“Yes,” Sylvia Hendershot answered. “He said that if Richard Tresvant called anymore that day to tell him that he’d caught a flight to the San Francisco offices. Then he slammed the door to his office and didn’t come out anymore before I left for the night.”
“Was Mr. Bernard intending to catch a flight to San Francisco that evening?”
“No,” Sylvia Hendershot responded. “Mr. Bernard didn’t have any business at all in San Francisco that week.”
“No further questions,” the district attorney stated.
“Detective Fields, were you the lead detective called to the crime scene at 300 South Grand on March 11, 2005, the night that Phinnaeus Bernard III was murdered?”
“Yes,” Detective Fields answered.
“Please describe the murder scene when you arrived.”
“There was a 2005 silver Mercedes S500 parked on the third subterranean level of the parking structure at 300 South Grand. The driver’s side door was ajar. The victim inside the car was who we determined to be Mr. Phinnaeus Bernard III, a corporate attorney who worked within the building. He was already dead when we arrived at the crime scene. We determined the time of the murder to have occurred between one to two hours prior to our arrival at the crime scene. We believe that it was a professional hit. The shots were very precise, two shots to the chest and one to the head. The shots were likely to have been fired from a gun equipped with a silencer because the caliber of the firearm used in the murder would definitely have been loud enough to be heard and draw immediate attention. Security surveillance tapes that could potentially incriminate the perpetrator or perpetrators of the murder were taken. Then there was the hacking and deletion of security surveillance files from the building’s computer system. The whole thing was clearly very carefully and professionally orchestrated.”
All the while that Detective Fields provided details of what he and other LAPD officers found upon arrival at the murder scene, color slides of the murder scene were projected onto a large screen at the front of the courtroom. Jurors watched the changing frames of the murder scene with expressions of shock and discomfort. In a well-lit parking garage at an upscale office building in downtown Los Angeles’ business district, this prominent attorney had been snuffed off in cold blood. It was the stuff that blockbuster novels and movies were made of.
“What findings led you to identify the defendant, Mr. Richard Lawrence Tresvant, as a suspect in this murder?” the district attorney asked.
“There were substantial prints on the door handles and door frame of the car, as well as in the interior of the car. After completion of an analysis back at the crime lab, we determined that they were the prints of both Mr. Bernard as well as Richard Tresvant, the defendant.”
“After determining that Richard Tresvant’s fingerprints were at the murder scene, what did you do?”
“Because we were made aware that Mr. Tresvant was a client of the victim’s, Mr. Bernard, at Mr. Bernard’s law firm, and because we were also informed, by Mr. Bernard’s secretary, Ms. Hendershot, that Mr. Bernard and Mr. Tresvant had had lunch together that same day, the day of the murder, we contacted Mr. Tresvant to ask if he would come downtown to answer a few questions.”
“Did he agree to do so?” the district attorney asked.
“No,” Detective Fields responded. “He was completely uncooperative. He told us to…ahem… ’go and fuck ourselves.’ Mr. Tresvant and the Los Angeles Police Department have had a rather lengthy and certainly not the most civil history with one another.”
“Strike the expletive from the record,” Judge Bartholomew instructed the court stenographer.
“What did you do after Mr. Tresvant’s refusal to come downtown for questioning?”
“We secured a warrant to search Richard Tresvant’s primary residence and offices of business for the murder weapon.”
“What were your findings after securing the warrant?”
“We found the murder weapon.”
“Where did you find the murder weapon?”
“At Mr. Tresvant’s primary residence on Bellagio Terrace in Bel Air, sir. Following ballistics report confirmation, we immediately placed Mr. Tresvant under arrest for the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III.”
“No further questions, Detective Fields,” the district attorney said.
Anyone observing Keshari’s life would have to wonder if and when she ever slept and how she was able to dedicate sufficient time to her new romance to sustain it with the almost inhumanly lengthy list of business-related activities and tasks that inundated her typical day. She’d been following Ricky’s murder trial as if she was a member of his legal defense team. She kept continuous contact with his attorney and while she was at her office during the day, she kept her television tuned to the local news, truTV, or CNN for regular updates on the trial, which raised a few eyebrows among LTL staff.
Just two days before the launch of “Nationwide Search for a Star,” Keshari told Terrence to book her a flight to Palm Beach and have her house and car ready for her arrival in Palm Beach.
“What?!” Terrence said incredulously. “Keshari, it’s only two days before the L.A. auditions. You just got back from Jamaica. There is so much on your agenda and you’ve got a meeting scheduled with the accountants to be updated on the talent search project’s current expenses to make sure that it is staying within budget. This trip is a trip that you should absolutely postpone unless it’s a life and death emergency.”
“Just book the flight, T,” Keshari snapped irritably. “I’ve got business in Miami and it can’t be put off until another time.”
“Not a problem,” Terrence said quickly and left her office.
