by Marcia Clark
85
The jury went out at three o’clock. With the whole country watching, there was no way they’d come back with a verdict before tomorrow, but I intended to stay in the office. I wasn’t going to take any chances.
As I left the courtroom, I found Janice waiting for me.
“You did a magnificent job,” she said.
I thanked her. “You’re welcome to come up to the office with us.”
“Thank you, but no. I’ll just wait here, if that’s all right.”
“Of course, Janice.” I noticed she was still carrying that same book. She never seemed to be without it. “Do you mind if I ask you about that book?” I gestured to the one in her hand.
Janice smiled sadly. “Tommy gave it to Brian when he was little.” She held it out. It was a child’s book, titled Fifty Famous Fairy Tales. Janice handed it to me, and it fell open to a well-worn page about halfway through. I noticed handwriting in the margin. “That’s Tommy’s writing,” she said. “Brian never let it go. When I saw that he didn’t take it with him to Los Angeles, I thought it meant he intended to come back.” She looked away, then said softly, “Now I know he did. He just came out here on a mission.”
“Janice, would you mind letting me hang on to this for just a day or so?” I asked.
Janice was reluctant. “I suppose so. But I will want it back.”
“I promise. In fact, I’ll bring it back to you tonight if you like—”
“No, tomorrow’s fine.” She looked down for a moment, her expression thoughtful. “I don’t know whether I ever told you this, but Tommy loved Brian so much. I think Brian was one of the only bright spots in his life. That’s why it never made sense to me that he’d…leave…over the theft of a screenplay. Now I understand it a little better. After all the hell he had been through over the script, this false claim about Brittany was just too much. Knowing Tommy, he felt doomed.” She sighed and shook her head. “Anyway, I wanted you to know that Tommy really was a good father…”
I told her I believed her, and how sorry I was, for all of it. We spoke for a few more minutes and then she and Elden left.
Bailey and Declan and I headed upstairs.
“So what do you think?” Declan asked. “Did we get him?”
“We don’t do that,” answered Bailey.
“I never bet on a verdict,” I said. “Bad luck.”
Declan raised an eyebrow but said nothing. I pulled out bottles of water and sodas from my fridge and set them on the table. Bailey took a bottle, leaned back, and put her feet up on the table next to my desk.
“No doubt about it, Russell was in on the phony rape scheme,” Bailey said.
“Had to be,” Declan agreed. “Like that director said, no one risks a film budget on an actor as dicey as Brittany.” He shook his head. “What a sleazy dick.”
“True, that.” Russell Antonovich was every bit as consumed with greed as Ian. The only difference was, he had his pit bull, Ian, to do the dirty work while he got to stay in the background and reap the benefits. It killed me to think he’d pay no price for his part in all this.
The justice our system metes out can be such an imperfect thing. We had no solid proof that he knew about the false rape claim. There was no legal way to go after Russell. But there’s more than one way to skin a bottom-feeding, parasitic worm. And I intended to find it.
After the jury went home for the evening, we decided it was safe to take the night off.
“How about a drink at the Biltmore?” Bailey suggested.
I knew she’d been missing Drew. None of us had had any kind of life since this trial had started. I called Drew ahead of time just to make sure we wouldn’t get ambushed by reporters.
“Coast is clear,” Drew said. “And when you get here, I’ll tell you why.”
I’d told Bailey and Declan about Sunglasses, the jerkweed reporter who’d shown up in my hallway and then at the bar. Now, on the way over, I told them Drew had the rest of the story for us.
In spite of Drew’s assurance, I entered the bar warily. But it was a quiet night and easy to see that there was no one there who looked like a reporter. Declan ordered a beer just to join us in a toast—he had to drive—but Bailey and I cut loose and ordered martinis. Drew poured himself a shot of Oban, a really nice sipping scotch.
“Here’s to a job well done,” Drew said, raising his glass.
We all clinked and sipped.
“Okay, I’m dying to hear it. What happened?” I asked.
