by Marcia Clark
“Yes.”
Here in court, Parkova’s terse style was a blessing.
“But it was intercepted along the way by Ian’s computer, correct?”
“By his server, yes.”
“And did that original e-mail go through to Russell Antonovich’s e-mail?”
“No.”
“What happened to it?”
“E-mail was altered before it reached Antonovich.”
“Can you tell who may have done that?”
“I cannot, no. Someone with access to Ian Powers’s server, or computer.”
Parkova explained about the man in the middle attack, and how Ian’s server was placed in a position to intercept all of Russell’s e-mail.
“So when the e-mails intended for Mr. Antonovich passed through Ian Powers’s server, did that give Ian Powers the chance to alter them before they got to Mr. Antonovich?”
“Yes. Whoever controls Ian Powers’s computer can decide whether to let Antonovich e-mails go through or change them…or delete them.”
“And in this case, the original ransom note that passed through Ian Powers’s server was altered?”
“Yes.”
“Nothing further.”
I’d deliberately left the original ransom note up on the monitor throughout my questioning where the jury could read and reread it. I expected Terry to take it down when she started cross. But for some reason, she didn’t.
Terry bounced Parkova around a little about her felony conviction and shady past, then took aim at the most damaging part of her testimony.
“Now, being an expert hacker yourself, not to mention a convicted felon, you could have altered that e-mail yourself, couldn’t you?”
“Yes. But why would I do this?”
“To curry favor with the police? I imagine you could use a favor or two from them.”
“I need nothing from police.”
“You’re on parole, aren’t you?”
“Yes. So?”
“So, you still need to make nice with the police, don’t you?”
“Make nice? I don’t know what you mean by this. I do this job because I get paid. Just like you.”
Surprisingly, I saw Judge Osterman suppress a smile at that.
“So you wanted to give the prosecution what they needed so you’d get paid, isn’t that right?”
“No. They have to pay me no matter what. Doesn’t matter. I find, I don’t find. Still, I get paid.”
Stymied on that front, Terry went for the jugular. “But you still could have altered that e-mail yourself. Isn’t it true, Ms. Parkova, that the jury has to take your word for it? The word of a convicted felon?”
Someone else might’ve been offended. Parkova just looked annoyed. “Don’t have to take my word. Easy to check. Just go look at computer.” Parkova shook her head, her expression a mixture of disdain and irritation. “And how would I know to write such a thing? I know nothing of this case.” Parkova added in a voice laced with boredom, “I don’t know why this original e-mail is such big deal anyway.” She gestured to the monitor, which still showed the original e-mail.
“Well, someone in law enforcement could’ve told you to write that, couldn’t they?”
Parkova frowned. “They could tell me to do this, yes. But why they want me to write this? Better I write a confession, no?”
The answer drew titters from the audience and a few smiles from the jury. Terry went on a little longer, but sparring with Parkova was like hitting a tennis ball into a rubber backboard. Every question Terry lobbed bounced right back with equal force. I’d planned to get into the issue of Parkova’s ability to fabricate the original on redirect, but now I didn’t have to. Parkova had made all the points for me. And besides, the issue would be resolved—or not—when I called my next witness.
Finally, Terry gave up and released Parkova. But as I stood to announce my next witness, suddenly a strangled yelp burst from the gallery.
Russell was standing, his eyes fixed on the monitor. “No! It can’t be!” He was shaking, and his voice trembled. “I don’t believe it! It can’t be!” The agony in his voice was raw and painful, like the grinding of a rusty hinge. He turned toward Ian, whose back was to the gallery, his expression a mixture of wounded shock and anger. “How could you?! How could you do this?!” Ian never turned around. Raynie let out a wail of anguish. “You bastard!” she cried out, then put her head down and sobbed. A woman sitting next to her put an arm around her shoulders. Suddenly, Russell bolted from the courtroom. A few reporters jumped up to follow him.
Caught off guard, even Judge Osterman was rendered momentarily speechless by the outbursts. Now, the entire gallery erupted in a loud buzz as the impact of Parkova’s testimony—and Russell’s reaction—set in. No one knew exactly what the original ransom note meant, but it was clear that Ian had gone to great lengths to keep it hidden. And Russell’s reaction told them it had something to do with Hayley’s murder.
Bailey and I exchanged a look. Russell’s reaction told us something too: he hadn’t been covering for Ian after all. He’d truly believed in Ian’s innocence until Parkova’s testimony sank in. Bailey mouthed, “Told you so.” I nodded. For once, I was glad to be wrong.
Judge Osterman banged his gavel and shouted, “Come to order!” But the gallery wouldn’t be tamed. The buzz continued to build in wave after wave. The judge banged his gavel another three times, but it wasn’t until he shouted, “I’ll have you all thrown out!” that the crowd finally settled. When a semblance of peace was restored, the judge glared at the gallery. “I won’t warn you again. This is a court of law, not your living room!” Then he turned to the jury. “I am ordering you to disregard those outbursts. They are not evidence and they are not competent proof of anything. You are to completely dismiss it from your minds. Do you understand?”
The jury nodded. “Yes,” they said in unison.
