The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  Gray looked at her through the panel. His expression was serious. “It’s not advisable, Miss Hays. I’d feel more comfortable if you’d allow Benny—”

  “I’ll be okay.” Sharon leaned forward and passed two sets of Mrs. Welton’s pictures through the opening. “I’ve no way of knowing,” she said, “if our mystery man will show again. If he does, follow him. I want to know where he lives, what he eats for breakfast, and which side of the bed he sleeps on.”

  Gray dropped his se of photos on the seat. Yadaka propped a knee against the dash and thumbed through the pictures in his lap, one at a time. “These are pretty good,” Yadaka said. “Ought to be easy to spot this guy.”

  Sharon pushed her door partway open. “Remember, gentlemen. Caution. We don’t want to alarm this guy. Criminy, we’re grasping at straws. For all we know, he was in Dallas on vacation and decided to stop by Planet Hollywood for a hamburger. Just be careful, okay?”

  Yadaka and Gray exchanged a look. Gray turned around and gripped the wheel. “We’ve done this before,” he said. “It’s the way we make our living. The gentleman in the picture could be a potential danger at the most, but nothing we haven’t confronted before. He’s not the current problem. The mob on the steps is a known factor, mum. I won’t thrust our services on you. I’ll only warn. It would be better if you took one of us along.”

  Sharon wished she’d taken the Englishman up on his offer before she’d climbed halfway to the courthouse entry. Jesus Christ, did she ever understand now why people like Darla Cowan and David Spencer employed a raft of bodyguards! Each step was a battle, every stride a confrontation. She’d expected the microphones shoved in her face, and dealt with each in turn by keeping her head down and ignoring the mike thruster’s questions, but nothing had prepared her for the physical mauling. Reporters and hangers-on grabbed her arms and clutched her sleeves. One woman held out a pad and asked for her autograph, then snarled and called her a bitch as Sharon struggled past without answering. A man did his damnedest to haul her satchel away into the crowd, and one fanatic tore a dime-sized hole in her jacket. Sharon’s hair was disheveled, she was out of breath, and her nerves were twisted strands of wire. As a pimply teenager clawed her, she lost it. She screamed, “Get away from me, you…” And then trailed off as she spotted Preston Trigg at the head of the steps, holding court between two granite pillars.

  She never would have recognized her California co-counsel if she hadn’t caught his act last night on television. The haircut was even more ridiculous in person than it had appeared on Nightline. His smooth-shaven features and glistening scalp made Trigg look like a high school kid playing hookey. On-the-spot interviewers stood in a half circle around him, and two minicams were aimed in his direction. His mouth moved rapidly. He gestured wildly with his hands.

  Sharon had an idea. She called out to no one in particular, “There’s Darla Cowan’s lead counsel. If you want the inside story, talk to him.”

  One reporter’s head snapped around in Trigg’s direction. “Talk to who?”

  “Preston Trigg,” Sharon yelled. “Right up there, didn’t you see him on Nightline? He’s the horse’s mouth, folks.” She stified a giggle. She’d almost said “horse’s ass” but had caught herself.

  A female newsie alternated her gaze between Sharon ud the head of the stairs. “Our word is, you’re running the show, Miss Hays.”

  “You’ve got it all wrong,” Sharon said. “California’s Mr. Trigg’s ball yard, folks, I’m just here to provide assistance. Really. Anything I could tell you I’d have to clear with him anyway, so you might as well…” The media hounds required no further prompting. Upward they surged, leaving Sharon in their wake, bumping each other around as they jockeyed for position near Preston Trigg. In seconds a pathway cleared, and Sharon hurried to the courthouse entry. She skirted the mob and stood a couple of paces to Trigg’s rear.

  Trigg was saying, “…and I’ll tell you this much. My client’s definitely innocent. As this case unfolds, you’ll…” He paused as his gaze fell on Sharon. Sheepishly he murmured, “Just trying to hold them at bay.”

  Sharon smiled. “Nice haircut.”

  Trigg touched the top of his head. “You really think so?”

  “You and Brad Pitt,” Sharon said. “You and Brad. Look, Pres, keep these people occupied while I go visit our client. You’re doing fine. Buy me ten minutes or so.” She started to go inside.

  Trigg stopped her. He bent to whisper in her ear, “What should I tell these guys?”

