Larger Than Lyfe

by Cynthia Diane Thornton

  “Is it your professional belief that the fingerprint evidence provided to your laboratory by LAPD is not evidence taken from the scene of the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III?” Barry Scheck continued.

  “It is my professional opinion that the fingerprint evidence provided by LAPD and analyzed by my laboratory is NOT evidence taken on March 11, 2005, from the crime scene of the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III. It would be chronologically impossible.”

  “Do you believe that the evidence that your laboratory analyzed is planted evidence?” Barry Scheck asked.

  “One logical conclusion for physical evidence whose age substantially predates the date of the crime, from which the evidence was supposed to have been taken, is that this evidence was planted,” Adam Crichton stated.

  “Thank you,” Barry Scheck stated. “No further questions.”

  “Sir, please provide the jury and prosecution with a brief summary of your background and credentials,” Larry Steinberg stated.

  “I possess a Bachelor of Science degree in Psychology from UCLA. I attended the Backster School of Lie Detection in San Diego. I am a certified forensic law enforcement polygraph examiner who is an active member of the American Association of Police Polygraphists. I have testified in criminal cases for both defendants and prosecutors for more than ten years.”

  “My client, the defendant, submitted to a polygraph test with you following his arrest for the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III. Is that correct?”

  “That is correct,” the polygraphist responded.

  “I am going to keep things as simple as possible so that members of the jury are not bombarded with too much technical information amidst all of the other extensive details that they will be requested to analyze in deliberations.

  “Per the results of the polygraph test that you administered to Richard Tresvant,” Larry Steinberg continued, “did Richard Tresvant murder Phinnaeus Bernard III?”

  “No,” the polygraphist answered.

  “Per the results of the polygraph test, did Richard Tresvant have any knowledge of or was he involved in any way in the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III?”

  “No,” the polygraphist answered.

  “No further questions,” Larry Steinberg stated quickly and walked away from the witness stand.

  Spectators in the courtroom were now on the edges of their seats. The defense was dropping massive bombshells that would be the continuously running top news story on virtually every Los Angeles television network for the rest of the week.

  “Mr. Cooley, are you prepared for cross?” Judge Bartholomew asked the district attorney.

  “Absolutely,” Steve Cooley said, hopping up from the prosecution table and approaching the witness stand.

  “Sir, you state that the results of the polygraph exam administered to the defendant indicated conclusively that Richard Tresvant did not murder Phinnaeus Bernard III and had no knowledge of Phinnaeus Bernard’s murder. Aren’t there literally thousands of websites on the internet that tell people step-by-step how to fool a lie detector?”

  “Objection, Your Honor!” Larry Steinberg snapped. “By California law, polygraph tests are admissible for trial. Questioning the reliability of the polygraph exam is a moot point.”

  “I’ll allow the question,” Judge Bartholomew responded.

  Larry Steinberg irritably took his seat.

  “Please answer the question,” Steve Cooley repeated to the polygraphist. “Aren’t there literally thousands of websites on the internet that provide people with all the information they need to deceive a lie detector?”

  “I’m quite certain that there are,” the polygraphist answered, “but I think that the most important factor in the polygraph exam and the reliability of its results is the professional skill of the polygraphist in analyzing those results.”

  “Nevertheless, a determined person, especially a highly sophisticated criminal or sociopath, can and has successfully faked his or her way through passing a polygraph exam. Isn’t that correct?” Steve Cooley asked.

  “That is correct, sir,” the polygraphist answered.

  “And it is very possible that Richard Lawrence Tresvant, the defendant, faked his way through the polygraph exam that leads you to state conclusively as an expert that he did not murder Phinnaeus Bernard III. Isn’t that correct?”

  “That is correct, sir,” the polygraphist answered.

  “No further questions,” the prosecutor said.

  The last defense witness of the day was probably one of the most highly anticipated witnesses to take the stand in the entire trial.

  “Mr. Bumgaarten, you are the son of very prominent attorney and real estate developer Victor Bumgaarten. Is that correct?”