Drew smiled. “I poured him a martini with about four shots in it—”
I nearly choked on my drink. “Four straight shots in one tiny little glass?”
“We have big beauties for special occasions,” Drew said.
“Oh, man,” Declan said. “I’d be in a puddle on the floor.”
“That was the general idea,” Drew said. “Dude drained it in two swallows. Who the hell does that with a martini, anyway?”
“A classless douche like that,” Bailey said. “Go on.”
“He started getting so loud and obnoxious, customers were complaining. Even his buddies were embarrassed. So I told him he’d have to leave. He stood up.” Drew slammed his palm down on the bar. “Face plant. They had to carry him out and put him in a cab.”
We all laughed.
“So much for the wannabe reporter,” I said.
“Hang on for the finale,” Drew said. He went to the register and came back with his cell phone. “Check it out.”
And there it was in glorious Technicolor: guerrilla freelancer Sunglasses being hauled out between the two men—toes dragging along the floor, eyes at half-mast, mouth hanging open.
“Hey, what’s that on his face?” Bailey asked, pointing to the photo.
“That’s drool!” Declan said.
“Sure is!” Bailey said, chuckling. “Nice job, honey.”
“He who lives by the camera, dies by the camera,” Drew said.
We all drank to that.
After two sips, Declan called it a night. But he pointed to the book I’d borrowed from Janice, which I’d taken with me. “You have a chance to look at that?” he asked.
“No.”
“Mind if I borrow it for tonight? I’m coming in early, so I can give it back to you in the morning before court.”
“Sure, but guard it with your life. It’s got heavy sentimental value.” And other value as well, I had a feeling. But I could look it over tomorrow. It was a slim volume.
Declan tucked it into his jacket. “Get ripped, you guys. You deserve it.”
I turned to Bailey. “I hadn’t thought of that. But since he insists…”
Bailey and I stayed and caught Drew up on the past few days. By the time we called it a night, we were both fried. Drew had a few more hours until closing, so Bailey crashed with me. The following morning, we treated ourselves to a real breakfast. I indulged with pancakes and bacon, a splurge for me, and Bailey ordered French toast—just another day for her.
I let Bailey give me a lift to the courthouse, and I was in pretty good spirits for most of the morning. But by lunchtime I started to worry. Declan stopped by and dropped off the book I’d borrowed from Janice. We talked briefly and then he asked if I wanted to go out—now that we had time to live like real people—but I had no appetite. When I still hadn’t heard a peep from the jury by two o’clock, my stomach began to knot.
I foolishly called Bailey to share my angst.
“Shouldn’t they be back by now?” I asked.
“Juries should do a lot of shit they don’t do,” she snapped.
“They haven’t even asked a question, though.”
“Probably still voting on what to have for lunch.”
By four o’clock, I was pacing in front of my desk. The three square feet forced me into tight circles. I was getting dizzy, which kind of felt good—until dizzy turned to queasy. At a quarter to five, the court called. The jury had a verdict. We had a half-hour lead to give the defense time to ge
t back to the courthouse. I called Bailey and Declan. “They’re in,” I said, in a voice so strained I barely recognized it.
“Breathe,” Bailey said. “Whatever happens, you did a hell of a job. Vanderputz can’t blame you.”
“He can. And will.”
“Then I’ll shoot him.”
On that cheery note, I grabbed a legal pad and stepped out into the hallway. And bumped right into Toni.
“Hey! Good thing I bounce,” she said. She peered at me. “Well, don’t you look all hot and sassy.”
“Really?”
“No. You look like a bird that stuck its beak in a socket. Where’re you heading?”
“To court. We’ve got a verdict.”
“You are not going down there looking like that. Come on.” She took me by the hand and dragged me down to her office.
When I got a look at myself in the mirror, I realized she was right. My hair was all over the place and my makeup was a smudgy mess. But five minutes later, I looked presentable enough to be set loose on the world.
“I don’t know what I’d do without you,” I said.
