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This is the final scene of Act One.  For Scene One and Scene Two, see April 19 and 21.


                                                  American Right

                                                        Act One
                                                    Scene Three　

        Interrogation Room Number Two: same general set-up, except the table is against the back wall with chairs at either end, S.R. and S.L. Several minutes later. A security camera is in the U.R. corner of the room. There is no "mirror," ashtray or tape recorder, but there is a small Igloo cooler–only large enough for about a six-pack–sitting beside SCOTT’s chair. VINCE and SCOTT sit opposite each other, backs against the wall facing front. VINCE downs the last of his Sprite and sets the empty can down. SCOTT picks up the Igloo, sets it on the table. During the following exchange, it’s apparent that SCOTT cares more about political than criminal fact-finding.

Vince: Why are you asking me that? I answer your question and you ask another that has nothing to do with why I’m here. What are you trying do?

Scott: Nothing. Just shootin’ the shit ‘til, uh, Detective Zulinski gets back in here. This is all off the record stuff. I’m pickin’ your brain, ‘sall.

Vince: You’ve got the wrong guy. I have nothing to do with Paul’s disappearance. How much longer am I going to have to stay here?

Scott: I don’t know. We’re talkin’ to people and just tryin’ to figure this out. This is a small department in a small town and, frankly, Vince, we don’t deal with this kind of stuff very often. You know what I’m sayin’?

Vince: Sounds like you’re saying you’re incompetent–but I could be wrong.

(VINCE glances at his watch, silently acquiescing.)

Scott: So, is that what you’re sayin’? It’s tough teachin’ there?

Vince: (resigned to the topic): No. I’m used to it. At a small college like Bailey it’s not so bad. But at your elite colleges it’s pretty one-sided. It’s worse for the students than for us professors.

Scott: Hm. What way?

Vince: Bias, for one. Bias stunts a student’s academic growth. Against a professor, though, it just means he teaches differently. He has less peer-friendships. Big deal.

Scott: I know I’m just a cop. But I went to college, and I don’t remember havin’ ...biased professors.

Vince: Hard to remember what you never noticed.

Scott: (uncomfortable with his own argument): I, uh, think I would’ve noticed.

Vince: If you agree with your professor, how can you see his bias? (SCOTT thinks, then shrugs.) To a kid–eighteen, nineteen–what his professor tells him is usually taken from a different perspective. Kid legitimizes the professor’s take on things. (In his element, lecturing.) Because, you see, here’s this guy with a ponytail, wearing horned-rimmed glasses, a perpetual five-o’clock shadow and a tweed jacket. To a kid, he’s smart, he’s someone you take seriously. He’s a professor. Right out of the gate, what he is tells a kid he better take what the guy says seriously. Why? Because he’s got power–sometimes fueled by tenure. And he can put the brakes on a kid’s academic progress with one bad grade.

Scott: Can’t you do that, too? You make it sound pretty...insidious.

Vince: It’s reality. The fantasy is that every professor understands his job. The reality is many don’t. I teach Political Science, so I get to talk about politics. But I steer clear of talking about Mozart. Even if I have an opinion about his music.

Scott: (a bit condescending): That’s encouraging.

Vince: (stands and crosses away towards door; begins to work himself into a lecture): I refuse to hijack a kid’s ability to think for himself. Over winning him to my side of thinking. It’s fairly obvious the left has taken over our colleges and universities, and they don’t quite see it that way. (Points to the security camera.) Is that real? It doesn’t look real; it looks fake. (A beat.) Anyway, I’m not saying that a professor should be fired for speaking his opinions–even if they’re dead wrong–but it should only be the half of it. The other half is how his students respond–openly, without expurgation or fear of being told he’s a–. My job is to teach a kid how to think, not what to think.

Scott: (a bit challenging): But how do you know the left has taken over? Sit down.

Vince: Drive through any faculty parking lot and what do you see?

Scott: Cars. Sit.

Vince: You just see cars. Well, I see Volvos. Saabs. Priuses.

Scott: Sit down, professor. (SCOTT stands.)

Vince: And just read the bumper stickers. (VINCE moves away from the door but doesn’t sit.) Seventy-two percent of professors identify themselves as "liberal." At Harvard and Yale, it’s 87. Only 15 percent "conservative."