  Sharon glanced toward the reporters, then winked at her co-counsel. “Why, just wing it, Pres. Whatever you think will make us sound good on the news. Improvise. With your experience before the camera, it should be a piece of cake for you.”

  The courtroom level was also a madhouse, but here the reporters and cameramen had plenty to keep them occupied without bugging the lawyers. As Sharon exited the elevator, three different news conferences were in progress. In one group media people fired questions at Barbara Walters as, yards away, Jimmy Smits faced a bank of microphones and, directly behind him, minicams pointed at an L.A. Dodger who had just completed a season where he’d slugged a hundred homers or so. God, everyone wanted in on the act. Barbara Walters was telling the mob that she was merely attending the hearing like any other citizen, and as Sharon hurried on down the hall, Jimmy Smits told a second gaggle of reporters that Darla Cowan was a sweet person despite her screen image, and that he couldn’t imagine Darla murdering anyone.

  Milton Breyer had his entourage from Dallas parked on benches outside the courtroom, and Sharon had a twinge of been-there-done-that as she headed for the double entry doors. God, as if she’d never left home. There was Vernon Tupelow from the Dallas County medical examiner’s office seated in between Breyer and Harold Cuellar, Tupelow’s bald spot shining over an unruly gray fringe of hair. He was dressed in coroner’s whites which, for a change, showed neither grimy cuffs nor bloodstains. Tupelow showed uneven, yellowed teeth in a grin and waggled his fingers. Sharon nodded, walked purposefully past the trio, ignored Stan Green where he sat near the courtroom entry, and stopped to say hello to Kathleen Fratemo. She was reading a paperbound law book. She looked up coldly. The close relationship which Sharon and Kathleen had once shared had long since fallen victim to Kathleen’s romance with Milton Breyer.

  Sharon said, “How was your flight?”

  Fratemo wore her standard form-fitting gray court­ room suit, brunette ringlets falling softly around her shoulders. She said, “I can’t believe you’re doing this.”

  Sharon was taken aback. “Doing what?”

  “Dragging this out.” Fratemo used a dismissive tone.

  “I’m dragging it out? Come on, you watched that joke on TV yesterday along with the rest of the world. It wasn’t me doing all the posturing.”

  Fratemo flipped over a page. “It was you with the last-minute theatrics. The sudden change of direction. Who’s writing your scripts, Sharon?”

  “At least I have grounds. That FBI search is straight from looney tunes, and you know it.”

  Fratemo looked up once more, her features set. “Even if it is, you picked the wrong theater. This is an extradition proceeding. The place for you to attack the warrant is in pretrial motions. And you know that.”

  “Oh, yeah? And what do you think the proper arena is for the coroner’s testimony?” Sharon pointed down the hall, where the M.E. sat along with Breyer and the L.A. prosecutor. “It’s not me courting the publicity, Kathleen. If you want the case tried properly, talk to your lover boy.”

  Fratemo opened, then closed her mouth. She snapped her gaze down to her reading. “You go to hell.”

  Sharon was furious. She pictured a scene in which two women in business suits engaged slugfest in front of God and Court TV. Her instinct told her to walk away, but her anger got the best of her. She snatched the book from Fratemo and looked at the cov
er. Kathleen had been boning up on the California court procedural codes. Fratemo watched in open contempt. Sharon tossed the book onto the bench. The pages rustled and fluttered.

  “You’re wasting your time reading that,” Sharon said. “It’ll be better spent fixing your makeup for your TV appearance. It’s Hollywood, Kathleen. If you think anyone’s following legal procedure here, you’re out in left field.”

  A somber cloud settled over Sharon’s consciousness as she entered the holding cell area. Darla was becoming the forgotten woman in all the hoopla, the lawyers strutting and posing, even the judge mugging for the benefit of the viewing audience. Sharon felt no guilt over leaving Darla alone in jail for the night, using her time in preparation for the legal battle ahead, but she would still have some explaining to do. Darla would be beside herself.

  Sharon went up to the desk, signed the entry roster, and waited while the uniformed deputy searched her purse and satchel for contraband. His job finished, the deputy produced a ring of jingling keys and unlocked the door. Sharon stood with her head down, made final adjustments to her clothing, drew a deep breath, and marched professionally in through the entryway.

