The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  THE BEST

  DEFENSE

  A. W. Gray

  Copyright © 1999 by A. W. Gray

  First ebook copyright © 2014 by Blackstone Audio, Inc.

  All rights reserved

  Trade: 978-1-4821-0185-0

  Library: 978-1-62460-649-6

  For Dominick

  The Guy Behind It All

  “In the end it was her talent which brought success and all that went with it—the unending scrutiny of the public with which she could never deal, the enormous wealth with which she could buy anything she wanted, and with which she could pay any obligation save for the brutal debt to her fame.”

  —Public Radio commentary

  on the tragic life and death

  of Marilyn Monroe

  1

  On the morning that Minions of Justice: The Streets climbed to number two in the Neilsens, Sharon Hays called Rob’s agent out in L.A. She identified herself. There was a pregnant pause.

  Formally be said, “I got no Hays. Look, hon, send me a resume. Curtis Nussbaum can always use someone willing to exhibit some skin.”

  Sharon held the receiver away. She looked at the ceiling. She jammed the receiver against her ear and said, “Rob Stanley fathered my daughter, Mr. Nussbaum, when we lived together in New York.”

  “Hmm. Yeah, okay, you want to shake us down, Curtis Nussbaum’s got a shakedown lawyer as well. Let me give you his number.”

  “Sharon Hays, sir. H-A-Y-S. I met you last in a TV studio in Dallas when Rob was touring.”

  There were five seconds of silence, during which the sound of rattling paper came over the line. Then the agent said, “Sure. Sure, the girl in Texas. How’s the little princess?” He inhaled and then blew out, likely puffing on a cigar.

  “Going on fourteen,” Sharon said. “She’s now a big princess.”

  “Old Rob-oh’s setting the woods on fire, isn’t he? You catch Tuesday’s episode? Poignant.”

  “He’s not setting the postal service on fire, sending his child support.” In the comer of Sharon’s office, her boxed impatiens drooped. Later today she’d set them out on the sidewalk so that the flowers could catch some sun.

  “Damn. You didn’t get your check this month?”

  “Or last month, or the month before. Look, I—”

  “My secretary must be dropping the ball,” Nussbaum said.

  “—didn’t want anything from Rob to begin with. Melanie and I did just fine for nearly twelve years on our own. Sending the support was your idea, when he started to make a name for himself. Improve his public image.”

  “I’ll have to jump her about it.”

  Sharon snapped a pencil in two. “Yes, maybe you should … have a word with her. I wouldn’t be calling now, but we just made a trip to the orthodontist. You have any idea what braces cost?”

  There was more rustling on the line. “Dallas, didn’t I just …? Hey, that’s where Planet Hollywood’s having a grand opening this week, isn’t it?”

  “In the West End,” Sharon said. “The entire treatment is almost five—”

  “Bet you and the little princess—”

  “—thousand dollars.”

  “—would like a couple of ringsides. That’ll be the ticket of the week in your town.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Schwarzenegger … Willis … Chuck Norris … see all those people up close. Be something for the child to remember.”

  “I thought I’d hold off beginning the treatments until this summer. That way she could get used to the shock of wearing them by the time school starts next—”

  “Willis’s agent owes Nussbaum, you know? Probably I could swing four seats. She could take a friend. You got a significant other, you could—”

  “I don’t think we’re on the same wavelength,” Sharon said. “Besides, my boss is on a trip. That restaurant opening is in the middle of the afternoon. I might have court appearances, anything.”

  “This is a once in a lifetime, hon. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Look, if you’ll just tell me Rob doesn’t want to pay me anymore, we’ll get by. But expecting it and not getting it …”

  “I’ll put in a call right now.”

  “The only call I want you to put in is to Rob, to see about my money.”

  “Get you right up next to the floor, where they’ll all be walking through. Willis might be bringing Demi.” Sharon shifted the phone from one ear to the other.

  “Dammit, I need my money.”

  “I’ll jump my secretary about it. You guys have a nice time. Hey, and let us hear how you’re getting along.”

  The tickets arrived via Federal Express on a Friday in October, the morning of the grand opening for Dallas’s Planet Hollywood. Sharon slit the envelope and stared at its contents. Four lonely pieces of pasteboard. She shook the empty package, upside down. No check. She called Sheila Winston.

