“She never met a Charlie Beresford, or anyone fitting his description.”
Tenpenny shifted in his seat. “Well . . . did you check with the Y—they’ll know him, that’s where he stayed.”
“No one fitting that description has been there since . . . well, ever.”
Tenpenny’s lawyer finally offered up a couple questions: “What about the Rusty Scupper—he worked there . . . ?”
“Nope.”
The lawyer sighed. “Did you check with Brown admissions?”
“He never applied.”
Roger started feeling a darkness rise up inside him. “His airline ticket?” he asked.
“Unused.”
Even in this state, Tenpenny couldn’t help but wonder if the ticket was refundable. Then: “Look, maybe he gave Ellie a fake . . . or maybe she just has a shitty memory. I’m telling you, they met. Otherwise, he couldn’t have known that I’d told her I was a writer.”
“We checked her passport—she’s never been to Europe.”
Dizzy now, Tenpenny rifled through his notes, searching for something they’d overlooked. Then he saw it. “What about the envelope?”
“What envelope?”
“The envelope that the original manuscript was mailed to Knopf in—I never touched it. Check that envelope for fingerprints and that’s how you’ll find the kid!”
“Oh, we did,” said Sheehan.
“And?”
“We found quite a few fingerprints on it. Most of them yours.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Not according to Quantico, it isn’t.”
“Now you are lying,” Tenpenny said, moving toward full panic. “That’s not possible, I never touched that thing. You are the liar!” He turned to his suddenly bored-looking lawyer. “They’re trying to frame me. I made mistakes, but I wasn’t the one who sent that book in!”
Scholl stood. “Cry me a fucking river, Roger. Even if you were set up—which you weren’t—why would we care? You can’t unmake a cake.”
“Can’t unmake a . . . ? What the hell are you talking about?”
“It doesn’t matter how it came to be—you’re the one who came to my office, you’re the one who insisted the book not be published in Europe, you’re the one whose name was on the contracts, and you’re the one who cashed the paychecks.”
“Right, and I admit that. But don’t you care about the truth?”
“Truth? You’re talking to me about truth?” Scholl slapped his thigh theatrically. “Oh, that is rich.”
“Fuck you!” Tenpenny screamed. “You do realize that this wouldn’t have happened if you just did your damn job—it’s called vetting, dummy.”
“You motherless cunt!” Scholl sprung toward Tenpenny, but Sheehan quickly wrapped him up.
“How was I supposed to know about some old German book?” Tenpenny said from where he’d retreated to across the room. “I’m not an editor, I’m a . . .”
“You’re a what?” When Tenpenny didn’t respond, Scholl said, “You’re an arrogant piece of shit.” He grabbed his briefcase and headed to the door. “And by the way, the Saturday night before Easter Sunday is not a nothing date. It’s the day that Jesus descended into hell before His resurrection.” Scholl pushed out a smile. “And now that day is here for you.”
After the door slammed and the echo had died, Tenpenny turned to Sheehan. “Did he just call me Jesus?”
*
There’s a reason that convicts find religion, besides the obvious winning-over-the-parole-board motive. After the scathing news stories, the daily lashings by judge and prosecutors, and an aggressive abandonment by everyone close to him, Tenpenny was finally humbled, and this humility brought him closer to what he imagined could only be “God.” This, however, did not happen overnight. His first weeks in prison were angry and bitter, as he loudly proclaimed his innocence over a hellish playground of smirks and angry stares. This was an American tragedy, he said. He’d been set up and the authorities didn’t care. The real villain was running happily free somewhere and no one—absolutely no one—was trying to right this wrong.