You weren’t there! You didn’t have to live through it! You don’t know what they made us do! [Rising from chair halfway, hands gripping armrests]

Control yourself, Mr. Lawrence. Just tell us. Go on.

[Easing back. A little flustered, confused. Slight licking of lips] Well. I guess it was about—about four o’clock in the afternoon. I was working on some revisions in my study. I remember it was almost time for beer call and I was trying to get through my revisions.

What kind of revisions are we discussing here?

Several different kinds. Some poetry. And I think, ah. Some short stories. Yes. I believe that’s what it was. Well anyway. It was fifteen till four or something, and I was trying to hurry up and get through so I could turn in my revisions. We had so many each week we had to turn in for grading. But they turned on the siren ten minutes early. So, I just scooped everything up, boxed it up, then locked my study and went out to the yard.

Was Mr. Varrick in the yard when you got there?

Yes, he was.

Did you know the reason Mr. Varrick was in the camp?

Yes. [Uneasy look. Shifting around in chair: Unable to find a comfortable position] I did.

Would you like to tell us why Mr. Varrick was in the camp?

[Extremely uneasy. Rubbing palms together, averting his face, appearing to be searching for something at his feet] Well. It was common knowledge, I suppose. He was in for plagiarism. Like seventy-five percent of the other inmates.

Was this a first offense for Mr. Varrick?

I’m … I’m not sure. [Obviously lying]

Right. Not sure. Can’t remember. Didn’t notice. Isn’t it true that Mr. Varrick had in fact had his probation revoked for plagiarism?

Well … yes. But it wasn’t the same author.

Oh? Your memory seems to be improving. I don’t suppose you’d remember who he plagiarized the first time, would you?

I believe it was Flannery O’Connor. I think it was a line out of “A Good Man Is Hard to Find.”

A line? Is that right? One line?

I believe so. Yes. I’m sure that’s what it was.

[Shaking his head. Wry humor touched with pity] Mr. Lawrence. Didn’t Mr. Varrick actually copy, verbatim, every single word from the time the grandmother’s family went into The Tower, until they had the wreck? And turn it into Playboy as his own?

[Shaken badly now] I don’t know. I—didn’t know it was that bad.

Bad? You don’t think it’s bad to steal from a dead woman? Pilfer words from a sick, dying writer, who barely had the strength to work three hours a day? Who had more guts and talent in one little finger than you and your buddy Varrick have in your whole bodies?