“Sidebar, Your Honor!” Terry demanded with barely controlled fury.
But the judge refused. “I’ll deem you to have made a motion for mistrial, Counsel. You can put all of your thoughts on the record later. For now, your motion is denied. People? Please proceed.”
I stood up slowly, but my pulse ratcheted up into high gear. No matter how a civilian witness behaves before walking into court, there is no predicting what will happen once they get there. I’ve seen strong ones fall apart like a cheap suit, and I’ve seen timid ones come through like Braveheart. So the moments before a witness begins to testify are always nerve-racking ones. But I had good reason to be nervous this time: the entire case hinged on the testimony we were about to take. I took a deep breath and said as calmly as possible, “The People call Brittany Caren.”
The response in the courtroom was visceral and immediate. “What?” someone whispered loudly in the back of the courtroom, as another said, “Brittany?” and “Did you hear that?” Again, a loud buzz rolled through the gallery as reporters and spectators reacted to the name.
Judge Osterman banged his gavel. This time he made the threat more immediate. “The next sound I hear from anyone, anyone at all, I’m clearing the courtroom and that person will be held in contempt! Do I make myself clear?”
The audience immediately fell silent. No one wanted to miss this show. Into the sudden hush walked Brittany Caren. Ashen-faced, wearing little if any makeup, and dressed simply in a pale yellow summer shift and an off-white cardigan that was draped loosely over her shoulders, she came up the aisle leaning on the arm of a goateed and mustached man in his forties.
I snuck a look at the jury. They were straightening up in their seats, watching intently as Brittany approached. Bailey opened the swinging gate that separated the lawyers, judge, and jury from the spectators and escorted Brittany to the base of the steps at the witness stand. Brittany took the oath and I helped her get seated, then adjusted the microphone. I looked her in the eye and whispered, “Okay?” She said, “Yes,” and glanced at the man who’d escorted her. I nodded. “I’ll take ca
re of it.”
I stepped back to the lectern. “Your Honor, Ms. Caren is here today courtesy of her therapist, Dr. Shepherd.” I indicated the man, whose goatee and glasses gave him the prototypical look of a shrink. “I ask that he be allowed to remain and sit with me at counsel table. Since the only relevant information he has is privileged, he can’t be called as a witness.”
“I don’t have a problem with that,” the judge said.
I knew Terry certainly did, but she couldn’t say so. There was no legal reason to exclude him. And objecting to this shaky girl’s lifeline would not endear Terry to the jury.
I began by having Brittany briefly describe her early work as a child actress, and how that led to her getting the leading role in Circle of Friends.
“How old were you when you got that part?”
“Twelve.”
“Did you know the writers on that show?”
“Yes, of course. We saw them at lunch, at table reads…yes.”
“Was Tommy Maher one of those writers?”
“Yes.”
“Was Russell Antonovich one of those writers also?”
“Yes.”
“Did Tommy have a dispute with Russell Antonovich?”
“Yes.”
“When did that argument arise?”
Brittany frowned. “I believe the show was in its second season.”
“Did you witness the argument?”
“Everyone on the lot witnessed the argument—it went on and on. Tommy accused Russell of stealing his screenplay.”
“And did he claim that screenplay was the basis for Wonderland Warriors, the film that became Russell’s first big hit?”
“Yes.”
“You say the argument went on and on. Did Tommy make his accusation more than once?”
“He made it a hundred times. But Russell always denied it. Tommy kept trying to tell everyone that Russell was a thief, that he’d find a way to prove it.”
“And did he?”
“Not that I ever knew. Tommy always wrote his scripts by hand. I know because it always took him longer to get scripts done for the show. So I assume he wrote the screenplay by hand too.”
Terry barked, “Objection! Speculation!”
Brittany jumped in her seat.
“Sustained. Ms. Caren, you cannot assume when you testify. If you did not personally observe something, then you can’t speculate about what you believe. Okay?”
Brittany nodded. “Yes, Your Honor.”
I continued. “Now as far as you know, Tommy threatened to find a way to prove it, but he never did?”
“Not as far as I know, no.”
“At the time Tommy was making these accusations, was the film deal for Wonderland Warriors being negotiated?”
“Objection. Again, calls for speculation.”
“It doesn’t, Your Honor. I’ll lay the foundation.”
The judge nodded. “Please do.”
“Were you involved in discussions regarding your possible role in Wonderland Warriors?”
“Yes. But the talks were tentative because they hadn’t closed the deal with Russell and Ian yet.”
“And at the time you were involved in those negotiations, was Tommy making his accusations about Russell stealing his screenplay?”
“Yes.”
“If Tommy did come up with proof that Russell had stolen the screenplay, would that cause a big problem for the studio that produced it?”
Again, Terry objected, but I pointed out that since Brittany had been in the business most of her life, she knew enough to testify on the subject.
“I’ll allow it,” the judge said. “The jury can decide what weight to give her opinion.”
“You can answer, Brittany,” I said. “If Tommy came up with proof the screenplay had been stolen, would that cause problems for the defendant, Ian Powers, and Russell Antonovich?”