  “We may as well go,” Sheila said. “Trish and Melanie would get a kick out of it. Plus it will get me out of something.”

  “God, Melanie’s mouth,” Sharon said.

  “There’s nothing wrong with her mouth, Sharon. She doesn’t have perfect white pearlies, but neither do ninety percent of the rest of the population.”

  “It’s not even a day’s pay for him.” Sharon thumbed through her calendar. Only one hearing, at eleven o’clock in the 375th, to plead out a burglar named Tired Darnell. A court appointment—the county would get around to paying her fee sometime after Christmas. Tired Darnell would be tired. He always was. She said halfheartedly, “We’d have to take the kids out of school.”

  “I can handle that,” Sheila said. “I’ll stop by and get them as soon as I take care of two patients this morning. I’d do about anything to get out of this panel I’m supposed to be on.”

  “What panel is that?”

  “I put my foot in my mouth by accepting to begin with. A Black Coalition meeting, on being black and professional in America. Would be okay, except that the other two people on the panel are Muslims. I’d rather just be professional, thanks.”

  “They consider you an inspiration,” Sharon said. “How many other psychiatrists…?”

  “Then why don’t you join a discussion panel on being white and professional if you think it’s so neat? You and a couple of Ku Klux Klan lawyers.”

  Sharon sighed. Her barriers dissolving … “There won’t be anybody to stay in the office,” Sharon said.

  “Oh? Where’s Herr Guru Russell Black, king of the trial lawyers?”

  “Took his daughter to Europe. First vacation he’s had in fifteen years or so, I can’t begrudge him.” Sharon picked up the tickets and shuffled them top to bottom, one at a time.

  “Planet Hollywood, Sharon. Arnold the Gorgeous might notice us.”

  “He’s got a wife.”

  “So we’ll dream.”

  Sharon leaned back in her swivel chair and watched the transom over her door. “What time can you meet me with the kids?”

  “I’ll have to run them by the house to change. Say, three o’clock?”

  “That’ll do,” Sharon said. “I don’t think the stars arrive until four. I’ve got a hearing that should be over by noon. Guess I can set the answering machine and let the office take care of itself.”

  “You’ll be glad you did,” Sheila said. “I hope you’re right,” Sharon said.

  Tired Darnell said, “Guilty, sir.” He sounded like Froggy the Gremlin. He wore a jumpsuit with County Jail stenciled across the back in large black letters. His shoulders slumped. His stomach pooched out. Tired’s given name was Francis. Th
e nickname came from a botched warehouse burglary, wherein a seventy-year-old night watchman had caught and tackled him a half block from the scene.

  Judge Arnold Shiver had sparse snow white hair, a scowl like the Terrible Oz, and had been on the bench,

  Sharon believed, since before the time of Christ. He said, “Son, are you pleadin’ guilty because you are guilty, and for no other reason?”

  Tired swiveled his head to look at Sharon. She gave him a nod. Actually, Tired had agreed to cop out because of the three-year plea-bargain deal which at the moment rested in Sharon’s shoulder bag. The prosecutor—Harold Benning by name, who was second banana to the main ADA in Shiver’s courtroom—peered around the defendant and looked at Sharon as well. This was Tired Darnell’s third felony and, counting misdemeanors, his fifth guilty plea, so be didn’t need for Sharon to tell him that Shiver’s question was strictly for the record. “Yes, sir,” Tired said.

  “All right, then, son, I’m sentencin’ you to …” Shiver rattled pages in his file and peered at his copy of the plea-bargain agreement. “I’m sentencin’ you to …” He scowled at Benning. “Mr. Benning, is the district attorney agreein’ to this?”

  Benning looked uncertain. Sharon’s deal was with Benning’s boss, who today had fallen victim to an overheated radiator, and Benning was doing stand-in duty.

  Sharon chipped in, “I have the signed plea bargain with me, Your Honor, if you’d like to see it.” She wore a navy blue business dress with a waist-length jacket. Her dark hair was short, fluffed into bangs in front. “Mr. Tadley, Mr. Benning’s superior, signed on behalf of the state. My client has executed the agreement as well.”

  This brought a snicker from the judge, who turned his scowl on the defendant. “I’ll just bet ol’ Tired agreed to it. Didn’t you?”