“You’d go around looking like a Cabbage Patch doll.”
“Want to come?” I asked.
“Want me to come?”
I nodded. If I was about to crash and burn, I wanted Toni and Bailey to be there. Toni and I picked up Declan and we rode down together. Just as we got off the elevator, Bailey emerged from the stairwell, lightly sweaty, out of breath, and in a foul mood.
“Goddamn press is a mile deep all the way around the courthouse.”
Declan nodded. “I caught a look at the television in the lounge. They’ve got helicopters flying around, traffic is blocked off on Temple—it’s a zoo out there.”
Declan looked pale and I noticed a tremor in his hand as he reached for the courtroom door. I was glad I didn’t have to show my hands. The courtroom was packed and thrumming with loud chatter and tension. I kept my eyes down and made my way to counsel table.
I dropped my legal pad on the table in front of my chair, then turned to make sure there was a seat for Toni in front of the railing next to Bailey. I scanned the gallery. No sign of Russell—no surprise there. I expected he’d be at an undisclosed location for some time to come. Dani was a no-show as well. But Janice was in the front row, and she and Raynie had apparently met and hit it off, because the three of them—Janice, Raynie, and Elden—were sitting together. I returned the book of fairy tales to Janice and we spoke for a few seconds before Jimmy called the court to order. Everyone quickly squeezed into a space on the benches in the gallery and Judge Osterman came out. From that moment, I registered every single sight and movement as though it were a film playing in slow motion. Judge Osterman mounting the steps to the bench, his face solemn. Tricia standing at attention, nervously twisting her wedding ring. The bailiff moving toward the door the jury would pass through to take their seats in the box. I wasn’t conscious of breathing, only of my heart pounding in slow, heavy thumps and a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach.
“Let’s have the jury,” Judge Osterman said.
The bailiff went through the door, and seconds later, the jurors filed out. I studied each of their faces for some sign, some clue of what was to come. But they were more stone-faced than ever before. Then one juror—the librarian—looked across the room at the defense side of the table. And smiled. Spots danced before my eyes, nearly blinding me as I registered what that smile meant. It couldn’t be. They couldn’t do this. They couldn’t let this murderer go. I heard the judge’s next words as though I were under water.
“I understand you have a verdict, ladies and gentlemen.”
The Hollywood agent, who’d been elected the jury foreman, answered. “We do, Your Honor.”
The bailiff took the folder containing the verdict forms from him and brought them over to Tricia, who handed them up to the judge. I watched the judge’s face as he pursed his lips and read the forms, but his expression gave away nothing. Slowly, he went through them, organizing the pages. I put a hand on the table to steady myself as I realized that this might be the last time I tried a case in the Special Trials Unit. Or downtown. Or forever, for that matter.
“Will the defendant please rise?”
Terry and Wagmeister flanked Ian Powers, six law clerks behind them, as they all rose together. Terry put a comforting hand on Ian’s arm and Wagmeister gave him a brief pat on the back. Ian looked like a cadaver—hollowed, sunken cheeks and dark rings under his eyes. The Armani suit hung on his gaunt frame like a shroud. If nothing else, it comforted me to know that I’d cost him some peace of mind. I snapped back with the judge’s next words.
“The clerk will now read the verdict.”
And in that moment, all of the air was suddenly sucked out of the courtroom. My heart was pounding so loudly I had to struggle to hear the clerk’s voice as she read the verdicts.
“As to count one, the murder of Brian Maher, we the jury—”
I found myself following each syllable in slow motion, a beat behind every word.
“—find the defendant, Ian Powers…guilty. We further find that the murder was willful, deliberate, and premeditated.”
Someone in the audience gave a yelp that was quickly silenced by a glare from Jimmy. I felt the blood rush to my head. All I could think was, We got him. We got him.
“As to count two, the murder of Hayley Antonovich, we the jury find the defendant, Ian Powers, guilty, and we further find the murder to have been willful, deliberate, and premeditated.