“Yes, big problems. Because Tommy could sue for a share of the profits, and he could tie them up in lawsuits forever. And of course it would make Russell and Ian look really bad—possibly be the end of their careers, at least as filmmakers.”
“So could Tommy’s complaint that Russell stole the script stop the studio from going through with the deal?”
“It definitely could. They wouldn’t want the headache.”
“How long did this argument between Tommy and Russell go on for?”
“About a month, maybe a little more.”
“Did the argument ever get physical?”
“Once. It was toward the end. They got into another one of their fights and Tommy socked Russell, knocked him down. It was pretty gnarly. After that, they put Tommy at the far end of the lot to keep him away from Russell.”
“But they didn’t send him home?”
“No. Everyone knew they weren’t going to let Tommy come back next season, but I guess the studio didn’t want to make more trouble for themselves by breaking his contract.”
I waited for an objection, but this time it didn’t come. I moved on to the heart of the matter.
“Did Tommy eventually get sent home?”
“Yes.”
“When was that?”
“About a week and a half after he punched Russell. It was the day after the holiday party.”
“And do you know why he got sent home at that time?”
“Yes.” Brittany teared up and bowed her head as her shoulders began to shake. I brought her a box of Kleenex. She wiped her eyes, then lifted her head. With a voice choked with emotion, she said, “Because of me.”
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I waited until Brittany raised her head, and gave her a questioning look. When she offered me a confirming nod, I continued. “How is it that you caused Tommy to be sent home?”
“Because I—” She stopped and bit her lip.
The hush in the courtroom was so complete I could hear the jurors in the first row breathing.
“Do you need a break, Brittany?”
Her next words came out in a rush, but they were clear enough.
“No, I have to finally say this. I have to tell the truth.” She glanced at Ian with sad, angry eyes, then turned back to me. “Because Ian told me to say that Tommy raped me at the holiday party. He said if I didn’t, Tommy would ruin everything. And he promised me if I did that, he and Russell would make sure I always had work. Actually, he promised I’d always have a starring role in Russell’s films.”
Someone in the gallery gasped, but otherwise the courtroom was completely still. I could feel the tension in the jury box. There was something particularly monstrous about Ian, a former child actor himself—and one who’d made himself their champion, no less—putting a young actress in this hideous position.
“And did he? Did Tommy rape you?”
“No—no, never!”
“Did you see him at the holiday party?”
“Yes, I ran into him when I was heading back to my trailer. He was really drunk, and kind of, you know, teary and sad. He said he knew he wasn’t coming back next season and he said he’d miss writing for me. That’s all that happened!”
“Now, when Ian said you had to tell that lie, what did you say? Did you agree to do it?”
“No. I was scared, I—I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t say anything to Ian. I went back to my trailer. But then my mother came and got me. She said she’d heard what happened to me and that I had to tell Chuck—”
“Chuck?”
“Chuck Viener, the head of the studio.”
“Did your mother ask you if it was true that Tommy raped you?”
“No. She just grabbed my hand and the next thing I knew, I was standing in Chuck’s office and my mom and Ian were there and they were telling Chuck that they wouldn’t let me be on the lot with that…rapist.”
“Objection, hearsay!”
“Overruled. It’s an admission, or at least an adoptive admission,” the judge said.
“And what happened next? Did Chuck ask you whether it was true?”
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“Objection! Hearsay!”
“It’s a question, Your Honor. A question can’t be hearsay,” I said, annoyed.
“Again, thank you for the evidence lesson, Ms. Knight,” the judge said acidly. “Overruled.”
Brittany nodded, at first unable to speak. Finally she choked out, “Yes.”
“What did you do?”
“I didn’t know what to do, I was scared.” She looked around the courtroom beseechingly, her sorrowful expression a heart-wrenching portrait of a broken spirit. “I-I did it. I told him it was true.” Brittany stopped to catch her breath.
“Brittany, at that time, who was supporting the family—financially, I mean?”
“Um…me.”
“And you knew that if you didn’t go along with Ian’s story, you might lose your job?”
“Yes—I knew I’d lose my job, and I might never work again.”
“So you went along with the lie because you felt you had no choice?”
“Yes.”
“What happened next?”
“Ian and my mother said that if Tommy was removed from the lot that day, we wouldn’t call the police.”
“So Mr. Viener never knew that it was a lie?”
Brittany shook her head. “No.”
“Was Tommy removed from the lot that day?”
“Yes.”
“Did you see Tommy again after he left the lot that day?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because…” Fresh tears rolled down her face, and Brittany had to struggle to get the words out. “Because the day they sent him home, he shot himself. He killed himself. And it’s all because I lied!” Brittany covered her face with her hands, and her choking sobs filled the courtroom.
This time an audible gasp went up from the audience. The jury sat absolutely still; they seemed to be barely breathing. The energy in the courtroom had shifted completely as the awful implications of Brittany’s testimony sank in. I glanced at the defense table. Ian’s shoulders were hunched around his ears and he stared down at the legal pad in front of him. Terry and Wagmeister had their poker faces on, but the law clerks looked shell-shocked.
“Shall we take a break, Brittany?”