Terrence had heard the stories. There was no way that he could have worked with Keshari for as long as he had, as closely as he did, without being made aware of the industry rumors regarding who Keshari really was and her alleged high-ranking involvement in organized crime. Did Terrence believe the stories? In the beginning, he’d dismissed them entirely. In entertainment, the media and the so-called “industry insiders” who reported to the media, could take one, tiny tidbit of information, put a spin on it, and blow it entirely out of proportion. He’d seen it time and time again with other entertainers with whom he’d worked or through associates who also worked for well-known figures in the entertainment industry. Over time, though, Terrence had begun to seriously question the validity of some of those rumors. The more time passed and the more closely he worked with his beautiful, mysterious boss, the more he wondered about some of the spur-of-the-moment trips she took, some of the meetings that she took, and some of the people that she knew.
Keshari’s flight to Palm Beach was uneventful. A chauffeured car picked her up at the airport and drove her to the exclusive Gulf Stream community of Palm Beach where Keshari owned a $16 million, six-bedroom, contemporary Mediterranean-style home.
Her cell phone rang as the chauffeur carried her bag into the house and set it down in the foyer.
“What are you doing in Palm Beach?” Mars asked.
The tone of his voice indicated clearly that he was irritated with Keshari for leaving town without telling him anything.
“I have an urgent business meeting in the morning,” Keshari said. “You know my life, Mars. It goes a mile-a-minute. There are often spur-of-the-moment business meetings on the other side of the country and I’m not always able to provide notification regarding my itinerary to everybody who seeks it.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute,” Mars said. “Why are you so defensive? It’s me you’re talking to.”
“I’m not defensive, Mars. I’m tired. I just walked in from the airport and I need to get some sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow. I’m flying back into L.A. right after the meeting. Okay?”
Keshari hung up the phone and Mars sat, staring at the telephone receiver on his end, wondering what exactly was going on with her.
The next morning, as Keshari got ready to leave for her meeting with Enrico
Santiago at his home on Jupiter Island, Mars arrived.
“Mars, what in all FUCK are you doing here?!” Keshari snapped.
“What is going on with you?” Mars demanded.
He set his garment bag down and looked around him at the absolutely unbelievable, two-story entry of Keshari’s oceanfront, Palm Beach home. It was the first time that he’d been there and it was unfortunate that his impromptu trip was not under better circumstances.
“Mars, you should NOT have come here. I told you that I would be back in L.A. right after my meeting. Why are you blowing a business trip of mine completely out of proportion?!”
Keshari looked amazing in her cream, Valentino pantsuit, but the vibe that came from her was all high stress and, if Mars didn’t know better, she seemed to be hiding something as well.
“Keshari, for the very last time, WHAT is going on with you? Why are you being so damned hostile and evasive about this sudden flight to Florida? Did something happen? Does it have anything to do with this meeting that you’re headed to? We’ve maintained a constant, open line of communication, and suddenly you’ve just shut down. We’re in a relationship. I’m concerned and I want to know what’s up with you.”
“Mars, I can’t do this now. I’ll be late. My housekeeper will help you get settled and I’ll see you when I get back.”
Her baby blue Bentley Continental GT convertible sped off up the palm tree-lined drive of her gated home and was gone.
Threaded discreetly among the palm trees and palatial, multimillion-dollar homes of the Florida coast dwells a darker element of power and money that few are cognizant of. This element does not consist of the hardened, profanity-spewing, cigarette-smoking thugs dressed in black as depicted on HBO’s The Sopranos. These are the polished, golf-playing, grandfatherly multi-millionaires who run reputable, legitimate business enterprises and are major contributors to the arts and long-respected, American charities… and who amass the bulk of their fortunes in organized crime, trafficking literally billions of dollars worth of cocaine, heroin, and other illegal narcotics annually around the U.S., sometimes with some assistance directly from U.S. government, and despite their seemingly harmless, genteel appearances, are far more dangerous than any of the hoods from The Sopranos. Keshari had done her research and could trust the legitimacy of the information that she had acquired underground about the man she was about to meet more than she could trust the news on the front page of the Los Angeles Times.
“Keshari Mitchell, it is a pleasure to meet you,” Enrico Santiago said graciously as he escorted Keshari into the library of his luxurious, $22 million home on Jupiter Island.
The views from the 180 degrees of windows facing out onto the Atlantic Ocean were magnificent. A wall of first-edition books from Edgar Allan Poe, Mark Twain, and others lined the far wall from the ceiling to the floor. A large koi fountain sat in the center of the huge, marble-floored room. Skylights dotted the entire, twenty-two-foot, cathedral ceiling. The secluded, oceanfront location and the library were the mansion’s strongest selling points as far as Keshari was concerned, but she quickly regrouped from the critique of her beautiful surroundings. The Consortium needed a new supplier, someone who could easily furnish $100 million worth of high-purity cocaine from month to month. As well-mannered and refined as the silver-haired Enrico Santiago appeared, he was one of the most powerful criminals in Florida and he definitely possessed the capability to fill The Consortium’s needs.
“What can I do for you?” Enrico Santiago asked.
“My organization needs a new, exclusive supplier for a potentially long-term relationship. More specifically, my organization requires a minimum of 100 keys at 80 percent purity per month at thirty thousand dollars per key and full transport to our receiving locations in Los Angeles at your expense. My organization is prepared to commit to six months today.”
“Your organization seeks much on a silver platter, considering your current predicament.”