“As to both counts one and two, we further find that the defendant personally used a deadly and dangerous weapon, to wit, a knife.”
My lungs filled with air for what felt like the first time since I walked into the courtroom. I looked at the jury, my eyes filled with gratitude. Not one of them looked back at me. A careful bunch, they kept their faces neutral. And when Judge Osterman polled them, at Terry’s request, they affirmed that these were their verdicts in voices that were loud and proud. I’d thank them later…if they let me. Chances were, they’d want to get out of here as fast as they could go.
The judge thanked them for their service, told them they were allowed to talk to anyone they wanted about the case now, but were free to decline and should not feel pressured to do so. Then he warned the press to be civilized and respectful of jurors and all parties and declared that the court was in recess.
In an instant, a loud roar erupted as everyone in the courtroom jumped to their feet and began to talk at once. I pulled Declan in and we wrapped Bailey and Toni in a group hug, as I let the relief wash through me. As much as possible in a court of law, justice had been done.
Epilogue
The next morning, I got word that Jack Averly had finally turned up. He’d made his way to a quiet seaside resort in Puerto Vallarta, no doubt traveling on a share of the ransom money. (We’d figured Ian must have picked it up while Averly flew to New York.) Averly probably could’ve hidden there forever if he’d had half a brain. But he got drunk at a campfire party on the beach and mouthed off about his days as a PA/drug dealer at RussPow Studios. An alert guest, who just happened to be a producer for CNN, called the Los Angeles bureau. He’d be back in pocket soon, facing flight and accessory charges that would keep him locked up for at least a couple of years.
And I soon learned that Declan was right: Hollywood had its own unique but very effective way of dealing with its own.
The Daily Inquisitor led the charge at first: “Wife Leaves Superstar Director—‘I Can’t Take His Life of Lies!’” According to the story, Dani had left Russell and “confidential sources” claimed it was because of what she’d learned during the trial. “Dani said she was sure Russell had been in on the rape setup that led to Tommy’s suicide.” Dani was never quoted anywhere, but the fact of her separation and impending divorce turned out to be true. It was all downhill from there.
Some of the actors who’d carried the signs in front of the courthouse cla
iming Ian had been framed now admitted that they believed he was guilty and were “glad justice had been done.”
But the hardest blow was delivered by Brittany herself, in an exclusive interview with the Inquisitor that I might—or might not—have helped make happen. A front-page cover showing a tearful Brittany carried the headline “They Ruined My Life! Russell Deserves to Be Sitting Next to Ian in That Jail Cell!” She told the whole story, no holds barred. And now, without the constraints of a courtroom, she could say, “Russell was in on all of it: the lie about Tommy raping me, the deal to give me work for life—he was on board because he stole that screenplay and he’d lose his deal if the studio found out. He and Ian made my life a living hell! I’ll never work for Russell again and I don’t care if that means I’ll never work for the rest of my life.”
Of course, we soon learned that it meant just the opposite. I heard from Andrew Chatham that a hot young director who’d been through rehab himself had offered Brittany a supporting role in his next film.
“Mark my words, Ms. Knight,” Andrew said. “Russell Antonovich is through in this town. In the coming months, you’ll see that one deal after another will fall apart. Russell’s studio will close down by the end of the year.”
It wasn’t prison in the traditional sense. But it was hell on earth for Russell Antonovich. I’d have to make my peace with that.
Declan and I got the official summons to see Vanderputz for congratulations two days after the verdict—once he finished taking bows on every channel but Animal Planet. Eric came with us, and I was glad he was there to witness it. Our fearless leader managed to make it sound like we’d won a third-grade attendance award. “That was very nice work,” he’d said. “Of course, the evidence was overwhelming…” Translation: even my pet shih tzu could’ve won it.
“He never fails to disappoint,” I said to Eric on our way back to my office.
“Like I said, consistency is his strong suit.” Eric smiled. “But he did let your felonious expert slide.”