Scott: That just proves liberals are smarter than conservatives. You make me nervous, sit down. (Glances up at camera, then moves towards VINCE.)

Vince: (moving away): You know, since the 60s, activists–liberal activists, like Paul–have been empowered by merely becoming "educators." It’s activism without risk–

Scott: Are you tryin’ to provoke me?

Vince: But it’s lowered the standards of education.

Scott: I’m not tellin’ you again: sit down!

(SCOTT moves quickly behind VINCE, who dodges away and sits back down. SCOTT looks down at him for a moment, then goes and sits in the other chair.)

Vince: The door’s locked. Where do you think I’m going?

Scott: I don’t know and I don’t care. Just stay put. (Pause.) Okay. I’m learnin’ somethin’ here. So how do you propose to fix it?

Vince: Fix what?

Scott: These, these, so-called lower standards of education?

Vince: For a start? Abandon the tenure system.

Scott: Wouldn’t that, you know–?

Vince: Repress academic freedom?

Scott: Yeah.

Vince: (standing again and moving to the door): Tenure was a good idea back when the industrial giants of the early 20^th Century–like the Rockefellers–

Scott: (simultaneous with "like the Rockefellers"): Why do you insist on getting up?

Vince: –were funding our universities. It was the only way to protect academic freedom from the wealthy American right. But that system of funding higher education is long gone. (SCOTT stands and quickly herds VINCE away from the door, but VINCE keeps talking, moving to the opposite end of the room.) How’d you like to have your kidney removed by a surgeon with tenure? How’d you like to fly the friendly skies with a crew with tenure? How’d you like to work alongside a detective with tenure? (SCOTT stops his pursuit and seems to take this in, nods, reluctantly getting his point.)

Scott: I kind of understand the place you’re in. Most cops I work with are pretty conservative. I think I’m one of the few progressives around here.

Vince: Ah, you’re a liberal. (He crosses and sits.)

Scott: Absolutely not. I’m progressive.

Vince: Oh, progressive.

Scott: There’s a difference.

Vince: Barely.

Scott: Well, I’m a progressive.

Vince: So what’s the difference?

Scott: I know the difference...but I can’t explain it.

Vince: The distinction is between values and action. If you think every American should have health insurance, you’re a liberal; if you’re trying to make universal health care happen, you’re a progressive.  (SCOTT is impressed with his explanation. He sits.)

Scott: (rhetorically): You know who I am, don’t you. (VINCE feins ignorance.) I mean...outside of here.

Vince: (not certain he should get into this): I think I do.

Scott: (almost as if they have a reason for camaraderie): And I know who you are, too.

Vince: (sing-song): You’re in-tri-guing me.

Scott: Haven’t announced yet. Still workin’ with my campaign manager on a few things.

Vince: Ah. Like the difference between liberal and progressive.

Scott: You know, Bailey’s never had a city council member with law enforcement experience.

Vince: Ah. Is that one of the, uh, things you and your campaign manager are working on?

Scott: (a tad defensive): What do you mean by that?

Vince: Strategically placing your candidacy in a unique position, right?

Scott: (after a beat): Huh-uh. You’re not gettin’ me to–no, no, you’re very, uh–

Vince: Sounds like a good idea to me.

Scott: (trying to figure out if he’s being sincere): You think so?

Vince: Positioning yourself to show your difference. That’s important. Yes.

Scott: You know, I, uh, know you’ve been talkin’–advisin’ my opponent.

Vince: It’s not a big secret.

Scott: Well, he’s not my opponent–yet.

Vince: Well, no. You haven’t announced yet.

Scott: Now, you don’t have to answer this...I’m just goin’ to throw it out...you can answer if you want. (Beat.) Is, uh, Randall...ready for this fight–this election?

Vince: In what way?

Scott: Just, you know, does he have the support–the money–to go all the way?

Vince: (smiling): Will you believe my answer?

Scott: I’ll certainly try.

(VINCE thinks about his answer for several seconds, then

Vince: I don’t know.

(SCOTT stares back, searching for truth, but seems to conclude that VINCE is lying. Long pause. He looks at his watch.)

 Scott: So. What’s your answer?

Vince: I said, "I don’t know."

Scott: Not that. My original question. (VINCE is confused.) You and Dr. Lebeau.