  Tired appeared exhausted but nervous. “Sure did, Judge.”

  “Since this is your third or fourth time in fronta me, I ain’t surprised. You ain’t no dummy, Tired. You’d be a fool not to take this deal.” Shiver dropped the plea bargain into his file and closed the folder. “This defendant needs a little more time to think on his sins. I’m givin’ him five years.”

  Well, here we go, Sharon thought. Of all the judges in the county, only Arnold Shiver questioned plea bargains between the defense and prosecution. The practice kept his calendar clogged like a backed-up sewer, but Shiver generally ran unopposed in elections and didn’t seem to give a damn. Sharon took a half step forward. “If the court please, let the record reflect that as a matter of law, my client is entitled to withdraw his guilty plea if he receives anything other than the bargained-for sentence.”

  “I been doin’ this a few years, young lady,” Shiver said, “an’ I’m pretty familiar with the law. An’ I’m sentencin’ this man to five years’ confinement in the Texas Department o’ Justice.”

  Oh, up yours, Sharon thought. She stood up straight. “Then, Your Honor, my client hereby withdraws his guilty plea.”

  Tired looked confused, as did ADA Harold Benning.

  Shiver pointed a finger. “Oh, no, he don’t. He’s done pled guilty. Five years. Take him away, bailiff.” The uniformed deputy got up from his seat in the jury box and came around the railing.

  Sharon couldn’t believe her ears. An appellate Court would overturn this nonsense in a heartbeat, and Shiver knew it. Sharon said, “In that case, Your Honor, we’re giving verbal notice of appeal.”

  “You do that, Miss Hays,” Shiver said pugnaciously. “I will, Your Honor,” Sharon said sweetly.

  “I sure am tired,” Tired Darnell said exhaustedly. “Listen, Judge, you mind if I sit down?”

  As the end result of her day in court, Sharon sat at a table in Planet Hollywood at four in the afternoon with her nose in a book. She felt like the original party poop, all but ignoring Sheila and the girls as she took notes on a legal pad. She wore reading glasses with tiny lenses. The book was a red-jacketed paperback edition of Vernon’s Annotated Texas Code of Criminal Procedure. Hardhead Shiver was the first judge in her eight years as a lawyer who’d violated a plea-bargain agreement she’d entered into, and Sharon had to bone up on the procedure for getting Tired’s sentence overturned. She had to move quickly; if she didn’t have her papers ready for filing at the Court of Appeals by Monday morning, Shiver would have Tired transferred to the penitentiary on the first thing smokin’.

  Throughout Planet Hollywood, the good-time crowd—guys in slacks and sports shirts, women in everything from stylish jean outfits to skimpy bits of nothing—stamped their feet, whistled, and called for the matinee idols to appear. Wooden grandstands were set up outside to handle the overflow, and so crowded was the restaurant that any kind of service was out of the question. Just inside the entry were long tables lined with hors d’oeuvres, and Melanie and Trish had loaded down a couple of plates with fried mushrooms and chicken wings. At the far end of the room was a temporary stage, and on the stage a combo was playing Ten feet away on Sharon’s left sat the motorcycle from The Terminator. She pictured Judge Arnold Shiver, complete with black leather outfit and black sunglasses, astride the damned cycle and curled her lip.

  Sheila tugged on Sharon’s arm. “They say Bruce is coming in first. Be still my heart.” Sheila wore a pair of hugging black pants along with a pink bolero shirt with puffed sleeves.

  “Mmmm,” Sharon said. “Thought you didn’t believe in crossing the color barrier.”

  “Bruce hasn’t asked me yet.” Sheila was nonstop movement, crossing and uncrossing her legs, twisting around in her seat, pretty dark eyes dancing as she looked around. Sharon lowered her head, and made a note that Judge Shiver had failed to warn Tired Darnell in advance that the court might not accept the plea bargain. A bona fide point on appeal.

  Melanie said, “Bruce Willis is coming, Mom? Bruce Willis?” She and Trish Winston bubbled and giggled and craned their necks toward the entry. Both were mature-looking thirteen-year-olds. Trish had inherited Sheila’s button nose and smooth chocolate-colored complexion. Melanie’s thoughtful expressions and high 10 came from Rob’s side of the family—damn him, Sharon thought—but she also came equipped with Sharon’s long and elegant dancer’s legs. Sheila had let the girls get away with wearing outfits which were a bit racy for Sharon’s tastes—Melanie wore snug jeans and a loose blue sweater, while Trish had on a pantsuit which Sharon suspected was her mom’s—but then again it’s Planet Hollywood, Sharon thought, so what the hell. Still, she kept a sharp eye on the girls and an even sharper eye on the older men at nearby tables. Sheila did the same.