  The holding cell occupied half of a conference-sized room, and Darla was its lone occupant. She sat on a steel bench which was riveted to the wall, her legs crossed, her arms folded, her posture slumped. Sharon had pulled a few strings with the jailers, ordering makeup people for Darla along with a new outfit each day from Neiman-Marcus, and the crew had done their jobs. Darla’s hair looked ready for filming. Though her makeup was drop-dead gorgeous, it didn’t completely hide the dark circles under her eyes. She wore an expensive but modest blue sheath with the hem a tasteful inch above her knee. She looked up slowly and showed a wounded expression.

  Sharon laid her purse on a small table, approached the bars, and slightly spread her feet. “Bad night, huh?”

  Darla sniffled. “How could you?”

  Sharon lowered her gaze. “Darla, I had to—”

  “Desert me? It’s a horrible place. People screaming all night. My God, Sharon …”

  Dealing with Darla was going to be tough under the circumstances, but allowing her to engage in hysterics would be counterproductive. Sharon firmed her mouth. “Nothing I can say will make you feel particularly chipper. But believe I didn’t get any sleep, either. My time’s better spent on the case than in holding your hand. Jail’s tough, and I can’t soften the blow, and until we can do something about securing your release, you’re going to have to deal with it.” She made her tone sterner than necessary. For the time being it was the only way to get her point across; sympathizing with Darla would only create a series of tear-jerker scenes with Sharon Hays in a minor role, as friend and sounding board.

  “Chet Verdon would never throw me to the wolves like this.” Darla petulantly watched her lap. “Maybe I should call him.”

  “Yes, why don’t you?” Sharon said. “Lawyer Hollywood would spend a lot of time with you, might even get you to pose for pictures in your cell so he could market the negatives to television. You might not like the end result, your murder conviction, but I agree that Mr. Verdon would coddle you.” She firmed her mouth. “Come here, Darla. Get up and walk over here.”

  Woodenly Darla stood. She approached the bars in mincing half steps. From within the cell came the aroma of expensive perfume.

  Sharon gripped two of the bars. “Remember what I told you yesterday, about the image you need to project? The jury if we go to trial, the public now, no one’s going to see the conditions you’re under in jail. All they’ll witness is your persona in the courtroom, the way you’re dressed and the way you walk, and hangdog looks will make you appear guilty. You hold your chin up, Darla. You’re wrongfully accused, and you’re mad as hell about it. Got that?”

  Darla showed a smirk of self-pity. “I can only try.”

  “You can do more than that. You’re the best actress I’ve ever seen. Perform like it. I’ve seen you play comedy scenes with a toothache, and compared to that ordeal, this should be easy as falling off a log.”

  Darla’s expression softened, the same way it had once in New York when a director had dressed her down for not putting enough force behind her lines. Rebuke had always brought out the best in Darla Cowan; she’d always taken pride in her ability to perform under the toughest of circumstances. Sharon’s plan seemed to be working. Darla assumed a stead­fast look.

  “Much better,” Sharon said. “Now. Did you think over what we discussed, as to who might have planted the gun? Who had access to the beach house?”

  Darla’s forehead creased. “David and I, of course. Lyndon Gray, but Mr. Gray wouldn’t …”

  Sharon clutched at a straw. “What about David’s agent, Curtis Nussbaum?”

  Darla shrugged vacantly. “He could have. That would be between him and David. My agent, Aaron Levy, never had a key, I never saw any reason for him to.”

  “I want you to look at something.” Sharon rummaged for her set of Mrs. Welton’s photos, located the picture taken on the Spring of the Comanche set, and passed the glossy snapshot in through the bars. “Who is that guy?”

  Darla held the photo by one corner and chewed her lower lip. “David. Me. Curt Nussbaum, what … ?”

  “The guy in the foreground on Nussbaum’s right,” Sharon said. As she spoke, she examined the photo of the scene in front of Planet Hollywood, picturing the same man in his Crocodile Dundee outfit. The stranger had jutting cheekbones and tightly molded facial skin.

  Darla gazed at the picture without recognition. “I remember him being there. I think he’s a security guy Curt brought along.”

  “Security, like Gray and Yadaka?”

  “And Mrs. Welton, yes. Everyone even remotely in the public eye requires security in Hollywood, Sharon. It’s not one of the more attractive facets of one’s existence here, but…”

  “Have you ever seen Nussbaum’s security man since?”