Vince: (laughing): Oh. Yeah. Almost forgot why I was here for a minute. (Pause.) Yes. Dr. Lebeau and I have had some differences of opinion. And some confrontations.

Scott: (takes out his note pad from his inside coat pocket): Confrontations. Over what? (VINCE begins to speak, but stops when SCOTT appears ready to write it down. VINCE sits back with a cautious thoughtfulness.) What were you goin’ to say?

Vince: Uh. I’m, uh, thinking this might be one of those answers that, if an attorney were present, he’d advise me not to give it.

Scott: (pause): Do you want an attorney? We can stop right now. (Pause; puts note pad back in pocket.) You know, with this election comin’ up, both sides are going to be investigatin’ each other. And not just the candidates. Me and Jones and anyone else who decides to run should probably take a look at the candidates’ advisors, and–

Vince: (irked): So in the last three minutes you’ve decided to run.

Scott: (competitiveness): That worry you a little bit?

Vince: You’re telling me that you’re going to investigate Jones and me? Is that a threat, Detective Scott? What am I? Your–what?–political prisoner?

Scott: Don’t be silly. Isn’t that the way it’s done in politics?

Vince: (beginning to lose his cool): Let’s see if I have this right. You arrest me. For something I didn’t do. Then, under some pretext of interrogation, you hold me here until I tell you how to beat my candidate?

Scott: You tell me. You’re the expert here.

(VINCE suddenly sees his situation in a whole new light. He sees SCOTT’s malevolence and the ambition driving it. Calculating his next move, VINCE struggles to calm down.)

Vince: (thoughtful): It, um, depends on the candidate. A weak candidate investigates his opponent. Has to find the ingredients. To mix his mud.

Scott: To sling. That "mud-slinging" tactic, yeah.

Vince: The weak candidates invariably believe that slinging mud weakens the stronger opponent.

Scott: You’re sayin’ I’m weak?

Vince: I’m saying it gives you motive.

Scott: To do what?

Vince: To do unthinkable things.

Scott: (pause; leans forward aggressively): Then I have to ask: was Dr. Lebeau a strong opponent in these confrontations? Strong enough to make you do unthinkable things?

(Long pause as VINCE considers his options. SCOTT rises and moves about over the next exchange.)

Vince: Okay.  A conservative student club on campus wanted to invite a controversial Republican running for state office to speak. When it came up in a faculty meeting, my colleague Paul Lebeau argued that he was too controversial–which was probably true. But then Paul had to say that conservatives..."lower higher education." So I guess I’m Jed Clampett working in his Beverly Hills. (Pause.) Does that give me motive?

Scott: (again, distracted): For what? (VINCE doesn’t answer.) Would you like another soda?

Vince: No. Thanks. I don’t think you can hold me like this. I’ve been cooperative–

(SCOTT opens the Igloo, takes out a soda.)

Scott: Nice and cold. You sure? (VINCE shakes his head, impatiently. SCOTT pops open the soda and takes a drink.)

Vince: It’s time for me to go.

Scott: (ignoring what he said): You hit the drivin’ range a lot. You ever actually play?

Vince: This is...this is–what? This doesn’t seem like interrogation. Are we just–?

Scott: We’re just talkin’.

Vince: Is this part of your political investigation?

Scott: What difference does it make? We’re killin’ time.

Vince: Because I got other things I’d rather be doing–that I should be doing.

Scott: Hm.

Vince: And shouldn’t you be out looking for Paul? I mean, if he’s missing, you’re wasting a lot of–

Scott: You give some lecture about golf in your class, don’t you?

Vince: (surprised he knows about this): Yes.

Scott: You don’t teach golf, though, do you? Or coach golf? You’re not–

Vince: (starting to see where this is going; agitated): I was making a philosophical point–with a political–. (A thoughtful beat.) I get what you’re saying, but it’s not the same thing.

Scott: (after a pause; trying to calm the situation): I play the horses. My one unfortunate vice. Didn’t you tell your students that golf is your vice? (VINCE doesn’t answer.) Hey. I’m just jazzin’ you around. I know it was just an example. You’ve got me all wrong. (Glances at his watch.) You’ll be outa here in a few minutes. I promise.