  “That is correct,” Walter Bumgaarten smiled, “but, at this rather late point in my life, I’d like to believe that I’ve made a substantial name for myself. I am a rather prominent real estate developer in my family’s business, just as my father is.”

  “Absolutely, absolutely,” Larry Steinberg responded with a smile.

  There were twitters of laughter around the courtroom at Mr. Bumgaarten’s humor.

  Walter Bumgaarten was an affable man in his early sixties. He had sterling good looks that could most likely be attributed to his Swedish/Nordic lineage. He’d been educated at Yale and abroad. He came from a family of “blue bloods.” His family was comprised of well-known members of society, on both the East and the West Coasts. They were well-bred, well-educated real estate moguls and philanthropists. Richard Tresvant, on the other hand, was a “boy from the ‘hood” who couldn’t for the life of him keep himself from being consistently linked to organized criminal activities and whose sizeable “entrepreneur’s” fortune and its origins were constantly in question. The fact that these two men from such vastly different worlds were such good friends had raised more than a few eyebrows long before Richard Tresvant was charged with first-degree murder. Theirs was one of the oddest couplings indeed.

  “So, tell me, Mr. Bumgaarten,” Larry Steinberg continued, “how did you and Mr. Tresvant, the defendant, meet?”

  “We met at a black-tie political fundraiser several years ago,” Walter Bumgaarten answered. “He’s a brilliant man, brilliant. No formal education beyond high school, but I must say with all frankness that he is a very astute businessman, one of the smartest people I know…certainly smarter than some of my associates possessing family fortunes amassed from oil, degrees from Yale, and a couple of questionably successful runs for the United States Presidency.”

  There was more laughter in the courtroom.

  “And, despite the substantial age difference, would you say that you and Richard Tresvant are friends?” Larry Steinberg asked.

  “Yes, absolutely. Richard Tresvant is a very good friend of mine…despite the substantial age difference,” Walter Bumgaarten replied amiably.

  “Have you ever done business with Richard Tresvant?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  Larry Steinberg clarified his question. “Have you ever contracted in any formal agreement and/or exchanged monies toward any type of business enterprise?”

  “No,” Walter Bumgaarten stated. “I did refer him to the broker that he used to purchase his current residence in Bel Air. We’ve had some serious discussions regarding real estate development, as Mr. Tresvant branches much more seriously into that area. As a matter of fact, we were meeting about a real estate development project on the night that…ahem…that Mr. Phinnaeus Bernard III was killed.”

  “Have you ever heard of Mr. Tresvant having any involvement in organized crime?” Larry Steinberg asked.

  “Of course,” Walter Bumgaarten answered. “I’ve heard stories that portrayed Richard like the John Gotti of the West Coast. I put no stock in any of it. I rely upon my personal dealings with the man to form any assessments of his character, and I know that he is an upstanding guy. He did not come from a background like mine, but he certainly upholds many of the same core b
eliefs that I uphold.”

  “Do you have any direct knowledge of Richard Tresvant’s involvement in any kind of illegal activity?”

  “Absolutely not,” Walter Bumgaarten answered.

  “Mr. Bumgaarten, on the evening of March 11, 2005, you stated that you, Richard Tresvant, Richard Tresvant’s attorney, and former Mayor Richard Riordan got together at Mr. Tresvant’s Bel Air home for dinner. Is that correct?”

  “Yes. We discussed a potential, major, residential development project in Downtown Los Angeles. It was not a formal meeting. We were simply getting together over dinner to toss some ideas and numbers around. I play golf all the time with Dick Riordan and asked him to join us.”

  “So, there was a strong possibility for you to get directly involved in a business deal with Mr. Tresvant?” Larry Steinberg asked.

  “With the downtown condo project? Yes…absolutely.”

  “And, considering the many stories that you’ve heard about Mr. Tresvant being linked to organized crime and the questionable source of his wealth, you had no misgivings about entering into a business deal with him?”

  “None whatsoever,” Walter Bumgaarten responded.

  “At approximately what time did you all get together that evening for dinner at Richard Tresvant’s home?”

