Roger Tenpenny knew enough to end the conversation and immediately ask for a lawyer. That afternoon he was arraigned in US District Court for the Southern District of New York and was unable to post bail.
Over the course of several days, Tenpenny told his version of events to his attorney, who relayed bits and pieces to the authorities in the hope that his bail would be reduced. When this didn’t happen, Tenpenny requested another face-to-face with Sheehan and Scholl. Because the evidence against him was so overwhelming, and because his lawyer believed his story, Tenpenny was advised to tell them everything, show humility, and plead for mercy.
They met again in a small room at FBI headquarters in lower Manhattan. On a chalkboard someone had jotted down a crude outline of the story Tenpenny had told his lawyer. At the bottom, Roger could see that B.S. had been written and then erased. Despite the media beating he’d taken over the past week—and it had been harsh-—Tenpenny was still mostly convinced of his innocence, and was comforted by the fact that he truly hadn’t known the work was plagiarized.
“What I’m going to tell you is the truth, so help me God,” he began.
“Okay,” Sheehan said. “That’s a good start.”
“This was not my idea. The English kid came to me about nine months ago with the book and asked if I would pretend it was mine—you know, to help him out.”
“Help him out?” Scholl sneered.
“Right,” said Tenpenny.
Sheehan said, “So this would be around . . . September?”
“September/October, somewhere in there. I remember because PC had just started back up. But he wasn’t a student, he was just hanging around.”
“And you’re sure this was last fall?”
“Positive. Could I please have some coffee?”
“They’re out,” Scholl said, rather childishly.
“Look,” Tenpenny said, addressing Sheehan, “I did not steal this book—the Beresford kid did. If you just follow the numbers, it’ll all make sense.”
“Excellent,” Sheehan said. “That’s going to make my life a lot easier. So tell me how does you pretending the book was yours make sense?”
“Well . . . I liked the kid. You would too. He was fun, he was sweet, he said he needed my help. So I was like, Sure, I’ll put my name on the damn thing—with the understanding that once it took off we were going to make a big announcement.”
“And what would this big announcement be?” asked Scholl.
“That he was the writer, not me.”
“And why would anyone care?” Again from Scholl.
“Well . . . he’s young, and I’m not. So . . . so it would be fascinating that a guy that young could write something that good.”
“I’m sorry,” Sheehan interjected, “explain that again. It’s not like you were Updike and people bought the book thinking it was from a master, only to find out later that it was written by some brilliant unknown kid. You were unknown too, correct?”
“That’s what I said. It seemed silly. But he thought that if he went to New York and everyone saw what a hick he was, it’d queer the deal.”
“A British hick?” said Scholl.
“I mean, in the sense that he was rough around the edges, like one of those Johnny Rotten guys, only with dreadlocks. How do you send someone like that out on a book tour? The kid wasn’t exactly Tom Snyder material, you know?”
“You mean like you?” Scholl said, chuckling. “Let me tell you something: that would’ve made it way more interesting. Having a middle-age man write it—that’s not interesting. A twenty-year-old punk-rocker Bret Easton Ellis—that’s interesting.”
“Look,” Tenpenny replied softly, “I was just trying to help the kid out.”
“By getting paid for the work that he did?”
“Yeah, well . . . that was going to be worked out later.”
“And again, this was this past fall?” said Sheehan.
“Yes.”
“I only ask because your old neighbor,” Sheehan checked his notes, “a Miss Eleanor Morehouse, she told us that you were talking about this book the previous spring when she lived in your building.”
“That’s a lie.”
“She swore to it.”
“No, I mean it was a lie. I told her a lie.” Tenpenny leaned forward. “Look, I was just trying to get . . . in there, you know? And she was a little . . . precious. So I told her I wrote a book.” He squinted sheepishly.
Sheehan raised his chin. “And then a few months later, a boy you’d never met shows up at your door with an actual book that you took on as your own?”
“Yes.”
“Wow, what a nice coincidence. For you.”
“It wasn’t a coincidence. They’d met in Europe, on a gondola or something, and she told him I was a writer and that’s why he came. Trust me, guys, if you just follow the numbers, it’ll all make sense.”
“Actually,” Sheehan said, “we have been following the numbers. Like the number of times Eleanor Morehouse has been to Europe. Zero.”
“That’s im— Well . . . who said . . . ? Well . . . maybe she met him somewhere else?”