Vince: (surrendering to his apparent attempt to "personalize" their conversation): Yes. Golf was a passion, a vice I had to leave. I was addicted to being humbled. (SCOTT chuckles.) I played golf in college–competitively. Golf had a way of making me look at myself–strengths, weaknesses–and driving me to excellence, even when I knew that I’m playing a game that really can’t be mastered. Occasionally, I still go out and play a round. But I don’t play to compete anymore.

Scott: Why?

Vince: Well...mainly–you won’t like this–the golf handicap system doesn’t...it doesn’t fit well with my conservative sensibilities.

Scott: (incredulous): A golf handicap is just to make a game more fair–so an inexperienced guy like me can compete with a more experienced player. And what’s a handicap got to do with bein’ a conservative? Is everything political to you?

(VINCE smiles and shrugs.)

Vince: None of this has anything to do with Paul, does it? What–? What’re we doing here, Detective Scott?

Scott: (stands and moves about room): Hey, I got the political science professor of Bailey in my interrogation room. I’d be dumb not to take advantage of it. (VINCE begins to comment.) Don’t say it.

Vince: Why not just take my class? Or, better yet, offer me more money than Jones and hire me as your political advisor.

Scott: I don’t think you have it in you to switch sides.

(SCOTT just sits back, folds his arms and waits for him.)

Vince: (continued; decisively): Okay. After this, I’m going. (SCOTT gives a non-committal nod.) "What’s a golf handicap got to do with being a conservative." Good question. Okay, golf handicaps. Okay, well...it’s hard for me to accept that it’s really about balancing experience. The attempt to create this "level playing field" is a distraction from reality, because it’s designed only for the one guy: the so-called underdog. Look–say you play for a college or you play in a men’s club every month. You got a handicap based on your historical scoring in previous games, right? The better you play, the less you need to take off strokes, so the lower your handicap. So let’s say you practice for only a few minutes a couple times a week–putting, maybe hit a bucket–so you have, say, an 18 handicap. Now, your buddy goes out and plays more, works on his game, spends hours on the practice greens and traps. He hits hundreds of balls on the driving range. Not only that, he actually may have some God-given talent for the game. His talent and hard work means he plays better than you do, so his handicap is only 5. Now, let’s say you go play at the club and you both have a good day. He still beats you by 12 strokes. But because of your 13-stroke difference in handicap–you have 18; he has five–you win the trophy by one stroke. And not because you earned it. So much for making things fairer, right?

Scott: (passionate; standing over him): Why do you right-wingers have a problem with makin’ things fair? A kid from a ghetto has gotta be given the same chance as a boy from Beverly Hills, right?

Vince: Are we still talking about golf? I’m not talking about opportunities. Go ahead: give a talented, hard-working kid from East L.A. the chance to attend a good college. But that’s as far as it should go. Opportunity.

Scott: (showing a spark of anger): What if I only gave you the opportunity to keep yourself out of jail? Huh? Is that as far as it should go?

Vince: (cautious): My answer depends on what you mean by "opportunity."

Scott: Exactly. Does "opportunity" mean you get a trial and a jury of your peers? Or do I mean, oh, leaving the jail door open? Do I mean taking a bribe? Do I mean having compassion, giving you a break? Or is "opportunity" treating everybody the same? Everybody gets treated fairly.

Vince: (standing, confronting): This is crazy! You arrest me and accuse me of who knows what, and you want to interrogate me over my political philosophy!?

Scott: Sit down.

Vince: You want my political expertise, here it is: fairness is subjective. Write that down in your little note pad! Here, write this, too! Any "level playing field" concept beyond allowing for opportunity is a selective concept that creates fairness, but leads to mediocrity. Come on! Write it down!

Scott: (smug): This is why Jones can’t win. I’m just a cop, but who says we all have to strive–is that the right word?–for anything more than what we need? Why can’t we strive for contentment!

Vince: Contentment! Is that what you’re going to tell the good people of Bailey? Hey, everybody, I want you all to be content! Listen, genius, our constitution gives us the right to pursue happiness–

Scott: Don’t be disrespectful.

Vince: Happiness!

Scott: (standing nose to nose with him): Careful.

Vince: But you’re satisfied with contentment? Mediocrity brings contentment, but excellence generally makes me happy! If I want excellence, I should expect to use my talents, improve on them with hard work.

