Derry, Northern Ireland

Derry, Northern Ireland
A book I'm working on is set in this town.

Tuesday, October 5, 2010


I went back to some parts of BC-3 that needed to be smoothed over and would up doing a lot more than I expected in the way of rewriting. But I'm happier with it. No pushing. I won't be done by Friday, there's no way. So I'll just keep at it till it's done.

Below is a segment I worked on -- Allen telling more of his side of the story.


Did you know it was barely two days after Bobby Carapisi's suicide that I received a call from my attorney, Wilson Lewis? At work. On my employer's phone. Something I had expressly forbidden him to do. But he said it was urgent and could not wait for me to return a message on my cell phone.

"When's your lunch break?" he asked.

"Noon," I replied, “but I usually bring something."

"There's a diner around the corner. Meet me there. We need to talk."

I agreed and returned the phone to its cradle. I noticed that Nora, my immediate supervisor, had been giving me a cold glare throughout the conversation. I just sighed. I work there for nearly fifteen year, and she still acts as if I’m trying to steal time from the company. It was pathetic.

The diner was really more of a long, dark coffee shop with tables inside and a patio in back. I'd never cared for the overly health-conscious food they served, nor had I liked the skinny righteous attitudes of the servers at the place, so after trying it once, I hadn’t returned. Until now. And found little different about it.

Wilson was seated in a single booth in a back corner. Its solitude afforded us some relative privacy. I sat across from him, an iced glass of passion fruit tea waiting from me. I ignored it and focused on Wilson. He looked less neat than usual. And tired. But it was the weariness in his eyes that truly frightened me.

"What's wrong?" I asked.

"I won't waste words," he said. "Carapisi's suicide made a mess of everything."

"I don't understand. Yesterday you told me his death meant you could probably get any charges against me thrown out of court."

"Usually. And I probably still could -- but the District Attorney's office is embarrassed by ‘revelations in the press’ showing how completely they bungled this case. The police department's also embarrassed. They want someone to blame."


He nodded. "Larsen never withdrew his complaint. They want you to turn yourself in, on it. You’ll be arraigned for kidnapping, rape in the first degree and assault. I promised you'd be there tomorrow morning, nine a-m."

"But I did nothing wrong."

"I can probably prove that. Larsen may be stronger than I thought, but I could drill enough holes in his character and version of events to cast doubt in the minds of a jury."

"It'd go to trial?!"

"You have to understand, Allen, LA's law enforcement community is getting reamed over Carapisi, not just by the locals but also the national press and public and more than a few opportunistic politicians. Bastards. Sunday they beat the shit out of that kid; Monday it’s like he’s their patron saint. They have to do something to prove they ARE doing their jobs. You are how they will show that. And that means a big trial with every trick they can think of. Including adding on charges concerning Tavi Mendell."


"A young man in the Fairfax District who disappeared then was found severely beaten, a few years ago. He couldn’t speak at the time, and his father shut down the investigation into him. He’s better, now, and has informed the detective who interviewed him that he wants to press charges against you. For rape. I'd say he will by this time, next week, because it’s close to the statute of limitations."

"I don’t know who you’re talking about."

"Doesn't matter. The publicity alone will condemn you, and a rape conviction means you register as a sex offender for the rest of your life -- and between him and Larsen, you stand too good a chance of being found guilty, especially in the current political climate. We need to think about a deal -- something to get you as little prison time as possible."


"I think I can get them to agree to just assault. That's three to five years, but you’d be out in eighteen months and it'd keep you from having the sex offender mark against you."

"But I didn't do anything -- ."

"Allen, you DID beat up Carapisi. You told me so. I know you didn't mean to, that things got carried away, but it still happened. And now that boy's dead and people want someone's head on a stick. It won't be a cop's. It won't be an assistant D-A's. And it sure as hell won't be Larsen's. The D-A told me flat out he wouldn't even think of following through with 'false report' charges against that guy, not now."

"Prison." I refused to accept that as my reality. It just could not be happening.

"Minimum security. I can all but guarantee you, you'll be out in a year and a half. Maybe probation for another three. Once that's done, get the hell out of California. Start over."

"I did that, once. Look where it got me."

"Sorry, but it's the best I can do."

"Can I think about it?"

"I need to know you're on board with this before we meet with them, tomorrow. And you have to show up. Because if you don’t, they’ll get a warrant for your arrest and walk you right through all the press cameras they can find."

"I'll inform you by eight a-m."


I handed my clients off to Nora and left for the day, then I spent the night listening to David Gahan growl about the pain and suffering in life. I’d formed a fixation on him my senior year of high school, when I’d purchased Depeche Mode’s “101” album, soon followed by a VHS of the documentary. There are few men in modern music whose voices can be called perfect. The lovely Steve Perry of “Journey” is one, with his soaring high tenor. John Fogerty is close, as is Bono. But it’s David Gahan’s near baritone that is the epitome, for me. And I used to dream at night of ways I could be introduced to him and prove he wanted me to make his existence complete. This was before I learned the vast majority of Englishmen are not circumcised, which cooled my ardor for a while but never completely doused it. And now here he was, offering me solace in my grief.

I’m going to say it, again, Eric -- your claims were lies. Plain and simple. Should anyone speak with you for any length of time, they would easily see how on the cusp of instability you are, prone to grandiose declarations about your innocence in our encounter -- but then you are an actor, aren’t you? Only a delusional fool like that would put himself forth as a virginal youth gaily wandering through the meadows of this world until meeting me, then ascribe to me the vilest of intentions against himself. In his egocentric mind, I would so overcome with lust and need to possess his beauty, I would enslave him via actions that more belong on a British bondage website than in a normal person’s world. And it was not only I who would be so enamored of him; it was also be two other men, all three of us willing to commit an absurd combination of felonies so as to service our most prurient needs. It is, on the face of it, preposterous -- thus rendering your statements obvious falsehoods to anyone capable of cognitive thought.

To begin with, consider the fact that rape is a felony. Now it is understandable that one man might get carried away and go much farther than his partner wishes, or even might force himself on someone out of drunkenness, need or anger on the spur of the moment. Such actions have been taken in the past against both women and men and I offer no justification for them because there is none. “No” means no and if you do not stop when told to stop, you are the only person responsible for your lack of control and judgment.

Besides, I could never force another man to have sex with me because I, myself, was a victim of coerced sexual contact with another man. Two men, to be exact, so I know the horrors of rape.

I do.

There's a lot more to this section...and it's finally right...but that's enough for now. I'm beat.

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