  “I’d say that I made it to the house sometime after five,” Walter Bumgaarten responded. “Dick Riordan didn’t arrive until about seven.”

  “Was there anyone else present?” Larry Steinberg asked.

  “With the exception of the housekeepers and security, no,” Walter Bumgaarten responded.

  “What transpired over the course of the evening? What did you all do?”

  “Richard and I chipped a few golf balls on his back lawn. Dick arrived and we had drinks and dinner. Then we had a few more drinks…”

  There were more twitters of laughter from the spectators in the courtroom.

  “We discussed the downtown condo development project,” Walter Bumgaarten continued. “We tossed around some numbers, and did a bit of networking regarding bankers we each knew who would best be suited to help make this thing happen.”

  “When would you say that you and Mr. Riordan wrapped up dinner and your meeting and left Mr. Tresvant’s Bel Air home that evening of March 11, 2005?” Larry Steinberg asked.

  “Ten thirty…10:45…,” Walter Bumgaarten answered. “We got quite involved in our discussion. This downtown condo project could be an incredibly lucrative venture with all that’s taking place development-wise around the Staples Center right now.”

  “So, Mr. Bumgaarten, considering that the time window for the murder of Phinnaeus Bernard III has been established to have been between 8 and 10 p.m., would you say that it was possible that Richard Tresvant murdered Phinnaeus Bernard III?”

  “Unless he can somehow manage to be in two places at one time,” Walter Bumgaarten stated, “it is impossible for him to have murdered Phinnaeus Bernard III because he was at his home during that entire time, meeting with me.”

  “No further questions,” Larry Steinberg said.

  Phinnaeus Bernard III’s widow burst into tears and had to be taken out of the courtroom.

  “Babygirl, I must say that I am thoroughly, thoroughly impressed. Any man who can manage to take you away from that record label for three entire days and would not take ‘no’ for an answer when he did it, has got to be a keeper. I can’t wait to meet him. I guess somebody’s finally taking the advice of her five-months-younger, wiser, finer sister.”

  Keshari rolled her eyes at her best friend. She and Misha had been kicking back in one of the dressing rooms at Gucci for well over two hours. Keshari sipped a glass of Perrier Jouët while Misha turned this way and that in front of the mirrored wall, admiring her golden, size 6 body in a black number that plunged toward her navel in front and dared to plunge right down past her ass in back. The expensive fabric flowed over her body like liquid.

  “Girl, that’s the one.” Keshari grinned. “Get it and let’s get the hell out of here. I have a business meeting to go over the finalized arrangements and expenses for the Atlanta auditions. Not all of us have the desire to dedicate our lives to shopping.”

  “I work hard, babygirl. I play hard, too…and so should you. Black belt shopping is but one of the rewards for long strings of fourteen-hour workdays.”

  Misha sauntered over to the door in a black La Perla bra and matching thong and waved to the sales associate to let her know that she was ready. Keshari shook her head. Her friend never did have an ounce of shame.

  Since Keshari had missed the New York auditions, she was making it up to her crew by throwing a huge bash to kick off their arrival in Georgia for the Atlanta auditions. She’d hired Misha to put it all together at the Coca-Cola Roxy Theatre, the same venue as the Atlanta auditions. Mars was planning to fly to Atlanta for part of the week and was planning to attend the party. Keshari wanted Mars to meet Misha while he was there.

  Jagged Edge was one of the groups booked to perform at the Atlanta kickoff party and, of course, the presence of the music industry’s sexiest, thugged-out, R & B twins, Brandon and Brian Casey, required Misha to go out and buy $2,200 worth of man-stealing, baddest-bitch-in-the-room caliber attire. There would be no competition when she went on the prowl that night and the dress that she’d selected guaranteed it.

  Misha flopped on the loveseat beside Keshari and slid into her Mizrahi trousers while the sales associate took her platinum American Express card and went out to process the sale.

  “Are you happy?” Misha asked. “You look happy.”

  Keshari smiled. “I’m happy. I’m…very happy.”

  “You’ve fallen in love with him, haven’t you?”

