by Melody Mayer
“Free my mom! Free my mom!” Sid began to chant.
Kiley could feel the colonel's glower from fifty paces away. She really, really disliked the man. According to Lydia, the colonel was cheating on his wife with Lydia's nonhetero boss, Anya Kuriakova. Lydia claimed to have caught them red-handed on the club golf course, with his marine-saluting palm on Anya's tush. Kiley liked Susan, Platinum's sister. The idea that her asshole of a husband was cheating on her—
“Free Platinum now! Free Platinum now!” the crowd chanted in response to Sid, who was pumping his fist in the air.
Kiley tugged the kids forward. “Come on, we have to go.” The kids might feel at home in this circus, but Kiley's churning stomach told her she had a long way to go.
“Bruce, is it true you did drugs with your mom?”
“Sid! Serenity! This way!”
“Entertainment Tonight—if I could just talk with you a moment!”
Kiley tried to tune out all the voices coming at them and urged the kids forward.
“Kiley! Hey, Kiley!”
She recognized that voice, and turned to try to locate it in the crowd. Tom Chappelle, the six-foot blond model who by some fluke of nature Kiley was dating, was muscling his way toward her. In an old blue tennis shirt and faded jeans, he looked better than anyone else looked in a tux.
“Tom!” she shouted back, and the reporters pressed closer to her.
“Are you and Kiley a couple? Did you see kids doing drugs at Platinum's house?” one reporter shouted.
“No comment,” Tom called over his shoulder. “Hey.” He hugged Kiley. All around them, people snapped their embrace with cameras and cell phones. Tom, after all, was famous. Kiley felt utterly, hopelessly self-conscious.
“What are you doing here?” Kiley asked him.
“Same as everybody. I'm here to see Platinum,” Tom teased.
Kiley whapped him on the shoulder.
“I came for you, Miss McCann.” He gave her a dazzling smile. “But if you want me to head back into that teeming crowd—”
“God, no!” Kiley exclaimed. “Thanks for coming. It means a lot to me.”
“McCann!” the colonel boomed, hands cupped to his mouth. “Front and center, double-time!”
“That guy so rubs me the wrong way,” Tom muttered.
Kiley's reply was lost in the roar of the crowd, which began chanting Platinum's name. Kiley turned. The rock star had just emerged from her silver stretch limo with a burly bodyguard on each side, and they, the sheriffs, and her trio of attorneys began to move toward the courthouse steps.
“Mom!” Serenity cried. “Wow. Why is she dressed so weird?”
It occurred to Kiley that by “weird,” Serenity meant “normal.” Kiley could not remember Platinum looking more businesslike. In a gray skirt suit and wide Chanel sunglasses, she looked about as serious and determined as her lead lawyer, Richie Singleton. Richie was straight out of central casting. African American, with a trim mustache, wearing an immaculate Ralph Lauren suit with a yellow power tie, he was all business.
“Mom!” Sid yelled, jumping up and down and waving his arms.
Platinum spotted her children pushing through the crowd toward her. Richie gave his lawyerly nod of blessing, and Platinum scooped up Sid in one suited arm and Serenity in the other while Bruce hugged the three from the side. If it wasn't for Kiley's knowledge of Platinum's underappreciated acting prowess, she would swear that the rock star's joyous tears came from the heart and not from the opportunity for good press.
Then Platinum motioned to Kiley, blinking teary false lashes. “Come on in here! You're part of the family, too!” Sid and Serenity opened their arms to welcome Kiley as the photographers did their thing.
Kiley obliged, even though she felt absolutely ridiculous.
Someone pushed a microphone into Platinum's face. She turned to address the throng. “I just want the members of the media and the whole city of Los Angeles to know that I'm innocent. I will be acquitted of all the charges. And I will get my kids back. Now, thank you for coming out. It means the world to me.”
Cheers erupted among nine-tenths of the crowd. A few family-values naysayers catcalled at the fringes, but they were quickly drowned out by the cheers.
“My lawyers and I will fight tooth and nail to get this lamebrain bull”—Richie shook his head with wide eyes at hearing the red flag—“crud overturned.”