  Darla shook her head. “Not that I remember. Probably I was introduced to the guy, but with all the fighting between David and Curt, I doubt if I caught his name.”

  Sharon’s chin lifted. “Fighting?”

  “Over a part David had agreed to play and then reneged. Curt had made a special trip to Montana to talk about that; it’s why he was on the set to begin with. David did that a lot. He’d get fired up over some role while he was drinking or snorting coke, then he’d sober up and change his mind.” Darla handed the picture back. “Is the security guy important?”

  Sharon spread her fingers and rotated her hand on her wrist, comme ci, comme ça. “We won’t know the answer to that until we locate him. If we locate him. He shows up in two more pictures, one taken yesterday on the courthouse steps and the other in front of Planet Hollywood during the brouhaha between you and David.”

  Darla frowned. “What would he be doing in Dallas?”

  “No clue. What was the argument with Nussbaum all about?”

  Darla gripped a bar and leaned her forehead against her forearm. “Curt optioned a novel, based on David’s commitment to star in the film. It’s the one I told you about earlier, where he wanted me for the love interest. David’s commitment put the deal together with the studio, and when he backed out, the picture fell through. Curt was furious and said David had cost him a fortune, but David never gave a damn about things like that. He accepted every role offered, then crawfished on most. Tooling people around gave him a charge.”

  Sharon opened her satchel, found a ballpoint and a legal pad. “What novel?”

  “The title was Dead On. A thriller. I never read it. After David backed out, I never heard of the project again.”

  “Written by whom?” Sharon steadied her pen, using her thigh as a backstop for the legal pad.

  “An unknown author,” Darla said. “I don’t know the details. You should talk with Marissa Cudmore.”

&
nbsp; Sharon arched an eyebrow.

  Darla thoughtfully inclined her head. “She’s a studio exec with Mammoth, up in Universal City. Curt Nussbaum pitched the movie to three or four studios, and there was a pretty rousing bidding war. I try not to get into that sort of thing. The saying is, deals are between agents and producers, asshole to asshole, and you’re better off staying out of the way.”

  “Ms. Cudmore just attained a position on my list of things to do.” Sharon looked up from her scribbling. “Anything else you remember about the novel or the movie deal?”

  Darla’s eyes misted. “Most of it is a blank. It was about the time David and I were having our biggest problems. Right after that picture was taken he split, showed up all over Vegas the following week with a string of bimbos. I think he backed out on the picture as much to hurt me as to tweak Curt Nussbaum. David was so evil. God, I wish I’d never heard of him.”

  “That makes two of us.” Sharon stowed her pad and pen away. “But you did hear of him, from a close­up perspective. You can’t unhear of him, Darla, so we’ve got to play with the cards they dealt us.” She bit her inner cheek. “I’ve got to go into the courtroom and get set up now. They’ll be bringing you in soon.” She started to walk away.

  “Sharon?” Darla said softly, almost in a whisper. Sharon turned.

  “It will be all right, won’t it?” Darla’s knuckles whitened as her grip tightened on the bars. “Tell me things will be fine.”

  Sharon sighed. “Which brings us to the lawyer’s creed that you’re never supposed to represent a friend. Emotional involvement distorts one’s neutrality.”

  Sharon pursed her lips as a tear blurred her vision. “Hold your head high, Darla. Always. You’d be surprised what wonders it will work if you show confidence. No teary-eyed looks, okay? I might break down myself if you crater on me.”

  20

  Sharon came into the courtroom from the rear and headed resolutely for the defense side. In the five minutes before the hearing was to begin, she wanted to do some boning up. Proper legal procedure was out the window in this sideshow, that much she understood, but she still had to attack the FBI’s search warrant with both barrels. She passed the bench with her chin lowered, her thoughts on the pile of Xeroxed court decisions stowed inside her satchel. With any kind of legitimate ruling, she was certain she could have the gun excluded from evidence, but after the freak show she’d witnessed yesterday she just wasn’t sure. She wondered if the judge would pull out three rubber balls and go into a juggling act while he considered everyone’s arguments. Or if Milton Breyer might ride a white pony around the courtroom with Kathleen Fratemo, decked out in spangled tights, balanced on. his shoulders. She wouldn’t be surprised at anything which went on in this joke of a…