Murder at the Academy Awards (R): A Red Carpet Murder Mystery

by Joan Rivers

  Okay, on occasion I have done a few dull interviews. Not many, you understand, but nobody is perfect. Until now, however, I had never actually put a guest to sleep. I shook my head. A sad, sad first.

  “Halsey!” I yelled, again holding the mike in front of her slack mouth, hoping for one last word, but nothing. I knew our telecast was running way over our show time. I had to give up.

  Flat on my back, looking straight up at the camera, I brought the mike back to my face and wrapped it up. “Folks, I could not make this up. A sadder and more dramatic scene of Hollywood excess you could not see. A nineteen-year-old actress who should be inside the Kodak Theatre right this very minute, seated and waiting and hoping to learn if she has won the world’s most prestigious film award for her jaw-dropping performance as the Nazi officer’s girl in Scorsese’s The Bones of War, is instead right here next to me, lying on the red carpet. Distressed. Demeaned. And…” I looked at the unconscious beauty, searching for one more d word, noting her long auburn hair splayed out on the carpet and realized…oh my God. She wasn’t breathing.

  Dead.

  3

  Best Missing Camerawork

  And then there were boots. And legs. And men. And a gurney.

  Before I could grab Halsey’s wrist to feel for a pulse, we were suddenly under siege. Eight or nine storm troopers in ill-fitting tuxedos nearly trounced upon my up-swept curls in their heartless scramble over my prostrate body to get to Halsey.

  Hello? Celebrity down!

  In two seconds, flat a series of draped panels had been erected around my camera crew, Halsey, and me, blocking the view of our tragic scene from the crowds of gathering gawkers and especially from the lenses of so many rabid photographers. Pulling the delicate hem of my gown from under the heel of a cheap size-12 oxford, I snarled. These beefy penguins must be a phalanx of security guards and emergency medical techs, and their formal wear was simply Academy Awards–night camouflage. Where the hell had these overdressed EMTs come from?

  I tried to get up, but one of the men almost tripped over me and another turned and said, “Do us a favor. Just stay put, would you? We’ve got enough to attend to right now.”

  “Halsey, honey,” I called out weakly, lying back down as I was told to do, but in the tumult of medical triage, my cry was lost. And not one of the fine, young ambulance men thought to stop and check for my pulse.

  I figured this medical unit stands by on Oscar night, available in case some old actor suffers a coronary. At an event where big losers outnumber big winners four to one, hearts were bound to break, and with the mean age of your average Academy member up above fifty, plenty of likely emergency-room candidates were inside the hall. But I guarantee at no time could anyone on the planning committee have imagined that the second-youngest Best Actress nominee in the history of the awards, right after the kid who rode on a whale, would collapse out in front of the ceremonies while being interviewed—I looked around nervously—by moi.

  I twisted just in time to avoid being trod upon by a size-13 patent leather evening slipper—at least this footwear was designer—as I strained to peer between a dozen moving black-sock-covered ankles for a glimpse of Halsey.

  On the one hand, I could try to get up again, but on the other, down on the ground I was much more likely to overhear the kneeling medical techs talking about Halsey’s condition. It was a risk, but I was on a story now as well as personally concerned for the girl. Swarmed by a dark, moving forest of manly pant legs, I grabbed a handful of fabric from the next passing cuff and pulled. Its owner didn’t notice, so I yanked harder. “Hey,” I rasped upward, “is she okay?”

  A thick-chested guy shot a quick suspicious look down at me. “What’s going on here, Ms. Taylor?”

  “Me? Not a thing. They told me to stay put, so I’m staying put.”

  “Did you give Ms. Hamilton anything to eat or drink?”

  “I’m an interviewer, not a caterer. Look, I just asked her about her acceptance spee—”

  Another guy looked down at me. “Did you remove her dress or something?” He looked from the barely covered, motionless body of Halsey over to me, concerned.

  “It’s a long story.”

  With words like “dehydration” (hah!) and “exhaustion” (right!) called out by designer-shoes guy, the handsome one wearing the only tux in the crowd that didn’t look rented, I watched several of the team lift Halsey’s inert body onto the gurney. My heart sank. I couldn’t see her breathing. Exhaustion. Right. Why, I wondered, weren’t the medical techs the ones calling out the diagnoses?