  Keshari was hesitant, feeling almost silly to acknowledge how she felt so soon into her new relationship.

  “Girl, you’re talkin’ to me,” Misha quipped, “your sister. You can tell me how you feel. Hell, it’s written all over your face.”

  “Yes,” Keshari answered.

  “Is he in love with you?” Misha asked.

  “Yes,” Keshari answered without any doubt.

  “Does my brother know?”

  “Yeah,” Keshari answered. “He’s the reason I’ve got the new Range Rover.”

  She hesitated for a moment before telling Misha the rest.

  “I also told Rick that I wanted out of the organization.”

  “Oh, damn,” Misha said, knowing exactly what was involved and what could potentially happen in trying to walk away from where Keshari stood in the drug game. “Are you okay? Do you need me to talk to that bastard?”

  “Yes, I’m okay,” Keshari said, “and, no, I don’t want you talking to anybody. I don’t want you involved in this in any way. I just can’t do it anymore and I can’t look Mars in the eye and continue lying to him.”

  “Key, of all the people I know, you deserve to realize some true happiness…and peace of mind. Don’t worry about my brother. Fuck my brother’s business affairs, too. Take care of YOU and be happy…with Mars.”

  “I wish it were that simple.”

  “It IS that simple,” Misha said dismissively. “When do I get to meet my soon-to-be brother-in-law?”

  “It’s not that deep yet,” Keshari answered, “but he is coming to Atlanta to meet you and if you embarrass me by interrogating him like you work for the police, I’m going to kick your ass.”

  Mars was in the underground garage at ASCAP, on his way home to finish packing before his limousine arrived to take him to the airport, when he was approached by a young reporter.

  “Mr. Buchanan, how does it feel to be romantically linked to the most powerful woman in the music industry? Is your relationship serious? Have there been discussions of marriage?”

  “I have a great admiration for Keshari Mitchell’s accomplishments in the music industry. I also possess a great deal of respect for her privacy. I have no further comment.”

  “It’s been rumored in the industry t
hat Keshari Mitchell is connected to one of the most powerful crime organizations in the country. Are you aware of this? Are you involved in her illegal business dealings in any way?”

  “Do you want to find yourself and whatever sleazy tabloid you represent knee-deep in litigation?”

  “Nah, bro,” the young, overzealous reporter responded. “It’s not that deep. I’m just doing my job.”

  “Then get the fuck away from me…and try to find yourself a real job. You call this fucking journalism?!”

  Mars slid behind the wheel of his Mercedes and sped away.

  Limousines lined up outside Atlanta’s Coca-Cola Roxy as if it was Grammy night at the Shrine Auditorium. Misha, known throughout the entertainment industry, particularly in Los Angeles, for putting together some of entertainment elite’s most talked about parties, had flown to Atlanta days before everyone else to orchestrate every single nut and bolt of the night’s festivities. With a blank check from Keshari and carte blanche to do whatever she wanted, Misha promised her best friend a Larger Than Lyfe Entertainment party that would be nothing short of spectacular and, from the looks of the night’s turnout, Misha had certainly kept her promise. Atlanta was the Los Angeles of the Dirty South. People loved to flaunt their success in every way that they could and without apology, from their world-famous, designer-labeled clothes to the cars that they drove, and even with the people they dated…sporting scantily clad women of mixed ethnic background on their arms like another piece of diamond-encrusted jewelry. The atmosphere both outside and inside the Roxy was pure excess, money and ego both vying with one another to dominate the evening.

  Keshari’s limousine pulled up to the front of the music hall and everything seemed to momentarily pause as she stepped from the car before photographers leapt at the opportunity to photograph her with Mars Buchanan. Keshari was dressed like a rock star as she stepped from the car and grabbed Mars’s hand. She wore black, beaded, Armani short-shorts that gave full exposure to her killer legs, a matching, beaded bikini top under a black Armani tuxedo jacket, and four-inch Jimmy Choo sandals. A diamond belly chain that was a gift from Mars accentuated a toned stomach that would give Janet Jackson a run for her money. She was definitely a music mogul who operated by her own set of rules.