The Virgin Whore Trial: A Holly Park Legal Thriller

by Brad Chisholm

  The mother-in-law sighed. She had discouraged Heather from bearing offspring, without telling her why, and bought the Labradoodle to be a third wheel in the wedding bed, knowing full well her son's fondness for dogs. To end the family curse once and for all. There had been four generations of half-wits and Gordon was the fifth. Whatever difficulties his frailty brought into the marriage, her daughter-in-law didn't realize the side benefit of his timidity and that his emotional attachment to Heather saved her from having to endure the pain and humiliation of girlfriends and mistresses that the men in the Hart family had long been known for. In short, Heather didn't know how good she had it.

  Heather put down her teacup and stood up. "I'll let you know how the museum opening goes. It's not likely that Gordon will attend."

  Half an hour later, Heather made her frustrations clear at Neiman-Marcus. On the first floor (shoes and handbags), on the second floor (fashion), and on the third floor (more fashion). Only the 4th floor was spared, because that was the men's floor.

  "Bill Mr. Gordon Hart," Heather cheerfully told her personal shopper, who could barely stand holding Heather's selections.

  Chapter 63

  The trial of the People of the State of California versus Naomi Linser was underway. Holly loved the acoustics of the old courthouse. Her heels clicked on the marble floors of the fifteenth floor as she raced towards Department N-9 past the rows of long, laquered wooden benches where lawyers sat, pensive, waiting for the courtroom doors to open. She admired the double doors of the other departments as she hurried by, marveling at the tiny windows cut into the doors of the windowless courtrooms where so many battles had been fought. Win or lose, the rule of law elevated man out of the swamp.

  Last night Naomi hadn't cared about Holly Park, the lawyer. Naomi had wanted Miss Holly her Sunday School teacher, to pray with her, as they had done when she was a child, a simple child's prayer.

  "God be with you." Holly whispered as she finished.

  It was the sound of someone clearing their throat, loudly that broke the quiet hush of the hallways and made Holly stop. She listened. She heard it again. The sound was coming from the stairwell. Holly pulled open a side door off the corridor and peered into the stairwell.

  "You can't smoke in here!" Holly said frantically, looking around. "You're going to set off the fire alarms!"

  Eli Behr took a last drag of his cigarette and dropped it at his feet and crushed the butt with the tip of his cowboy boot and watched as the red glow turn to ash. He turned to face her, thumbs hooked in his pockets and his shoulders hunched. Beads of perspiration lined his forehead and there were blotches on his shirt, where his moist skin had soaked his once-crisp white shirt. Holly stared, the color draining from her face.

  "Pre-game nerves," Eli explained, leaning away from her. Eli put his fingers between his shirt collar and neck and pulling the fabric away from his skin, ventilating his neck. "Once I throw up, I'll be fine." He smiled weakly.

  "I'll go in first," Holly tried to sound calm and encouraging, though inside she was horrified. "Come in when you are ready."

  The courtroom was packed. The media hovered, setting up equipment in the back. It seemed like half of Los Angeles was gathered in the hallways waiting to pick the flesh from the bones of Naomi Linser.

  Holly nodded to the bailiff as she walked passed the wooden bar and into the well where she took her seat besides Naomi, who, dressed in prison blues, was somehow magically beautiful, though if one could look closely her eyes were frightened.

  "It's time," Holly whispered, her eyes bright, eager, lit with anticipation, her nostrils flared. Naomi stared straight ahead but saw nothing. Her pale face was filled with fear. In a few minutes they would begin. It would be okay. Holly was ready. She did not fear the judgment of men.

  When Naomi Linser was arrested for murder, the Koreans were afraid, and rightly so, that the crime would cause uninvited scrutiny upon Koreatown and its practices. The Koreans were private and reclusive people who didn't want outsiders poking around into their affairs. During those long months while Naomi sat in a cell waiting to stand trial, the District Attorney, Blake LeBlanc had methodically built up his case with Koreatown’s cultural and business practices as virtual co-defendants. By office policy death penalty cases were supposed to be staffed by two D.A.s , but Blake had not been assigned any help and had never asked for an explanation.