  Finally, glaring at anyone who might try to stop me, I stood up. I pulled off my earrings and stepped out of my shoes, my usual ritual when the preshow telecast is wrapped. Two hours of grueling smiles usually ends in a break, but apparently not this year. I called out to the nearest guy, “Enough with the BS. What really happened to her?”

  “How’d you know her?” asked the thick-chested EMT. Was he kidding? Didn’t he recognize her or me? Don’t tell me they hired the only person in America who doesn’t read Star magazine to work this event. “You related to her or something?”

  Was this guy serious? “Yes,” I lied.

  “You family?” he asked, sounding at last concerned.

  “Even closer. We’re celebrities,” I corrected.

  The handsome security guy in the good tux intervened. “Don’t worry, Ms. Taylor. Everything will be fine.”

  Sure it would. The poor girl hadn’t moved a pinkie in five minutes. I smelled the unmistakable perfume of public relations.

  As they efficiently tended to Halsey, covering her bare limbs with a blanket, talking to her softly, no one paid me the least bit of attention. Halsey, of course, was the one in desperate need of attention. That was obvious. By all means, have twenty young men hover in attendance. But, then, what was I? Chopped liver?

  By now, a curtained-off corridor had been erected all the way to the curb. But inside our private cocoon, I could hear the screams of a frustrated press. The white fabric panels popped with a strobe-light effect as the photographers outside the perimeter went mad. A line of uniformed officers stood outside our barricade, shouting down the rabid paparazzi. I glanced at the flimsy walls, then looked back just in time to scoot quickly to the right. “Hey,” I yelled as I barely avoided getting trampled by the nasty wheels of the gurney, as the large response crew trundled the body of Halsey away to an awaiting ambulance.

  As the emergency-response team hurried off, my dear Killer, who had been a pent-up ball of furry rage in Malulu’s arms throughout all the excitement, let out a ferocious yip of teacup-guard-dog fury. As they slammed the rear doors to the ambulance, I heard Drew’s voice from behind the security curtain: “What do you mean? Let me in there, you goons. It’s my mother!” My Drew charged her way back to us, her face drawn and ashen, as she looked at me standing barefoot and earringless on the red carpet. “Mother!”

  I gave Drew a brave smile. The serene effect was spoiled as the last ambulance attendant tripped over my ankle in his attempt to catch up with his departing mates.

  My team had had enough. Allie stood en garde with her longest contour brush, while Malulu carefully handed Killer over to Drew and, with arms flying up and splayed fingers stiffened like weapons, instantly assumed the fighting stance for the secret Samoan martial art of Limalama, shifting and swaying at the ready in her bright, lime-green pantsuit, as she eyed the departing attendant.

  “How dare they!” huffed Allie, waving her sable-hair makeup brush in agitation. “Max, you must sit down and rest.” She gestured to the canvas chair Malulu had set up for me.

  “This is no good,” Malulu grunted.

  “Mom, you’re filthy,” Drew moaned.

  Where had courtesy gone? Where were good manners? People need to say “please” and “thank you” before they grind my couture into the ground. “Hey, you!” I called after the departing, nice-looking security guy. He stopped and smiled.

  “What’s going on?
” I demanded. “Did you get a good look at her? I mean, I don’t want to dwell on the negative here, but I think that poor, poor girl may be…”

  “Forgive me, Ms. Taylor. Aren’t you a member of the press?”

  That did it. I have been an actress and a fashion maven for thirty years, but when they want to stonewall me, they accuse me of being a reporter. Like I’m Woodward and Bernstein.

  “I’m a style expert,” I spit out at him. “By the way, nice trousers.”

  “Don’t worry, Ms. Taylor, we’ll take it from here.” He smiled at me with a smile that lasted a little longer than necessary between a security-type person and an on-air commentator. Not that I noticed. “Where are my manners?” he asked no one in particular.

  Hello. Hadn’t I just been asking that?