Scott: (simultaneous with "If I want excellence..."): There’s no way you and Jones can beat me.

Vince: (not listening; on a tirade): A handout only conditions me to expect to benefit from someone else’s work! The real problem is that liberals–excuse me, progressives–are happiest when they accomplish nothing except humbling those who are pursuing happiness. It was a pleasure. Good night.

(VINCE bangs on the door.)

 Scott: What do you think you’re doing!?

Vince: Unlock it.

(SCOTT unlocks the door.)

Scott: Now sit down. (VINCE looks at the open door.) Go ahead, try to walk out.

Vince: I’m leaving! Or charge me!

Scott: (inciting an admission): With what?

Vince: Exactly.

Scott: (long pause): All right. We got the ring. (This gets VINCE’s attention. SCOTT moves back towards the table.) That’s why you’re here. We got the ring. I see you know whose ring I’m talking about, so that sort of advances my–

Vince: Where did you find it?

Scott: Why don’t you tell me where you think I found it?

Vince: If I knew that, I wouldn’t ask you! Where did you find it?

Scott: (with calculation): On a finger.

Vince: (shaken by this): I...did you say–? What do you mean? Whose–whose finger? (SCOTT hesitates, cautious–just long enough for VINCE to come to an emotional conclusion.) You’re lying. What’re you trying to do here? We’ve had a–we’ve had a–long talk–about politics, and now you’re telling me–

Scott: Your wife’s ring.

Vince: (sitting; very agitated): Is this, is this one of those cop things? Some technique to get me to admit to something? Well, it won’t work–for a simple reason! I haven’t done anything! Except admit I’m a conservative! (Pause.) How do you know? How do you know it’s hers?

Scott: Don’t you know how I know?

Vince: Tell me how you know!

Scott: "Natalie."

Vince: That was her name–so what?

Scott: "For Vince, Always, Natalie." Engraved right on it.

(VINCE is visibly grieved. And SCOTT is unable to look him in the eye for a moment, as if he’s ashamed of something.)

Vince: (quietly): It disappeared after the accident. Who had it?

Scott: Not sure yet.

Vince: You said you found it on someone’s finger–how can you not know who? (SCOTT opens the Igloo, rummages through ice, and takes out a glass test tube.) I have a right to know who stole my wife’s wedding ring! If you have it, show it to me!

(SCOTT holds up test tube–which holds a burned human pinky finger–and he looks away. At first, VINCE doesn’t seem to know what he’s looking at. But as he peers closely at the tube, he reacts by sitting back suddenly, as if struck in the face.)

 Scott: (pause): It’s a pinky finger. A right pinky finger.

Vince: Paul’s?

Scott : I thought you didn’t know.

Vince: Is it?

Scott: We don’t yet. Waiting for confirmation.

Vince: Like what? The rest of him? (Beat.) Where’s the ring?

Scott: We have it.

Vince: And the ring was–

Scott: I took it off this finger.

Vince: (pause): I might be able to help you. If I knew where you found...that.

Scott: (raising the tube to look at the finger inside; then at VINCE, a trace of sympathy): Look. We’ve been goin’ over your whole story for a while now, and you’re tellin’ me about doin’ your taxes and gradin’ papers and hittin’ golf balls. We’ve gone over this a few times, and I’ve got a good idea of your schedule–at least for the last three days–and I haven’t heard you contradict yourself, so I’m inclined to believe that you’re tellin’ the truth.

Vince: (underwhelmed): Hallelujah.

Scott: But there’s some questions I gotta ask you.

Vince: Criminal? Or political?

(The door opens. ANGELA peers in.)

Angela: Can I talk to you?

Scott: (to VINCE): Excuse me.

(SCOTT puts the tube back in the Igloo and exits with it. VINCE goes quickly to the door, puts his ear to it. From his expression, we see that he is struggling to hear what they are saying. Suddenly the door opens, banging into his head. He backs away, as ANGELA enters with her tape recorder. She looks at him, knowingly, as he stands before her. She closes the door.)

Angela: You were listening. (Not seriously): Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s impolite to eavesdrop?

Vince: (still upset about finger): Didn’t anyone ever teach you it’s impolite to detain innocent people?