  “Bruce Willis, Mom?” Melanie said again.

  “So they tell me,” Sharon said, and went back to her note taking.

  As if on Melanie’s cue, a woman near the entry shouted, “It’s them.” A male P.A. announcer boomed out, “Bruce Willis, ladies and gentlemen, accompanied by his wife, the lovely … Dem-mi … Moore.” The place was suddenly a madhouse, a din of applause accompanied by shrill whistles. The restaurant people had cleared out the center of the room, forming an aisle, and into the throng paraded the star-studded couple themselves. Trish and Melanie jumped up, blocking Sharon’s view, and Sheila leaped to her feet as well. Sharon stood and rose on the balls of her feet.

  Oh, to be a star, Sharon thought. All during her stint as a starving off-Broadway actress, in fact, Sharon had had just such a fantasy; she’d laid awake nights picturing herself showing up at the Oscars or some such thing, alighting from a limo, smiling into a spotlight while adoring fans screamed her name. The only person screaming her name in those days had been the landlord when the rent came due, but the fantasy had kept her going. Demi Moore had the moves down to a T; she was one of the hottest stars going at the moment and looked the part. Into Planet Hollywood she strolled, the world her oyster, chic in denim pants and vest straight from Rodeo Drive. She smiled in acknowledgment left and right as the applause reached a crescendo, then moved in confi
dent modeling—runway strides toward the stage. Sharon clapped until her palms stung.

  On the heels of the Demi show, Bruce Willis’s appearance was a bit of a letdown. Not that his parade down the walkway wasn’t grand. Willis was casual Bruce, the guy straight from Die Hard. He wore jeans and cycler boots, a white tee and vest, and dark sunglasses, but there was a slouch to his bearing, and Sharon thought he looked sort of bored. Bored and … Sharon had a sudden flashback to Tired Darnell at his sentencing as Willis slumped onto the stage near the microphone. Willis said something, but the crowd noise drowned him out and the acoustics were terrible, and Sharon couldn’t understand a word. Whatever he’d said must have been pretty good, because the customers stomped their feet and clapped even louder than before. Willis and Moore took a little bow, then retired to a stage-side table which was roped off from the rest of the audience. The throng barely had time to catch its breath before the P.A. announcer came on once more and Schwarzenegger himself appeared.

  This is too, too much, Sharon thought. She decided to let Sheila and the girls enjoy old Arnold on their own, sank back into her chair, picked up her pen, and put on her reading glasses. Tired Darnell, you’re ruining my day, she thought. She noted a Texas Court of Appeals case wherein a man’s guilty plea had stood up because his time in the pen hadn’t been specified in his bargaining agreement, which didn’t apply to Tired Darnell. She lost her train of thought as Schwarzenegger’s thick Austrian accent boomed over the mike, inviting everyone to try the steamed clams. The cheering died down as Arnold took his seat alongside Demi and Bruce. Sharon shook her head in admiration and went back to her research.

  Now the MC’s amplified voice echoed through the restaurant: “A real surprise treat now, folks. Direct from his box-office smash, Spring of the Comanche … America’s heartthrob … Da-vid … Spencer.”

  Sheila jumped up and down like a berserk adolescent, and Trish and Melanie squealed loudly enough to fracture eardrums a block away. Sheila yelled, “Omigod, omigod,” and Sharon hoped that none of Sheila’s psychiatry patients were in attendance. She chuckled to herself as she turned over a page in the Code of Criminal Procedure. David Spencer was a surprise celebrity, all right. Along with Brad Pitt, Spencer was responsible for a nationwide increase in vibrator sales, but the gorgeous young star missed the mark where Sharon Hays was concerned. Not that he wasn’t beautiful and all that, it was just … Sharon attributed her lack of interest to having reached her thirties. An older man, maybe someone like Dustin Hoffman, was more her cup of tea. At any rate, she kept her seat, plugging right along with her legal research.