  He looked at me, and I wondered for a second if he was struck by how lovely I hoped my face appeared from that advantageous angle. He wasn’t.

  He was just hired security trying to smooth over a potential PR crisis.

  Malulu, instantly protective, rushed over. She glared at him as she, frankly, glared at all men. “You okeydokey, Ms. Taylor?” she asked.

  “We’ll see,” I replied.

  At that, Malulu reassumed her shifting, swaying ready-to-attack pose. I really wished she would stop it, but I suppose if I keep an unnecessary bodyguard on the payroll, I shouldn’t interrupt her flow.

  Turning back to the security guy, I demanded, “Now where did you take Halsey?”

  “She just needs a little rest,” he said.

  What? Everyone was behaving as if nothing were really wrong, but no matter how “exhausted” they said she was, I could have sworn that she hadn’t actually been breathing. And no breathing, where I come from, usually means dead.

  “Not to worry,” the guy said, looking around. “Miss Hamilton is getting help. But even though her collapse was regrettable, we don’t need to upset the guests at the event going on inside.”

  Right. What was I thinking? Let’s keep the priorities straight.

  Drew interrupted, “What about you, Mom, are you okay?”

  “Maybe.” I wasn’t ready to commit. It’s so rare for a mother to get her child’s full attention that I felt I should maybe take a moment to enjoy it.

  Just then, the private ambulance, parked where only a few minutes earlier Halsey’s Hummer limo had been, pulled slowly away from the curb. And so I turned back to the security man. “That’s it?”

  “Oh, just one more thing. I need to talk to your camera operator,” he said, turning to Danny, of whom I’d lost track. Danny was standing back by the edge of the security curtain, stunned.

  “What?” Danny jerked to attention, surprised to find the spotlight so suddenly turned on him.

  The big-shouldered security guy faked a friendly tone. “I’m Jay O’Neil.” He handed each of us a small, white card. It said he was chief of security for GlobalTrac Ltd. “The Academy doesn’t want any disturbances.”

  “You’re a rent-a-cop?” I wasn’t surprised.

  “Consultant,” O’Neil said. “The awards are an important international event, as you know. My crew is here to prevent any unpleasantness.”

  “We wouldn’t want another streaker to rush naked across the stage,” I joked. “Oh, no. That was the seventies.”

  “No,” he replied, deadly earnest, “we wouldn’t. Nor do we want any other unfortunate matter to distract from the celebration this evening. A lot of people worked very hard to get here, and they deserve to be protected from a situation that could go unpleasantly out of control.”

  What was he suggesting? That I had somehow caused this sad scene with Halsey? How dare he? I’m never at a loss for words. Never. But to that astonishing half accusation, I could get out only one loud and rasping “What?”

  “So please tell your cameraman to cooperate. I need the videotape out of his camera.”

  “No, you don’t,” yelled Drew, defensive.

  I bristled. “Are you crazy? That tape is ours.”

  With all the excitement and worry, I had lost sight of what we had. I had sudden visions of the great things we might do with that video. A feature on CBS Nightly News. A segment on 60 Minutes. A “hot topic” on The View. That insane interview, lying on the red carpet with a drunk Halsey Hamilton, could easily become the hottest five minutes on television. And, let’s face it, there was big, big money at hand. I took a nanosecond to dream: paying off some bills. Buying a new coat. Picking up a little house in the south of France.

  Look, although this can seem harsh, this is the way the business works. You have to separate the work from the personal. No one was sadder to see Halsey fall from grace one more time than I. I’m a mother. I feel for her. But if she kept making bad choices, and she chose to do it on live television during my exclusive interview, that tape was news and I had the right to the tape. Besides, I had been on my feet talking off the top of my head for the past two hours. Even during the interview with Halsey, I had to have one eye on the camera, one eye on the monitor, and half my brain thinking of what question I would ask next. Instead of wasting any more time with this hired cop, Drew and I should be back in our hotel suite, where we always went right after a telecast. Normally, we relax and watch the Academy Awards show—wearing three pounds or so of borrowed diamonds can be tiring—but I was now dying to see what had really happened to Halsey.