“Despite the current legal troubles that Rick is enduring, the organization remains fully operative and shall continue to be so, even if Rick is convicted.”
“I’m not convinced of that. Neither are other organizations, I’m sure. That is how you lost your connections with the Mexicans. Federal law enforcement is watching your every move right now. Be very sure of that. No one wants to be involved with that. It’s too risky.”
“We have powerful connections in federal law enforcement,” Keshari said.
“So do I,” Enrico Santiago stated. “However, for every ten federal agents that can be bought, there are two or three federal agents who possess a strong enough code of ethics that they can’t be bought at any price and they eat and sleep with the intense desire to completely destroy the livelihoods of people like us and put us behind bars for the rest of our lives.”
“Then we should pool our resources and make this far less of a problem,” Keshari said.
“Your terms, as they are, are not acceptable, Keshari.”
“What would make my terms more amenable to you, Mr. Santiago?”
He looked her over appraisingly before speaking. “Perhaps, if I had the opportunity to fuck the beautiful Keshari Mitchell, we could come to an agreement somewhere extremely close to your terms.”
“Mr. Santiago, I came here today and have dealt with you only with the utmost respect. That is the least of what I expect in return.”
Enrico Santiago did not respond. He sat, contemplatively staring at her breasts.
“Mr. Santiago, what kind of an arrangement would prove acceptable to the both of us?” Keshari asked. “I have another meeting and I’m confident that this organization will accept my terms.”
“The Jamaicans?” Enrico questioned and snickered. “That will be a mess and you know it. I run America’s cocaine supply…before the Mexicans, the Jamaicans, or anyone else. The smartest thing that you did was come to me.”
“Then tell me what terms are more doable for you,” Keshari said again. “Time is of the essence. My organization has a sizeable client base with regular product demands.”
Enrico smiled and rubbed his hands together.
“You come here alone and unarmed, as if you have no doubts about what the outcome of this meeting will be. You’ve got some pair of balls on you, young lady, and that’s more than I can say for a lot of these men currently working in our profession. If nothing else, I’ve got to respect you for that. You’re beautiful, you’re extremely smart…with an MBA from the Wharton School…you see, I’ve done my research, too. You have the potential to be far more dangerous and deceptive than the men in this business realize.
“Here are my terms. The product price is thirty-seven…at least until your organization works beyond your current legal troubles. You will pay an additional fifteen percent of the product price each month for transportation.”
“That’s acceptable,” Keshari said, having resolved it in her mind prior to the meeting that concessions would more than likely have to be made, with all of the leverage on the side of the potential supplier.
“And if I should wind up entangled in some uncomfortable situation with federal law,” Enrico continued, “you will be the first to die. Comprende?”
“But of course,” Keshari replied.
“Very well then. How soon are you seeking delivery?”
“Exactly one month from today,” Keshari responded. “One hundred fifty keys to start. Eighty percent purity is non-negotiable.”
“These are the delivery points,” she stated, placing a list of Consortium-owned residences, warehouses, and businesses in front of him on his very expansive, carved, mahogany desk. “I can initiate transfer of funds prior to my flight back to Los Angeles tonight. The full funds transfer will be finalized upon confirmation of delivery of all segments of the shipment. Funds will be coming from my organization’s Grand Cayman account.”
Enrico Santiago wrote down details for an account that he held in the Bahamas to which Consortium funds would be pa
id.
“We will speak again very soon,” he said. “Let me show you out.”
Keshari got back to her home in the Gulf Stream section of Palm Beach and was far less wound up than she’d been before she’d left earlier that morning. Mars was outside doing laps in the infinity pool. Keshari went out onto the poolside patio, took off her jacket, and tossed it on the chaise beside the pool. She kicked off her sandals and began to take off everything else. Nude, she dove smoothly into the pool as Mars made his turn at the opposite end.
“Hey,” Keshari said when Mars arrived back at her end of the pool.
“Hey, yourself,” Mars responded.
He noticed that she wasn’t wearing a bathing suit. She waded over to Mars and kissed him, her body and her lips drawing him in like an invitation to the very best party.
“I take it that your meeting went well,” he said.
“My entire life is about to change,” Keshari answered.
In a caravan of black Cadillac Escalades, Keshari and her crew rolled through Universal Studios’ gates for the first day of the Los Angeles auditions in Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment’s “Nationwide Search for a Star.” The massive lines of auditioners and their families and friends, many of whom had camped out all night to secure a good place in line, whooped with excitement as they watched the caravan of luxury trucks roll past. It was 5 a.m.
An escort awaited the arrival of the Larger Than Lyfe crew and took Keshari and the group of executives and assistants to the soundstage where the auditions would be held. Universal Studios management had tried to anticipate their every need. Fresh coffee, bottled water, scones, fresh fruit and Danishes, legal pads, pens, and telephones had been organized neatly on long conference-style tables at stage left. Connections had been wired for their laptops and PDAs. A panel had been set up where Keshari, Andre DeJesus, Sharonda Richards, and three other executives from LTL’s A & R department would critique and select the ten very lucky, very talented finalists from the thousands of hopefuls who were lined up outside to audition over the next week.
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