Shooting Stars

by Jennifer Buhl

  Skylar Martin Peak, 24, and Philip John Hildebrand, 30, both of Malibu, were each charged with one misdemeanor count of battery for attacking Richid Altmbareckouhammou, who was working for a French news agency, the Los Angeles District Attorney’s office said.

  Officials claim the two men threw Altmbareckouhammou into the water from where he was taking pictures on the beach. Each faces up to six months in jail and a $2,000 fine.

  (Reporting by Bob Tourtellotte; editing by Jill Serjeant and Eric Walsh)

  It took two months for charges to be filed, and I hear it was only because of pressure from the paparazzo’s attorney. And while I seriously doubt it will change the way Malibu views the paparazzi, rectification is nice. And who knows, maybe someday justice will be served.16

  Would the paper mention me soon too? I get a second note from Detective Gonzalez asking me to contact him. This time I check with Georgia, who specializes in contract law for a uniform company, but who is, these days, getting familiar with criminal law as well as family law, thanks to me. She agrees with CXN. “Ignore it. If they want you, they can get a warrant.”

  My initial guilt, though, has turned to anger, and my pride has resurfaced. I shouldn’t have bitten Frank Opis, true, but I only did it because his nasty pap hand was by my mouth when he was pushing my camera into my face!

  It’s not the L.A. courts I fear. If Paris can handle community service or a few days in county jail, I can too. It’s the threat of a civil suit that looms over me like the devil’s cape—that’s the one that would force me to get a lawyer and drain my money as fast as a tap at a UCLA keg party. And then what would be left for my baby’s future?

  Besides my legal woes, all I think about is this “feeling” growing inside me. I leave work early to go to the doctor’s office down the street from my house. The clinic is used to walk-ins in this neighborhood, and I’m seen almost immediately. I lie on the table and pull up my shirt. The doctor squirts cold goo on my stomach and with a flat metal instrument irons my belly. Live moving pictures appear on the ultrasound machine next to the table. There are a lot of lines, then a noticeable dark dot. “That’s it,” he says. “It’s not much more than a mass of cells right now.”

  Then we hear a heartbeat. The heartbeat of my baby. A gentle lub-dub, lub-dub. I’ve never heard a more beautiful sound. This is what I’ve been waiting for all my life.

  He prints out a still shot for me. He asks when my last period was and counts my pregnancy weeks from that. Though I conceived four weeks ago, for purposes of medical counting, I’m considered six weeks pregnant.

  I walk home with my photo. One black dot. Add a little food and water plus some kind of mysterious “energy” (God) and in nine months out pops a separate human being with all the complexities of us—something brand-new and spiritually distinct with a personality and feelings and a moral code and an ethereal heart that loves and hates and breaks. All this from a tiny bit of DNA—a microscopic sperm and egg from a man and a woman.

  This is undeniably a miracle.

  * * *

  Less than two weeks later, eight weeks into the pregnancy, my elation has waned. There is no time to daydream about baby because all I can think about is vomiting. What feels like some awful concoction of prescription drugs—but is just mega-doses of hormones—swirls around in my head like someone turned the blender on “mutilate.” Nauseous, fuzzy-eyed, and exhausted, I do not have morning sickness but all-day-long sickness. Each day, until about 3 p.m., watermelon and saltines are the only foods I can stomach. After that, I must have a hamburger or another large piece of red meat. My reaction and motor skills are so slow right now that I’m frightened to drive. I’ve hit at least five curbs and had two minor car accidents in the last week.

  For the past five days, if I can get out of bed and go to work, I crawl to the back of my car when I get there, lie down, and float in and out of consciousness. I keep the window cracked hoping that I’ll hear my doorstep leave, but also hoping that I won’t; I don’t want to move. The idea that I’m going to vomit consumes my thoughts, hour after hour, day after day, although I never actually puke. When I get home—well before six—I go directly to the sofa or the bed and don’t move again.