(She smiles. The impatience with his irony she demonstrated before seems now to be reduced to acceptance. She motions for him to sit. He remains standing. She sits, placing the tape recorder in the middle of the table.)

Angela: Please.

Vince: Turn it on, I get a lawyer.

Angela: I just want you to finish what you started.

Vince: I mean it–

Angela: Hold on. (She pushes the "play" button. We hear his voice from before.)

Vince: (his voice on tape): "So these two guys are working the graveyard shift at a mortuary, preparing a cadaver for burial, and they turn it over to find a cork in its butt. One guy pulls it out and suddenly they hear–(singing) ‘Way down upon the Swanee River–‘ And, stunned, they quickly put the cork back in its butt. They pull it out again. (Singing) ‘Way down upon the Swanee River–‘ and they put it back again. They decide they need some advice on what to do about this, so they call the funeral director. The funeral director says, ‘It’s three in the morning; what’s the matter?’ The guy answers, ‘We got something weird going on here, and we need your help.’ The funeral director warns them that this better be important, gets dressed, and drives all the way into town to the mortuary. When he comes into the cadaver preparation room, the one guy says, ‘Watch this,’ and he pulls the cork out of the cadaver’s butt. And once again: (singing) ‘Way down upon the Swanee River....’ And the funeral director turns to them, grimacing, and says–

Vince: (simultaneous with the tape recorder): "You mean to tell me, you woke me out of a deep sleep [tape ends] at three in the morning, to get me to drive all the way down to hear some asshole sing?"

(ANGELA can’t keep from laughing–but catches herself after a few seconds, turns off the tape recorder and gains professional control of herself. VINCE is lost in another moment of grief and doesn’t pay her any attention.)

Angela: Very funny. Crude. But funny. (Sight pause.) What made you think of that joke?

Vince: I don’t know. It’s a joke.

Angela: What made you think of a mortuary?

Vince: I wasn’t thinking of a mortuary. Do you suspect, detective, there’s some...subliminal psychotic reason linked to Paul’s–you know, you’re assuming he’s dead, but–. Look, where’d you find the finger?

Angela: (surprised): How did you–? Did he...tell you?

Vince: No. Of course not. (Mock-conspiratorially; whispering.) I read his mind.

Angela: He actually brought it in here, didn’t he? It was in the–.

(Frustrated, she gets up and promptly exits the room, closing the door behind her. VINCE waits for several seconds, before going to the door and listening. He doesn’t hear anything. He opens the door slightly, looks out and sees no one. He notices that she left the tape recorder behind. He picks it up and pushes the "play" button. We hear ANGELA’s VOICE on the recorder):

Angela’s Voice: All right, today’s April 16. The time is ten-forty p.m. I’m speaking with Mina Martinelli. (VINCE’s interest is aroused; he sits.) Mina, you understand that I’m recording this interview and I have your permission to do so, is that correct? Okay, you can’t nod–it won’t record. You have to–

Mina’s Voice: Uh-huh. Yes.

Angela’s Voice: When did you see Dr. Lebeau last?

Mina’s Voice: (as if reciting it from memory): I saw Dr. Lebeau this morning at Birdies where I work.

Angela’s Voice: When did he leave?

Mina’s Voice: About quarter after nine. Approximately.

Angela’s Voice: Did he leave with anyone?

Mina’s Voice: No.

Angela’s Voice: Did you see him after he left the restaurant?

Mina’s Voice: I saw him by the driving range. Through the window.

Angela’s Voice: Where’s the restaurant where you work?

Mina’s Voice: It’s in the clubhouse at the Bailey Municipal Golf Course.

Angela’s Voice: And what was he doing at the driving range?

Mina’s Voice: I think he was talking to Vince–Dr. Anders.

Angela’s Voice: You think? Or you know?

Mina’s Voice: I, uh, know. It was him. They were talking.

Angela’s Voice: Thank you.

(VINCE hears something outside the door. VINCE quickly pushes the "stop" button. candy bar. SCOTT enters and immediately notices the tape recorder. SCOTT holds up a finger as if to tell him he’ll be right with him, opens the door and calls out):

Scott: Angela! Come back to two, please! (He waits, holding the door open, glancing in at VINCE, until she shows up at the door. He hands the tape recorder to her. To ANGELA): You forget something? (She looks at it carefully, then at VINCE, and back to SCOTT.) What?