More cheering. Kiley knew from experience that Platinum was not one to curb her language, but if ever there was a time for it, it was now. Near the back, she noticed a group of people holding a banner with the words PLATIMUM 4EVA in neat red lettering. Then it became impossible to hear or talk, because a news helicopter started circling overhead.
“We need to go in now,” Platinum's lawyer insisted, and the group headed for the courthouse steps, where the colonel and Susan had long been waiting. Kiley and Tom brought up the rear.
“Ms. McCann, a moment?” A handsome middle-aged man in an impeccable charcoal Armani suit and wingtip shoes approached Kiley.
“Spencer Lacroix,” he said, introducing himself. Kiley saw Platinum and the kids disappear inside with her entourage.
Tom put a protective arm around Kiley. “We need to go in, Kiley—”
“I only need a moment, Mr. Chappelle,” the older man insisted. “I loved your work in The Ten, by the way.”
The Ten was a blockbuster movie in which Tom had had a small role.
Once Tom had moved away, Mr. Lacroix wasted no time in pulling a small envelope from his breast pocket and offering it to Kiley. “There's five hundred dollars in there. Buy something nice to wear to court tomorrow.”
Kiley furrowed her brow and tried to hand back the envelope. “I don't know who you are or what you want, but I don't want your money.”
“It's a gift. It would be rude to refuse a gift, wouldn't it?” Mr. Lacroix said smugly before registering Kiley's distrust. “I'm editor in chief of the Universe? The most-read celebrity magazine in the entire world?”
Kiley knew the Universe. It was right up there with the Star and People, though it had a reputation for being more of a scandal sheet.
“I see from the look on your face you know my magazine,” Mr. Lacroix continued. “And here's what I know. You're Platinum's nanny from Wisconsin, your mom's name is Jeanne, and you're starting at Bel Air High in the fall. I also know that if anybody could use a big increase in their bottom line, it's you.”
Kiley's stomach tightened. “What do you want?” She felt Tom's arm tighten around her shoulders.
The editor leaned closer. “If you want two hundred more of those envelopes with your name on 'em, all you have to do is sit down with us for a nice easy talk on Platinum. I'm talking a hundred thousand dollars.”
But wait. That couldn't be right. She had to double-check. “Did you just say—”
“Six figures starting with a one,” he confirmed. “All you have to do is tell us about Platinum. The inside scoop the outside world wants to know.”
Kiley couldn't imagine betraying Platinum. Even worse would be betraying the kids, who trusted her completely. She thrust the envelope back at Spencer Lacroix.
“I'm sorry. I'm not the right person for this. You'll have to get someone else.”
As if Kiley was threatening him, Lacroix backed away with his hands up.
“Whoa, Kiley. Not so fast. Look, I'll let you in on a little secret. The Universe is going to run the story anyway. We know all about the household, the drugs, the neglect. As far as your boss is concerned, the damage is already done. Platinum is bound for jail, these kids are going to be under the protection of the state, and the only thing you can do is think about your own future. All we want is a few quotes. You might as well get a little recompense for your trouble.” He took two more steps back. “Spencer Lacroix. I'll find you.”
Then he turned on his heel and left as smoothly as he had appeared.
Kiley hustled through the courthouse doors and took the e
levator to the courtroom. There was a mob scene right outside the courtroom too, but down the hall a little bit, Kiley noticed Platinum's lead attorney pacing. His face lit up when he saw her. “There you are! Thought you might have abandoned ship. But I should have known, you got that McCann-do attitude.”
Singleton adjusted his glasses. “Ms. McCann, I tried to contact you sooner about this, but I'll have to tell you now. I'm going to need you to testify. It won't be until later this week, but it's crucially important. Please tell me I can count on you.”
Well, this wasn't unexpected. But if she was going to testify in a court of law, she would do it on her own terms. “Yes. I'll testify. But only if I can tell the truth.”
A wide smile spread across Singleton's lips as he opened the mahogany door. “That's all I ask. Now hurry inside, you two, before you miss the big entrance.”