  It’s a lucky thing my new company doesn’t know how many sets I usually turn in, and a relief Jimmy, my new boss, doesn’t call every morning like Bartlet did. Bartlet would be on to me by now for sure. I had hoped to work extra hard these first few months of pregnancy, figuring I’d probably have only about six before I must quit papping. (I will not be a giant preggers pap running backward down Robertson shooting Adrian Grenier or Eva Longoria while TMZ videographers record the ludicrous scene.) But now, I’ve barely shot a competent set in the last two weeks and that means much needed baby funds are dropping.

  Money and child support (or lack thereof) and Frank Opis are stressors that I know I have to face, but right now I’m too sick to care about anything but walking straight—perhaps God’s creative way of keeping my frazzled thoughts from damaging my baby.

  * * *

  It is a bizarre pairing: Zac Efron is with Tori Spelling and Tori’s son Liam. Zac is in his Audi, and he won’t let me have the shot. When they stop for gas, Zac gets out and finally gives it up after I beg him. But my camera is put together all wrong and it won’t focus. Then I can’t see through the lens, so I get nothing.

  I wake up sweating and anxious. A nightmare.

  Back when I first started papping, I’d have dreams that involved celebrities almost every night. I was friends with Madonna, and we’d hang out. Jessica Simpson got in a car accident, but I was there to rescue her. And take her picture. The dreams were unsettling and would disrupt my sleep.

  As dreams often do, last night’s formed from current events. During the week, I’d worked Tori with no luck. Then last night, I pulled an evening doorstep on Zac. I despise working nights, but I hadn’t made it out before noon in the past ten days so felt compelled to do something.

  We knew Zac was around, but these days he wasn’t giving it up. It had been nine months since he’d hit the scene, so this came as no surprise. He didn’t need us anymore. He was huge enough—at least for now—and for now, he’d had enough. “The tide recedes with the young lad,” Simon warned.

  But I knew Zac liked me—at least, at one time he did—and perhaps one-on-one with me, I might get him to cave. After all, when a boy is in his sexual prime, females have magical powers.

  I figured I’d get Zac to myself, and I did. No other paps. He came out in his black Audi at about eight-thirty with Vanessa in the passenger seat. Even at night, he did a pap-check, driving down a lonely road adjacent to his apartment complex. He sussed me out immediately. But it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to hide. I rolled down my window and turned my interior car light on so that he could see me.

  As I opened my mouth to say, “Can I just have a couple shots tonight, Zac?” the words dissolved. His smile, when he looked at me, heated my heart and it skipped a beat. I took a breath and admitted, “I’ve missed you.” And I meant it in a-bit-more-motherly-and-less-of-Mrs.-Robinson-way than I had in the past.

  “Hey you,” he said and laughed good-naturedly.

  The last time I’d worked Zac, two months ago, I had waited outside his apartment complex one afternoon. When he’d pulled out in his Audi, I’d shown myself and he’d pulled over to say hello.

  “You going anywhere interesting?” I’d inquired.

  “Just the studio. I’m super excited.”

  “Oh, yeah? Why’s that?”

  “I’m gonna be on the cover of Allure. Isn’t that cool?”

  “That’s awesome. Good for you.” I had been genuinely excited for him. Zac’s got a heart that exudes humbleness, and I don’t know how you couldn’t like him.

  “You wouldn’t have time to stop for gas on the way, would you? Or coffee? My treat.” (I had asked this because I knew there would have been no shot at the studio.)

  “Aw, sorry. Really, I don’
t.”

  “No worries. Catch you next time. And congratulations.”

  I hadn’t gotten a shot that day, but as we’d waved good-bye, I’d thought, Zac’s gonna be a big, big star, and I’m glad.

  Since then, a lot has changed in Zac’s relationship with the paps. Daily, he challenges them to testosterone-filled car races if they try to follow. And if he can’t outrun a follow, he just covers. Zac never needs to race the paps—he’s an outstanding “coverer”—but he’s young and it’s fun and that’s why he keeps doing it.

  Back to last night. The car light beaming on the head of an older woman looking for his picture wasn’t what Zac expected.

  “I haven’t seen you in a while,” he continued.

  “You’ll give me a couple of shots tonight, won’t you? It’s just me on you.”