Angela: He listened to it.

Scott: (to VINCE): Did you? (VINCE shrugs and nods "yes."  SCOTT gives ANGELA a knowing look.) How could you–?

Angela: Don’t start in on me! You told him about the ring!

Scott: That was my decision to make!

Angela: You told me not to tell him and then you go and do it yourself!

Scott: Like I said–

Angela: Either this is my case or it isn’t–which is it?

Scott: It’s yours–to a point. You got–. (He stops; looks in on VINCE, who’s staring at him): What’re you doin’?

Vince: She’s lying.

Scott: (crossing to him): You callin’ Detective Zulinski a liar?

Vince: I’m talking about–

Scott: (gruffly pushing him face-first into the wall): Look at the wall! (VINCE turns back, defiantly.) I said– (he grabs VINCE, slings him around and pushes his face to the wall)–look at the wall!

(VINCE spins around, confused at this sudden violence, and faces him, unwilling to surrender.)

Vince: The girl on the tape!

(SCOTT grabs him by the shirt, pulls back his arm to punch VINCE in the face, when ANGELA pushes SCOTT away, screaming):

Angela: Dad! Stop!

(VINCE looks to ANGELA. SCOTT, surprised at himself, walks away to the other end of the room.)

Angela: (crossing to SCOTT; appalled at his behavior): What are you doing? (SCOTT looks at VINCE.) Dad. You can’t...you can’t do that. (SCOTT looks away.) I think you should leave. Get some rest.

Scott: I don’t need any rest.

Angela: Dad–

Scott: Detective!

Angela: (a slight pause): I’ll talk to him. Take room one for me.

Vince: I think she’s doing a fabulous job.

Scott: Shut up.

Vince: She’d make a dad proud. I was just–

Angela: (quietly): Vince. (Realizing VINCE got the best of him, SCOTT exits.) Sit down, please. (He does. She remains standing.) What did you hear on the tape?

Vince: Enough.

Angela: What did you hear!

Vince: Wow. Like father, like daughter.

Angela: Don’t screw with me right now.

Vince: Later, maybe? (She glares back.) I’m sorry.

Angela: (taking deep breath, nods in acceptance): Okay.

Vince: (after a pause): That stupid comment was from the, uh...fantasy Vince.

Angela: What?

Vince: The fantasy. This.

Angela: This?

Vince: Here. This whole thing. Being accused of killing Paul. It’s a fantasy. A fantasy I’ve had...over and over again.

Angela: Over and over–?

Vince: I kill him. I bury him, I get caught. I get brought to a room just like this one. And I get to see how long I can keep you–

Angela: Wait, wait–

Vince: –trying to figure out how you can get me to admit it, when I know I never will.

Angela: Wait–

Vince: And in my fantasy, I’m smarter, wittier, blessed with the conservative’s natural endowment for unemotional conflict–

Angela: You’re not saying–wait–are you admitting that you–?

Vince: You independents don’t get it, do you? You sit there on the fence, indecisive, waiting for the wind to blow something your way, something you think might be the truth, and then you tumble naively on the side opposite the strongest gust of logic!

Angela: Did you, did you kill him?

Vince: (a beat): Of course.

Angela: You killed Dr. Lebeau?

Vince: I just said I did.

Angela: (reaching for the tape recorder): I want you to say it again. (VINCE laughs.) I know you want to do the right thing; you’re a decent man. Why are you laughing?

Vince: I beat him to death. (She turns on the tape recorder.) In my fantasy, I took a big encyclopedia and beat him to death with it!

Angela: In your fantasy–but how’d you really do it? Where’d you put his body?

(Long pause.)

Vince: Dear Angela–

Angela: Detective–

Vince: Detective Zulinski...it’s only a fantasy.

Angela: Tell me the truth.

Vince: The truth? The truth is I’m dumbfounded that they’d allow a father and daughter to work this closely together as detectives, knowing that they’d both likely fall into their historical roles and–

Angela: (turning off tape recorder): You don’t know anything about our–. (A beat.) He’s not a good cop–he’s a great cop.

Vince: He’s also your hero.

(She acknowledges the truth of that statement by her silence.)