  O’Neil got serious with Danny. “Take my advice. You don’t want any trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?” Danny asked, looking worried. The big guy was just a big wimp.

  O’Neil kept at him. “I’m sure your network doesn’t want to be dragged down into something nasty. Lawsuits are expensive. They won’t thank you. Sometimes it gets hard to find freelance camera work in this town, I’ve heard.”

  “Well…,” Danny said.

  Well? Well? That was Danny’s tough-guy response to the blithering threats of some idiot with semi-authority? I stepped between Danny and O’Neil and smiled at the fake cop, unimpressed. “Maybe that sort of intimidation works with other kinds of people. People who stay up at night worried they underpaid their income tax. But this is a different world, my friend. Are you kidding? Networks love the gutter. They invented the gutter.”

  “Please hand over the videotape,” O’Neil repeated, still pleasant, but with an edge in his voice.

  I smiled even harder. This was so not going to go the rent-a-cop’s way.

  Danny gulped and looked over at me for moral support. He knew the alpha dog in this setup. Good boy.

  I kept on smiling as I started pulling stray pebbles from my hairdo. “It’s ours. I’ll get my attorney on the phone.” Before I could make a gesture in her direction, Malulu stepped out of her martial arts pose and began speed-dialing my lawyer.

  Killer, with open hatred, stared at O’Neil’s ankle as if it were prime rib. Malulu, always alert to my puppy’s moods, stared at Killer. Drew, feeling unsure how far I’d take this confrontation, stared at Malulu. O’Neil, with a little less open admiration for me than he’d shown earlier, stared at me. I, knowing how easily Danny might be swayed to give up our tape, stared at Danny. Danny, unable to cope with the pressure, stared down at his ridiculously old sneakers. No one moved.

  O’Neil, not much of a negotiator, reopened the talks. “Look, let’s keep calm. No one is saying you and your daughter ought to be banned from future red carpets, but…”

  Five minutes ago I would’ve half-thought this O’Neil guy was cute, but if this was some new twenty-first-century form of flirting, give me the old-school flowers and vodka shooters.

  “We’ve got to go,” I said, taking Drew by the hand.

  “Yes,” said Malulu, relieved.

  “Yip,” added Killer.

  “Sorry, but I can’t let you leave until you hand over the videotape,” O’Neil said to Danny.

  “Hey, no need to get all threatening or anything,” Danny said. “See, there isn’t any videotape.”

  “What
?” we all said at once.

  “Yeah, well…” Danny tugged on his baseball cap. “My camera doesn’t use tape anymore. When I’m rolling, I’m just sending a live feed back to the truck. The director is in the booth there and decides what shots he wants, and the technical director pushes the buttons. It’s a live show.”

  I knew that Will Beckerman and crew were working in our portable TV control room in a large trailer parked on a side street a block away, where they received the live shots from all the roving cameramen plus the interviews shot by the fixed cameras covering Drew and me. What I didn’t know was that they edited the show as it went directly to the viewers watching. Who can keep up with the technical details? Apparently, there was no film or videotape in our camera.

  “No tape?” O’Neil said, tapping the large camera mounted on a tripod next to Danny, unconvinced.

  “Not here.” Danny wagged his head side to side.

  “Well, then where?” O’Neil asked, still not losing patience.

  “They can record a tape from the live mix.”

  “They?”

  “The guys in the truck.”

  “You didn’t think you should’ve mentioned that a little earlier?” asked O’Neil, disgusted.

  Alas, O’Neil was learning what all of us already knew: Danny was a nice steady camera operator, but he’d spent a few too many lost years listening to Santana and smoking pot. O’Neil just shook his head and headed away toward the production truck.

  “That’s good luck for us,” I said, smiling again. “Glam will never give up that tape.”

  “That interview with Halsey is gold!” crowed Cindy, who had finally been cleared by security to enter our secured area and had completely missed our tense standoff. “Did I deliver or did I deliver?” she asked, beaming. No one spoke. “Okay, I get it. A little shaky on Joaquin Phoenix, yes, I know, but then I pulled through in the clutch, baby!”