?” “Yes, I did.”

“And did you find a match to the parking ramp print?” Arkwright paused before answering. “The final conclusion of the Calendar Task Force was made by the
FBI
.” “That doesn’t answer my question. Did Glenn Arkwright in examining those sixty-two fingerprints find a match?”

“My finding was inconclusive.” Stacy Dvorchak wheeled over to the posters of the two fingerprints and picked up the pointer. “Mr. Arkwright, you’re the state’s leading fingerprint expert. You were assigned to the Calendar Task Force. Can you tell the jury, is this partial fingerprint on the right the same as this complete fingerprint on the left?”

Arkwright paused again and adjusted his glasses. “In my opinion there’s not enough of the partial print to reach a conclusion.”

Hick Beanblossom marched up slippery sidewalks and trudged over snowbanks to the warehouse district. The renovated brick building he entered was warm and clean inside. He stomped the snow from his shoes and unzipped his jacket. The video company was listed as being on the fifth floor. He took the stairs.

At the end of a long hallway was a pair of double doors that read, HY
PETER
PRODUCTIONS
. A security guard with piss-yellow hair and bloodshot eyes stood watch. “You got a part?”

“No, I’m a news producer. Mr. Peters said he’d talk to me today.”

“What’s with the mask?”

“I’m a burn victim. Vietnam. How do you explain your face?”

The surly guard was lost for words. He mumbled, “Go on in.”

Half of the studio was lights, cameras, and cables running along the floor. Black plastic hung over the warehouse windows. Fat beams supported a high ceiling. A dozen people roamed about. Everybody seemed preoccupied with nothing. Nobody was nude. Nobody paid much attention to the man in the mask.

It was the set itself that surprised Rick. Peters told him this would be a good day to stop by. It was a television news set. The anchor desk read,
CHANNEL
8, I
WITNESS
NEWS
. The logo behind the two anchor chairs was a big eightball. Behind the weather chair was a map of the United States with a smiling Mr. Sunshine over the heartland. It was obvious they had studied the local news shows. Many a small-market station would be proud to broadcast from the set.

Standing at a desk at the rear of the studio was producer and director J. C. Peters. He was on the phone. Rick worked his way to him. He overheard a conversation about money. “How’m I supposed to find that kind of cash in this town? I can’t even find a good deli.” J. C. Peters slammed down the receiver. “Investors! What’s with the mask? We don’t have a mask in this shoot.”

The news producer extended his hand to the porn producer. “My name is Rick Beanblossom. I’m with Channel 7. I’m doing research on adult videos. You said we could talk today.”

Peters offered a weak handshake. “Channel 7, huh? Tell your news director I said fuck you. What’s with the mask?”

“I’m a burn victim. Vietnam.”

“No shit? You mean that’s real? You gotta wear that all the time? I love it.” Peters began shouting. “Mortie? Mortie, where da fuck are ya? Mortie, can we get a mask like this here? I love this.”

Mortie, who looked like a maintenance man, shuffled over. “I’d have to rewrite the script.”

“So take ten minutes and rewrite the fuckin’ script. Got his face burned off in Vietnam. You didn’t get anything else burned off, did ya?”

Rick Beanblossom grinned. “No, just the face.” ‘Thank God. What didya say your name was?” “Rick.”

“Yeah, Rick, you wanna be in my movie? Mortie here will write ya a good part.”

“No, actually I wanted to ask you about amateur videos.”

“Aw, Christ, I hate those two words. Get back to me in ten minutes.” The director stormed through a jungle of video technology to the set, shouting orders. “Everybody on the set! In your places!”

Rick Beanblossom moved behind the cameras as they began lighting the set. Add a couple of computers and an assignment board and the place would look just like a television newsroom. He was struck by this amazing resemblance when she came and stood next to him.

She had a gorgeous figure and a provocative smile. Heavy on the perfume. Her hair was rustic red. Tight skirt. Bloused top. The kind of woman men would describe as a real cutie pie. “J.C. said you have to wear that mask all the time because you have no face.” “Yes,” Rick said to her, “that’s true.”

“I think I know how you feel. My brother had real bad acne.”

Rick tried not to laugh. “What’s your name?”

“My name is Carolyn, but everyone calls me the Little Bimbo.”

“I like Carolyn. Are you in this movie?”

“I’m just a fluffer with a bit part.” She had a little girl’s voice.

“What’s a fluffer?”

“A fluffer’s job is to keep the guys hard between takes. It’s important because it saves a lot of time. I’m hoping to get bigger parts, but it’s not easy. In this business a girl is washed up by the age of thirty. I’m almost twenty-six now and I still haven’t had a leading role. Maybe later would you like to come over to my place and watch TV. I live right downtown.”

The invitation took him by surprise. “That’s very sweet of you, Carolyn, but I have to say no. Thank you, anyway.”

“Is it because you don’t like me, or any of us who make these?”

“No, that’s not it at all.”

“You’re not married, are you?” She was like the child that will not stop asking questions no matter what the answers.

“No, of course not.”

“Are you in love?”

Rick looked up at the empty anchor chair and thought about that one. “Yes, I believe I am.”

“Does she love you?”

He let a sad laugh escape. “I’m not sure. I’m not sure she’s sure.”

“Because of your face?”

“I suppose.”

The Little Bimbo shook her head. “How sad. You shouldn’t judge people by their face.”

The lights faded up and down on the news set. The actors took their places. There was a sexy female anchor and a young stud of an anchor, both in blue blazers with an eight ball on the coat pocket. There was a busty, slutty-looking weather girl. The sports chair was still empty. The mouth of J. C. Peters seemed always on fast forward. “Hey, Rick, ain’t there a good restaurant in this town? I been eatin’ Chuck Wagon for six weeks. Ain’t you fuckin’ Lutherans ever heard of spices?”

Rick walked up to the director. A stagehand courteously brought a stool over for him to sit on. “Your set looks as good as ours.”

“Channel 7, huh? You think your weatherman done them women, Rick?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“Me neither. Makes no sense.”

“So how do you make these kinds of movies?” Rick wanted to know.

Peters leaned over to him and talked with his hands. “Lay out a script. Plan on at least ten come shots. Keep it straight. No faggot shit. You need at least three scenes of straight fucks. Those are your meat shots. Get some good close-ups. Remember, people are watching these at home on their TV sets. They can run ‘em in slow motion, they can play ‘em over and over again. You can’t fool people anymore.” He was back to shouting directions. “Okay, lemme see my lights, c’mon!”

The studio went dark. White lights came up on the I Witness News team. “Why don’t you just tape an orgy?” Rick asked.

“Stay away from orgies. Orgies are expensive. Two faggots always end up fucking each other, then ya got a nightmare in editing.”

“What else?”

“Get yourself some good screamers. Men love to hear women scream.”

“Do these women’s groups bother you with their protesting?”

“Yeah, yeah-every time there’s a woman raped or murdered they come after us. You got more violence on your news show every night than I got in my movies. Sex don’t cause violence. Violence causes violence. I don’t like violent movies. I like ‘em sweet and simple-boy meets girl, they fuck.”

Rick tried to get to the point. “I want you to tell me about amateur videos.”

The master of porn was livid. “I hate those two words.” “Why?”