The courtroom was the biggest in the building. Rows of seating for a hundred spectators, the judge's bench high above the floor, and big windows that let in plenty of natural sunlight that reflected off the cool chromium of the courtroom's floors. Kiley spotted Sid and Serenity in the second row. Bruce was sitting with the colonel and Susan several rows back. Tom was near them.
“Do you think Mommy will win?” Serenity asked as Kiley slid in beside her.
Kiley mustered up the most reassuring smile she could. “Of course she will, sweetie. You'll be seeing her in no time.”
She wished she could believe it as much as it sounded like she did.
She was about to offer more reassuring—if vacant—words, when a hefty bailiff with bald spots stomped in from a rear door and stood at attention in front of the judge's bench. “Oyez, oyez, oyez. Silence is commanded on pain of imprisonment while the honorable Judge Timothy Terhune of the Superior Court of the State of California enters the room. All rise.”
Judge Terhune entered, swung his gavel into the bench like a hatchet, shuffled some papers, and then addressed the gallery. “Now, before we begin, I know this is a particularly high-profile case, so I want to make perfectly clear that this court will disallow the use of any and all photography. And there are no televisions in this courtroom, as you can see. This is a closed court.” He surveyed the room to let the statement's gravity sink in. “We're not trying to draw an iron curtain here, but I don't want to be accused of turning the courtroom into a three-ring circus.”
The gallery nodded solemnly. “So as long as we can maintain some decorum, I think the proceedings will go smoothly. Thank you. Bailiff, the defendant, please.”
Another bailiff opened the rear door. Platinum entered, with Richie Singleton at her right hand and his team of supporting lawyers in tow. She looked as vigilant as the figurehead on a ship, her solemn face preparing for the trial.
So much for Judge Terhune's appeal for restraint. The courtroom thundered its applause for the celebrity defendant.
Judge Terhune hammered his gavel until the clapping died down. “Order! Order! Will the defendant please take her seat?”
He waited patiently until Platinum turned from the gallery and gracefully sat. “In the case of the State of California versus Ms. Rhonda Jones.” Laughter overtook the last part of his sentence, and Terhune was forced to wait until the hilarity of Platinum's little-known legal name had washed through the courtroom. “Is the prosecution ready for its opening statement?”
“Today marked the first day of the Platinum child-endangerment and drug trial at the Beverly Hills courthouse. Let's go to Maria-José Escalera for a summary of the day's proceedings. Maria-José?”
The television picture shifted to the courthouse steps, where a beautiful, slender Latina reporter with perfectly arched brows and too much maroon lip gloss was reporting. Esme edged closer to a television suspended over the bar at Deep South, the popular cowboy/country music club in the heart of Hollywood. This club was the venue of the wrap party for Montgomery, the set-in-the-Deep-South small-town indie picture in which Jonathan Gold-hagen had a major role.
Though by Hollywood standards the movie was low budget—in the six- or seven-million-dollar range—the wrap party itself was lavish. There was a chuckwagon buffet, a five-piece country band rocking the house, two mechanical bulls set up inside a small corral of hay bales, and what seemed like the cast, crew, and families of several indie movies and one or two studio blockbusters in attendance. Most everyone was clad in western wear for the party, except for Esme. She'd worn black jeans with white stitching, a black tank top, and one of Jonathan's custom-made white cotton dress shirts over it, knotted just above her waist. She just couldn't see herself in chaps and a cowboy hat.
Jonathan stepped up behind her; she felt him put his strong arms around her. She leaned into him. “Watching the news?”
“Shhh.” Esme really wanted to hear. “It's about Kiley's boss.”
“Okay, okay. Let's check it out. Then let's mingle.”
They listened as the reporter briefly described the day's proceedings in the courtroom and the media circus outside. Since the judge was not permitting cameras in the courtroom, it was up to reporters like this one to give their impressions of the testimony and the lawyers' performances. As Jonathan and Esme watched, Escalera waxed poetic about both the prosecution's and the defense's opening statement, and related that actual testimony would start the day after tomorrow because the judge had previously scheduled a minor medical procedure.
