Twaits shuts his mouth and hands the report back to Placide. While Placide squints at it, Jack leans close and tries to read over his shoulder. He sees the wordschandelierandfatalandflawed.
At one point, Placide looks up at Ritchie and says, “I thought you were going to make us look good.”
“I’m a journalist, not a novelist,” says Ritchie. “Every word in this report is true.”
Placide tosses the papers into the middle of the table. “Well, if that’s the case, then what, precisely, are we doing here?”
“Calm down,” Ritchie says. “I think you will find that this report satisfies both our needs.”
“Meaning?”
“I document all the facts—the existence of the chandelier, the order to raise it into the flyspace, and the subsequent order to bring it back down. But I have taken a page from Skelton’s book and do not document who did what.”
Jack can’t believe what he’s hearing, but Placide leans forward in his chair and says, “Go on.”
“Well, take, for instance, Green’s order to raise the chandelier,” says Ritchie, gathering up the papers and shuffling through them until he finds the line he’s looking for. “I say that the stagehand who raised the chandelier heard a voice, but that it reached him without his seeing the person.”
“It was Green’s voice,” says Jack. He’s already told Ritchie that.
“That may be, but did youseehim?”
Is Ritchie really giving him a hard time, after everything he told him?
“Well, did you?” Ritchie asks again.
“Of course I saw him.”
“At the exact moment he told you to raise the chandelier?”
Who’s to say? “Maybe I was looking up at the chandelier, but I knew he was behind me.”
“Ah, you see, I take this all into account,” Ritchie says as he adjusts his spectacles and begins to read directly from the document. #8220;?‘He does not pretend positively to recognize him.’?”
“What does that even mean? I do not ‘pretend positively to recognize him’? I don’t have to pretend anything. I actually recognized him.”
Placide scowls at Jack. “Mr. Gibson, you are not helping matters.”
Jack is completely exasperated. It feels as if the lies will never end.
“What about Roy?” asks Placide.
“I make a point not to use his name. I just call him a carpenter. The same goes for Mr. Perry.”
Anderson asks, “Is my name in there?”
“Yes,” says Ritchie, but he rushes to reassure him. “I give you the credit for knowing the lamp had a problem and for attempting to inform the crew.” Jack watches Anderson’s chest grow as big as a barrel and thinks he might need to leave the room.
There is more shuffling of papers as the others demand to know their contributions to this alternate version of events.
Is it really this easy? West forfeits the land, the committee writes up this report, and they all go on their way? No fines, no jail time, no gallows, no nothing? At this point, Jack might even be invited to Charleston. Might get to play the role of Feste after all. He hates that there’s a tiny part of him that thrills at the prospect.
“What about Mr. Gibson here?” says Anderson. “Surely, his name is all over that document?”
“Go to hell,” says Jack.
Ritchie gives Jack a sympathetic smile. “I make reference to a stagehand, but Mr. Gibson can rest assured that his name does not appear in the report.”
Jack has to do something to squash the part of him that wants—no, needs—the acceptance of Anderson and the other actors. These men don’t have consciences, and if he allows this charade to continue, he won’t have one, either.