Angela: (lost in her own thoughts): I’ve, uh, never seen him get physical like that with a....(Pause.) You don’t like Dr. Lebeau, do you?

Vince: Aside from him being condescending...disparaging...petty, pontifical...self-important, unethical and...lacking a conscience–he’s not a bad guy.

Angela: What did he do to you?

Vince: I’m setting myself up, aren’t I?

Angela: Not at all.

(Pause.)

Vince: I want to go home. So here it is. There were some students...who recorded my classes...then gave him their tapes.

Angela: What was on the tapes?

Vince: Unembellished definitions of conservatism.

Angela: That’s all?

Vince: That’s all. Without the fantasy. Without the sardonic and belittling barbs usually associated with teaching it. Paul’s little hobby is to analyze them, find things I’ve said that don’t fit into his big toy box of Truth. And then he takes them to the Trustees.

Angela: You haven’t answered my question. What did he do to you?

Vince: Actually, it’s none of your business. (ANGELA crosses to him and waits for an answer.) Let’s just say he’s always wanted what I had.

Angela: What did you have that he wanted?

Vince: And when he couldn’t get it using his acting skills–pretending to be someone he wasn’t–he used activism. And when his activism backfired, he tried being my friend. But he betrayed me one too many times.

Angela: (firmly): What did you have that he wanted? (Pause. VINCE won’t answer her. She puts her hand on the tape recorder.) You heard what Mina said, right?

Vince: Yes.

Angela: What do you think about what she said?

Vince: Not much.

Angela: But it’s true?

Vince: No.

Angela: Why would she make that up? About seeing you talking to Dr. Lebeau on the driving range.

Vince: Because she’s Pinocchio!

Angela: What?

Vince: And that’s what Pinocchio does! He lies!

Angela: Why–what do mean–?

Vince: She’s a liar! She lies all the time. About everything. So I named her Pinocchio.

Angela: Is she the student at Starbucks–?

Vince: Last year, she told me she had been Valedictorian of her high school class. She claimed her father ran for city council. And her brother was killed in Iraq. She said she left her mid-term paper at Starbucks and someone threw it away. Oh, and she used to work for a Dachshund breeder. (Slight pause.) And in every case, she was lying.

Angela: How do you know?

Vince: I know people at Bailey High School and if you talk to her for more than two minutes, you’d know she couldn’t be Valedictorian; I’m know who runs for office in this town; she admitted later that she didn’t even have a brother, that she was trying to use the story of his death as a way to get me to argue with her in class about something; she couldn’t tell me one single thing she’d written in the lost mid-term paper; and the real eye-opener: she kept calling my Dachshund a "weiner-dog."

(ANGELA looks at him closely, and she seems convinced of something.)

Vince: (continued): Maybe she killed him. If he’s even dead. You don’t even know.

Angela: Why did you–

Vince: Maybe–

Angela: Listen to me! Why did you–fantasize–about killing him?

Vince: That’s none of your business.

Angela: That’s twice you’ve said that to me. Both times when I asked you something related directly to Dr. Lebeau. Knowing we’re investigating his disappearance–and his likely death–why would you say that to me? You must know that that only raises suspicions that you’re hiding something.

Vince: I most certainly am hiding something! Something private! Something that’s none of your business! I have a right to hide what belongs to me!

Angela: You went over to his house yesterday morning. You fantasize about killing him. And these are just issues of privacy!? So we can’t talk about them!?

Vince: According to my liberal friends, we have this God-given–well, I can’t say that; a lot of them don’t believe in God–I should say, we have this accidental right to privacy.

Angela: Is this the kind of crap you teach?

Vince: No, ma’am. I keep this crap to myself. I’m only telling you because I need to keep the fantasy going. If I have to stay here, I might as well enjoy myself.

(Long pause. ANGELA looks at her watch.)

Angela: You can go.

(VINCE is visibly surprised. He hesitates. She gets up, opens the door, and stands aside so he can leave.)

Vince: Thank you.

Angela: (stopping him at the door): Vince. Can we talk tomorrow?

Vince: Sure. I’m dying to know how this all ends. (He exits. ANGELA smiles...but it doesn’t last.)

LIGHTS FADE.

  Copyright 2010 by Tom Eubanks