  Blake LeBlanc stood military straight as he strolled in, with a pretty law clerk close behind carrying black trial binders under her arm. Aside from her own experience having lost to him once, Holly had heard stories about him. She hoped he would like Naomi, but Holly was clutching at thin straws. Her optimism was wasted.

  Blake LeBlanc was in a classification of his own. He took great exception to the intrusion of women in the workplace. He believed there were only three places a woman belonged - in bars, kitchens or in the bedroom. In the privacy of his own thoughts, Blake LeBlanc secretly believed the system was too lenient, and would happily have dispensed with it so that he could mete out punishment as he saw fit.

  Though he was cordial and did not say so, it showed in the coldness of his eyes. The extreme formality of speech and excessive politeness with which he spoke, devoid of emotion, whether he was addressing adverse counsel, law enforcement or witnesses was all a mask. A formidable adversary if there ever was one. Blake LeBlanc walked up to the jury box where the jury pool sat and casually dropped his briefcase on the counsel table.

  It's just another morning in court. Another case. Another trial. Another murder, his body language said. His tie hung loose around his neck which he tied while chatting with the potential jurors as if he were at home in the kitchen waiting for the coffee to brew. LeBlanc cheerily waved at the camera man, calling him by name. If his casualness was meant to have the effect of unnerving Holly, it worked.

  The buzzer sounded. One short buzz indicating that the judge was about to take the bench. The crowd quieted to a hum then silence as the judge took entered.

  "All rise! The court is now in session," the clerk announced. "The Honorable Christopher H. Marshall, presiding."

  Holly froze. The light seemed too bright, as it buzzed and hummed overhead. The courtroom seemed to pulsate with unfamiliar sounds. All Holly heard was:

  First degree murder.

  Homicide.

  Naomi Lee Linser.

  Pre-meditation.

  Special Circumstances.

  Death Penalty.

  And so the trial began. For the rest of the day, Holly and Blake LeBlanc alternated questioning the potential jurors of whom twelve plus two alternates would remain to sit in judgment of Naomi, the accused. Naomi, ever so emaciated, so beguiling sat staring ahead in wonderment. Somehow Holly got through it. The court reporter smiled encouragingly. That one gesture, that single unexpected act of moral support strengthened Holly, who turned and smiled at Naomi and gave back, squeezing Naomi’s hand. The next morning, headlines blazed: "COUNSEL AND MURDERESS HOLD HANDS".

  Oh, Naomi! She became the most photographed woman that summer from the moment she stepped into the courtroom throughout the trial. Oh, how the cameras loved her, capturing her soft, smoke grey eyes time and time again as they glowed in wonderment, watching. It was as if she were sitting in the VIP section of a show, not understanding that in fact the crowd had gathered to watch her - the main attraction. Naomi Linser was beguiling, vulnerable, innocent and provocative. Often Holly wondered if Naomi even realized this was all about her. The lamb being led to slaughter. Looking like a virgin, and accused of being whore. The public rushed to judgment like it was an open bar.

  During Blake LeBlanc's case in chief, the jury found themselves being pulled into the underbelly of Koreatown, presented as a theme park ride, thrills and horrors interchangeable, and the jury was hooked. Blake LeBlanc wove a majestic tale of how the Councilman William McClellan had entered Koreatown by virtue of position, power, affluence and chance, as a good-hearted mover and shaker, working to give t
he Koreans a second chance at rebuilding a community that had been burned to the ashes in the 1992 riots.

  While the good Councilman's focus and good intentions were on public works, he had been unsuspectingly lured into a culture he did not know, a dark, seamy - and illegal - culture which used beautiful girls as lures into traps as certain as a hunter's snare. The Councilman had been guilty only of naiveté and romantic innocence and did not deserve to die with his pants around his ankles and a knife through his broken heart. This was the portrait Blake LeBlanc so deftly drew.