  “You know, I can’t. You might be my favorite paparazzi, but I just can’t.”

  “Why not? For me? Only me. For old time’s sake.”

  “It’s out of principle. I can’t do it anymore.”

  I reminded him that once he had promised me that if I asked, he’d always give me a shot.

  “It’s not like that anymore,” he responded.

  And I understood. If he really didn’t want paparazzi, he had to set precedence. If he caved to me, he’d pay for it with an army outside his door for a solid week.

  Simon thinks Leo got to him. Leonardo DiCaprio is a well-known publicity avoider: you’ll often hear stories about him from regular L.A. folks who have seen him around town in a low-billed baseball cap, reluctant to make eye contact with anyone. Simon speculates Zac’s getting mentored: he and Leo have been spotted together at recent Lakers games.

  Zac was patient as I pushed back in argument. Like a good parent listening to his teenager, he let me talk as long as I needed—but he didn’t budge. When I couldn’t think of anything more to say, he drove away slowly. The look on his face was repentant.

  At a light a few miles down the road, I pulled up beside him with another thought. It surprised him; he thought I’d left. We both knew that without his permission, I couldn’t get anything. He was in full control. He rolled down his window, still being the good dad hearing my case. At my unexpected appearance, Vanessa giggled.

  “You gave it up the other day when you were on your skateboard. We all knew that was your decision,” I said. “You didn’t have more paps on you the next day. No one doorstepped you. We all knew it was a one-off…You could do that with me.” The story circulating was that Zac had given it up because he was so impressed that a pap had recognized him in an area of town where he wasn’t normally seen.

  My pap lingo flowed—giving it up, pap, on you, doorstep—I didn’t have time to come up with layman’s terms at a red light.

  Zac responded, “You know, it’d be fine with me if I were never photographed again.”

  I am sure he believed this. He’s too young to know better.

  The light changed and we drove down the road unhurriedly, still conversing, our cars side-by-side. Zac wanted me to convince him, I could tell. But a fire truck blew its horn, and I had to move. Then Zac turned into the Warner Bros. lot. Although I’m sure he and Vanessa weren’t going to the studio at that time of night, I knew this meant it was over.

  As I drove home through the dark, I realized that something in me had changed, and it wasn’t just in my belly. A year ago, even six months ago, it would have been exciting to have had a conversation with a big celebrity like Zac Efron. Even if I didn’t get the shot, there would have been a rush. But there was no rush this time. There was only a feeling of annoyance that I’d come home empty-handed when I could have been on the sofa watching House.

  In the beginning, the learning curve was steep, and I was challenged by the job’s investigative aspects as well as the photographic skills necessary to do it well. Beyond a doubt, it was the most thrilling profession I’d ever had, and more exciting than anything else going on in my life. I remember the advice given to me in my early days as a pap: “Write it down before it stops being spectacular.”

  But the reality was, at this point, little about the job excited me anymore. Celebrity interactions blended together and rarely did I run across a new scenario. Like Groundhog Day, everything had already happened.

  I touch my belly. There is no bump yet, there are no “kicks” yet, but I feel something very distinct. It’s deep inside, and it’s attached to me. And I know it’s ready for me to move on. Remember that old vision I used to have? The one where I was on a diving board incessantly bouncing, getting height so that I could jump off. Well, I haven’t had that dream in over two years, but tonight it will return. Only this time, I am not bouncing. I am airborne.

  16. Two years later, Skylar does go to trial. His renowned defense attorney, Harland Braun, who has also represented many of Hollywood’s other “unbecoming,” was initially able to get the trial postponed, but eventually Skylar did face his peers. The trial ended in a hung jury, and a Malibu judge chose not to retry it. According to the papers, Skylar was lauded as a local hero, vocally supported by many, including his prosecuting attorney.

  Chapter 22

  My all-day-long sickness is no longer car-wreck debilitating. The nausea continues 24/7, but it’s all in my gut; my mind is clear. I’m about three months pregnant, and except for work, I haven’t left the house in two months. I remain as still as possible on the sofa from 6 p.m. on and am in bed by nine. I sleep ten or eleven hours a night and could still use a three-hour nap. I’ve had no contact with Bo in weeks and haven’t the energy to care. The pressing desire in my heart right now is only to be a mom. I want a husband too. Not for a lover, but so he can take care of me.

