Read Online Jack of Spades by Joyce Carol Oates - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Joyce Carol Oates
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public place. I could hear the poor woman’s cries and sobs, her demands for justice.
I thought— But I am not responsible for any of this. She brought this disaster on herself.
“The judge dismissed as I knew he would. He let the complainant present her ridiculous case—gave her plenty of rope to hang herself. As I thought, ‘C. W. Haider’ turned out to be a local crank—not looking for money, I think—so much as some kind of public apology from you, and what she calls ‘damages.’ Evidently she’s from a well-known local family and has money, or rather has inherited money. You’d have been amused, Andrew—she was claiming that you, a bestselling writer, had actually broken into her house and stolen her writing— literally ! You’d stolen ideas and prose passages from her manuscripts and from her journals—it looked like thousands of pages of handwritten journals. Jesus! Of course she had no proof of anything—just seemed to think that people should take her word for it. The way she addressed the court, you’d have thought she was some sort of royalty. Her major claim was that some manuscripts she’d written predated your novels—which were ‘derived’ from them—but there was no way to date the manuscripts, even if anyone wanted to take her ridiculous claims seriously. Unsurprisingly she’s a writer who has never been published except by a few vanity presses. She’s been writing a work-in-progress for decades. She was also claiming that you’d stolen events from her life—either you’ve written about her life literally, or you’ve changed it so much that it’s a ‘nefarious lie.’” Grossman laughed heartily. Through a buzzing in my ears I heard only part of what he was saying but I understood his reiterated words— deranged, pathetic, crazy, dismissed.
“Essentially the case is finished, Andrew. Your role is finished—you can forget about ‘C. W. Haider.’ I will apply for an injunction to keep her from harassing you further, and I will demand that the complainant pay legal fees and court costs. Though you’re not paying my fee, and the publishing house has me on retainer, it’s always a good idea to sue people like Haider for all that you can, to discourage them from initiating lawsuits. Imagine, if the case had gone to a jury, and some paranoid crank on the jury connected with Haider—it could have turned out badly for you.” Grossman was working himself up to righteous indignation now. I’d had to pull over to the side of the road to listen to him.
Dazedly, I’d left the courthouse avoiding all eyes, hoping that no one would recognize me. Hearing my prose read aloud in that grating jeering voice had been lacerating. Especially, I’d made a point of avoiding Elliot Grossman who was lingering on the courthouse steps talking animatedly with fellow lawyers—an assertive individual, very New York in manner, flush with victory and feeling the anticlimax of the abrupt dismissal. Grossman had been brought by limousine all the way from midtown Manhattan to Harbourton, New Jersey, and was finished with his day’s work before 2:00 P . M .—still supercharged with adrenaline.
By the time I’d left the courthouse parking lot, I had heard a siren—I’d seen an ambulance pull up to the front entrance. A small crowd had gathered on the walk in front of the building, parting just enough to allow medical workers to hurry through.
I’d looked quickly away. I hadn’t wanted to see even a glimpse of the stricken white-haired woman.
But if you are very lucky, she will die now.
She will die, and you will never be exposed.
In his cruel jubilant voice Grossman was boasting again of how well the case had gone, exactly as he’d anticipated. Was he expecting me to praise him? Thank him—again?
“Something for you to write about in one of your thrillers, eh, Andrew?”
I felt the sting of insult. As if I had nothing better to write about than the pathetic C. W. Haider!
Through a
I thought— But I am not responsible for any of this. She brought this disaster on herself.
“The judge dismissed as I knew he would. He let the complainant present her ridiculous case—gave her plenty of rope to hang herself. As I thought, ‘C. W. Haider’ turned out to be a local crank—not looking for money, I think—so much as some kind of public apology from you, and what she calls ‘damages.’ Evidently she’s from a well-known local family and has money, or rather has inherited money. You’d have been amused, Andrew—she was claiming that you, a bestselling writer, had actually broken into her house and stolen her writing— literally ! You’d stolen ideas and prose passages from her manuscripts and from her journals—it looked like thousands of pages of handwritten journals. Jesus! Of course she had no proof of anything—just seemed to think that people should take her word for it. The way she addressed the court, you’d have thought she was some sort of royalty. Her major claim was that some manuscripts she’d written predated your novels—which were ‘derived’ from them—but there was no way to date the manuscripts, even if anyone wanted to take her ridiculous claims seriously. Unsurprisingly she’s a writer who has never been published except by a few vanity presses. She’s been writing a work-in-progress for decades. She was also claiming that you’d stolen events from her life—either you’ve written about her life literally, or you’ve changed it so much that it’s a ‘nefarious lie.’” Grossman laughed heartily. Through a buzzing in my ears I heard only part of what he was saying but I understood his reiterated words— deranged, pathetic, crazy, dismissed.
“Essentially the case is finished, Andrew. Your role is finished—you can forget about ‘C. W. Haider.’ I will apply for an injunction to keep her from harassing you further, and I will demand that the complainant pay legal fees and court costs. Though you’re not paying my fee, and the publishing house has me on retainer, it’s always a good idea to sue people like Haider for all that you can, to discourage them from initiating lawsuits. Imagine, if the case had gone to a jury, and some paranoid crank on the jury connected with Haider—it could have turned out badly for you.” Grossman was working himself up to righteous indignation now. I’d had to pull over to the side of the road to listen to him.
Dazedly, I’d left the courthouse avoiding all eyes, hoping that no one would recognize me. Hearing my prose read aloud in that grating jeering voice had been lacerating. Especially, I’d made a point of avoiding Elliot Grossman who was lingering on the courthouse steps talking animatedly with fellow lawyers—an assertive individual, very New York in manner, flush with victory and feeling the anticlimax of the abrupt dismissal. Grossman had been brought by limousine all the way from midtown Manhattan to Harbourton, New Jersey, and was finished with his day’s work before 2:00 P . M .—still supercharged with adrenaline.
By the time I’d left the courthouse parking lot, I had heard a siren—I’d seen an ambulance pull up to the front entrance. A small crowd had gathered on the walk in front of the building, parting just enough to allow medical workers to hurry through.
I’d looked quickly away. I hadn’t wanted to see even a glimpse of the stricken white-haired woman.
But if you are very lucky, she will die now.
She will die, and you will never be exposed.
In his cruel jubilant voice Grossman was boasting again of how well the case had gone, exactly as he’d anticipated. Was he expecting me to praise him? Thank him—again?
“Something for you to write about in one of your thrillers, eh, Andrew?”
I felt the sting of insult. As if I had nothing better to write about than the pathetic C. W. Haider!
Through a
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