  Yet Blake LeBlanc was perhaps no different from the Councilman. He, too, had been lured into the underbelly of a culture he neither knew nor understood. A little bit of knowledge is a dangerous thing, and Blake LeBlanc was vigorous and diligent. Yellow pad in hand, he had forced himself into the hostess salons and hostess bars interviewing doehmes under the threat of contempt and the power of the subpoena. The little known truth was that Blake, too, succumbed to the hospitalities of the very establishments he would later vilify and put on trial. The women were too tempting, too beautiful, too deferential for him to realize what was happening. Had he been more broadly educated, he might have recognized Sirens when he saw them.

  But that summer, the public attention was on Naomi.

  Trial lawyers are great storytellers, puppeteers of words. Blake described Naomi as a child of privilege, spoiled, petulant, whimsical. A reversal of fortune had caused her to lose her upper-class equestrian lifestyle of dressage shows and circuit jumping, and she had turned to slumming in the streets of Koreatown, partying in the underworld run by gangsters and brokers on payroll where she lived a double life as a doehme (helper).

  In a world of excess cash where any indulgence could be had for a price, Naomi was spoiled, driven around like a diva in illegal taxicabs entertaining men while emptying their pockets. The Councilman never stood a chance.

  "The evidence will show that the defendant, Naomi Linser knifed him to death simply because she didn't get her way. She simply threw a tantrum of colossal proportions, a spoiled, vindictive girl," was how Blake LeBlanc ended opening statements that first day.

  Daisy Moreno, the Councilman's long time secretary, took the stand and Mr. LeBlanc had first crack at her.

  LeBlanc: Have you met the defendant, Naomi Lee Linser before today?

  Daisy: Many times.

  LeBlanc: When did you first come to know of her?

  Daisy: It started with the letter. I remember the letter because I opened it. It was written on thick creamy paper with neat schoolgirl script.

  LeBlanc: Why was this particular letter so memorable?

  Daisy: Because she ended the letter with "xoxo" and a hand-drawn smiley face, with one of those gel pens. The Councilman liked it. He felt she was coming on to him. He kept the letter in his special drawer in his credenza. And his journal which I read - after he died - of course.

  While Daisy Moreno was trying to be helpful, one thing became immediately apparent. She was not about to give up her few minutes of celebrity. For the next forty minutes, she described Naomi as the subject of the politician's growing obsession and laboriously began all over again, recounting the very private thoughts of the councilman.

  LeBlanc: How would you describe her relationship with the Councilman?

  Daisy: She was like the other girls. She often came to the office. And he would shut his door for an hour and we knew not to disturb him when she was there.

  The inference was clear. Naomi sat quietly, frowning, as if she were trying to remember, her mouth a small "o", her small body bent forward, legs crossed daintily at the ankles. Holly had warned Naomi that jurors would be watching her and not to react, but Naomi couldn't help it. Naomi sat at the edge of her chair, listening to Daisy's account of how she had become the object of the Councilman's affection. Naomi listened as if she were listening to a story about somebody else.

  Daisy: He invited her to a function, and when she walked in he messed up part of his speech, which was not like him. I saw her, too. The Councilman was fond of the ladies. Particularly the Korean ones. Daisy wrinkled her nose when she said that.

  Daisy: That night was different. I saw Naomi lock eyes with the Councilman and watched his eyes follow her around all night. She was scantily clad - completely inappropriate for a political function.

  Daisy Moreno sniffed.

  LeBlanc: Did the Councilman fall in love with her?

  Daisy: Yes. The Councilman said he found love that he neither could nor wanted to prevent. He needed the young girls around.

  LeBlanc: Did you like her?

  Daisy: Not at all.

  LeBlanc: Why not?

  Daisy: Because she thought she was better than the others. But she was just a higher priced whore - just one of those girls.

  LeBlanc: Can you explain who 'those' girls are?

  Blake LeBlanc asked with a deliberate weary patience, leaning with both hands pressed hard against the podium.

  Daisy: Fine. I'll say it! She had sex for money. I'm not afraid to call a spade a spade," Daisy said as she crossed her arms and tossed her head. She harrumphed, her voice was half an octave higher than a moment before. Wearing expensive clothes and driving a white Mercedes don't make her a lady. Just a cleaned up whore is what she was.”