“The nature of that medical procedure is still a mystery, but Judge Terhune assured the lawyers and the jury that he'd be back in court on Wednesday. This is Maria-José Escalera, Eyewitness News.”
The moment the broadcast was over, Esme saw a cowboy-hatted, bandanna-wearing bartender point a remote at the TV and switch it over to the end of the Dodgers' game with the Mets.
So much for interest in the real news of the day, Esme thought.
Jonathan lifted Esme's hair and brushed his fingertips across the back of her neck, making her shudder. In a good way. “How's Kiley doing?” he asked.
“I think okay, I haven't talked to her since— Hey, there she is. Let's go ask her.”
Kiley had just stepped into the bar area with her boyfriend, Tom.
“Tell you what, I've got to go check in with my director. I haven't seen him all night,” Jonathan said, then patted his pants for his phone. “Get the coverage, text me, and I'll hook up with you when the speeches begin.”
Esme was mildly disappointed that Jonathan didn't want to hang out with her, but she understood. Movies were a business, just like nannying or tattooing. There were things you wanted to do and things you had to do. The things you had to do always came first. Tonight, the thing that Jonathan had to do was put on a good show for everyone associated with his movie.
“No problem.” She stood on tiptoe—Jonathan was easily six foot two—and kissed him, then watched him in his faded Levi's and checkered shirt as he threaded through the thick crowd into the main room of the club. Meanwhile, she saw Kiley and Tom working their way over to her.
“How's my favorite non-felon?” Esme quipped.
Her friend sighed. “I don't drink, otherwise I'd be drunk.”
Tom rubbed Kiley's neck sympathetically. “I'm gonna get myself a beer. You want anything?”
The way Tom touched Kiley made Esme smile. So many times, Kiley had worried about whether Tom was into Kiley as much as she was into him. That gentle touch answered that question, so long as Kiley was secure enough to listen to it.
“Just a Coke, I guess,” Kiley told Tom as he moved off to the bar.
“Coke it is.”
Esme couldn't help admiring the rear view as Tom sidled up to the bartender. “Looking good.”
“Imagine,” Kiley joked, “that and a hundred thousand dollars.”
Esme raised her eyebrows. “Someone is paying you a hundred thousand dollars to date someone that hot? Sign me up.”
“It isn't like that.” Kiley frowned, then quickly explained how she'd been approached outside the courthouse by an e
ditor from the Universe and offered six figures to tell her story to the magazine.
“Damn,” Esme said. “Are you going to do it?”
“Do what?”
Esme and Kiley turned. There was Lydia, in the shortest Daisy Duke cutoffs Esme had ever seen, an old Houston Oilers football jersey that had been chopped practically to nothing with scissors or a knife, and a straw cowboy hat that would have looked stupid on almost anyone else but that was astonishingly sexy on her.
“Hey, y'all. Before you ask—yes, I'm here with Billy. I didn't get a chance to thank you properly, Esme. So here are some Amazon-style thanks.” With those words, she flung herself into Esme's arms with so much enthusiasm that Esme was literally rocked back on her heels.
Esme was not used to being grabbed like that, and frankly, she didn't like it. On the other hand, she really liked Lydia. “You're welcome. Where's Billy, then?”
Lydia chucked her chin toward the main room. “Back there someplace. He's friends with the production designer on Jonathan's movie. I think they're networking.” She turned to Kiley. “So who are you going to do?”
Esme had to laugh. For a girl who had very little actual sexual experience, Lydia certainly talked about it a lot. “Believe it or not, we weren't talking about sex. It was about money.”
Lydia grinned. “Two subjects near and dear to my heart. Do tell, Kiley.”
One more time, Kiley told the story of the magazine guy from the Universe who had offered her all the money for her story.
“You're going to do it, aren't you?” Lydia's head swiveled as a chiseled, barechested African American guy in cowboy chaps strode by.
“How can I?” Kiley asked. “It's not my story to tell.”
Lydia pulled down the brim of her cowboy hat and exaggerated her drawl. “It's like this, sweet pea. Y'all are gonna fess up on the witness stand for free anyway. Why not get some benefit from it?”
“Because it's just … it's not right,” Kiley insisted.