  Today, I start work at noon and call it a day at four. I pop into Joan’s on Third to rest and get a bite to eat before the drive home. I sit near the front window staving off vomit with a fruit bowl when Ansell, a work acquaintance, walks in. Ansell works for West Coast Wing and though we have no problems working together, I wouldn’t say we’re fond of one another. I haven’t seen him in a while, and he stands there just staring at me. “You look really good,” he finally says. It sounds like he’s almost confused by this.

  I can’t imagine I’m looking good when all I can think about is throwing up. These days I wear only yoga pants, and I’ve stopped putting on makeup and fixing my hair.

  “Thanks,” I say, and we fall into small talk.

  When he gets ready to leave, he pauses before he affirms, “I don’t know what it is, but you look so good.”

  I’m confused. Ansell’s not hitting on me; I know that. So what is this?

  He continues, “It’s like…you’re glowing.”

  And he says that word—“glowing”—like he knows.

  Glowing. I’m glowing. No one has ever told me that I glowed.

  I beam.

  I’m pregnant, and I’m glowing, and in six months, I’m gonna have a baby!

  * * *

  I’m finishing the day in Studio City outside Hilary Duff’s house when Claudia rocks up. I’m thrilled: competition or not, she and her smiling face are a real treat for me these solitary days in the field. I haven’t made any close friends at iPIX, and now that my paparazzi days are numbered, I don’t want to bother trying.

  Claudia is equally excited to encounter me, and I climb into her 4Runner to visit. The light will be gone in thirty minutes, and on the off-chance that Hilary comes out before then, we agree to work together sending any photos we get to CXN but leaving my name off the caption so I won’t have to explain to iPIX why CXN has my pictures. Not that I’d get “in trouble”—I’m a freelancer. It would just be frowned upon for reasons of professional loyalty. Claudia, on the other hand, could get fired if she were to send her photos elsewhere—she’s staff.

  Ten minutes into our catching up, Kirsten Dunst walks past my car door. She smiles at me, casually, as you would when passing a friendly stranger. (She wouldn’t recognize me from our short car-to-car exchange over
a year ago.) We know that Kirsten’s mom lives a few doors down, between Hilary and Jennifer Love Hewitt, but Kirsten’s car wasn’t there, so this is very unexpected.

  “Damn,” says Claudia.

  I sit frozen. Claudia fiddles with her car controls hoping that Kirsten won’t think it odd that two girls are doing nothing in a car on the side of the road. She doesn’t seem to. Two Brazilian male paps might not be as lucky.

  Kirsten stops beneath a telephone pole right behind our car.

  “What’s she doing?” I whisper. My window is cracked, and she’s close enough to hear our conversation.

  On the post is a “Missing Cat” sign. Kirsten untacks the sign, puts it under her arm, then continues walking down the street.

  “Oh, man. Oh, man.”

  To get a shot this late in the day, we really need a flash. It’s Claudia who says what we’re both thinking: “I’m not flashing her. Not here.”

  “No, me neither. It’s too ugly.”

  “Flashing” in a suburban neighborhood feels really awkward to a pap. Basically Kirsten is “home,” and there’s an unspoken courtesy we normally give celebs when they are home, which includes not flashing them if they walk outside. This late in the day, we were hoping that Hilary would have left in her car, then we’d have followed her to somewhere public where flashing is copacetic.

  We watch in the rearview mirror as Kirsten walks from pole to pole taking down signs. Our 70–200mm’s could probably get us a grainy but salable photo, but we don’t want just a photo. What we need is an angle—we gotta see Kirsten’s face, and at the same time see what she’s doing. We need “the story”: Found Dunst Cat.

  “Claude, not much time,” I say. “We gotta do something.”

  “Damn,” she says again.

  It’s an opportunity that we can’t ignore—it’s a great story—but we have no idea how to shoot it. What we do know is that Kirsten will not give it up easily.