  Blake LeBlanc was just getting warmed up.

  LeBlanc: The State calls Mimi Hwang to the stand.

  Chapter 64

  Holly looked around the packed courtroom and saw Eli slipping into a seat in the back. She caught his eye and gave him an encouraging smile. He would come to the counsel table when he was ready. If he wasn’t ready, she did not want him.

  The investigator staked out Mimi Hwang's apartment and dragged her to court, half asleep, a creature of the night. She was the prosecution’s star witness.

  Mimi came to court wearing a baseball cap which the bailiff made her remove before taking the stand. She stumbled taking her seat at the witness stand. Mimi rolled her eyes and dropped her oversized designer handbag in her lap, looking more like a pampered and sullen child than the prosecution's key witness. She stifled a yawn as she raised her hand and took an oath to tell the truth.

  Mimi Hwang squinted at the light like a vampire, her knees neatly pressed together, back perfectly erect from hours of daily yoga. The male jurors shifted uncomfortably, an involuntary sniff from the female jurors who sat and pressed their knees together, unconsciously imitating the body language of the sleepy beautiful girl as they scrutinized the hair, skin, perfect body, the perfectly manicured nails and pretty feet of the witness.

  She was young with a long slender neck and a slight gap between her teeth. Her hair hung in wisps framing her pretty face.

  LeBlanc: What is your job?

  Mimi: I'm a 'doehme'.

  LeBlanc: What is a doehme?

  Mimi: A helper.

  LeBlanc: What type of help?

  Mimi batted her eyelashes and looked up shyly then looked down again.

  Mimi: We help men relax. We pour drinks.

  Mimi smiled and gestured to illustrate in that Korean subservient way how she poured drinks with one hand behind the other, with girlish embarrassment, eyes downcast, eyelashes fluttering shyly, with their delicate wrist movement, never spilling a drop.

  LeBlanc: Do you get paid?

  Mimi: Of course.

  LeBlanc: So your job is similar to a bartender?

  Mimi: Not at all. Korean places only serve liquor by the bottles. That's why it's so expensive. A waiter brings a bottle into the room and we pour it. You can't buy a shot in a Korean place. You can only buy the bottle.

  LeBlanc: Is it part of the job for the girls to drink with the men?

  Mimi: Yes. But we have have tricks, like placing extra ice cubes in our own drink and waiting for the ice cubes to melt. We pretend to drink, but really just pour more Crown Royal into their glasses. The more bottles the guys consume the more the house makes and the higher our tips.

  Her voice danced with
a playful inflection.

  LeBlanc: Do doehme's do anything else other than pour drinks?

  Mimi: We sit next to the men and listen and laugh at their stories and sing and dance for them.

  Mimi looked up, innocent and helpless, cupping her mouth with her hands, suppressing giggles. There was a smattering of laughter from the gallery.

  LeBlanc: How is the hostess salon set up?

  Mimi: The rooms are all private with karaoke machines, lights, booths, tables and tambourines.

  LeBlanc: How much do these private party rooms cost?

  Mimi: (shrugging) Thousands of dollars.

  LeBlanc: Thousands?

  Mimi: Yes.

  LeBlanc: What do you get for thousands of dollars?

  Mimi: The pleasure of the doehmes company, of course. If a customer likes a particular doehme, she is never allowed to stay in that room too long so that she is asked back. The way to get a doehme back is to order more expensive liquor and hand out bigger tips.

  LeBlanc: Were you working the night of the Councilman's murder?

  Mimi: Yes.

  LeBlanc: Did you see Naomi at Club Kiki that night?

  Mimi: Yes. I was already there and saw her when she came in.

  LeBlanc: What is the primary purpose men go and spend thousands of dollars at these hostess salons?

  Mimi: They come to escape their wives. They come to relax and to spend time with pretty girls. We are sexier, younger, and more fun. The wives are a drag and put on weight. The guys say their fat wives just sit there complaining, putting them down, and demanding money.