The Best Defense

by A. W. Gray

  As the deputies moved up to escort Darla back to the holding cell, Sharon said to her, “So you’ll understand what’s going on. Even if we win in this court, we’ll have to argue suppression of the weapon again at trial, and a Texas judge may rule differently from this judge. But if we can get the gun suppressed for extradition purposes, the Texas arrest warrant will be invalid, and they’ll have to release you until Texas can move for indictment. Or at least until Texas can get a warrant supported with valid probable cause.” She affectionately brushed Darla’s collar. “It’s all I can do now, babe. I’m fighting like hell for you.”

  Darla smiled bravely, then inhaled in fear as the deputy tapped her on the shoulder. She stood and walked dejectedly toward the exit, with uniformed men towering over her on either side. Sharon watched the actress go, swallowed a lump from her throat, then stood. Preston Trigg waited for her.

  “Are you coming or what?” Trigg said.

  Sharon frowned. “Coming where? And with whom?”

  Trigg straightened his posture. “Spago. Lady back there’s invited us.”

  Sharon glared out past the spectator section. Just inside the corridor door stood a woman with coiffed hair. She wore a loud yellow outfit and spike heels.

  She smiled at Sharon and beckoned. “Who’s she?” Sharon said.

  Trigg handed Sharon a business card which read, CHERRY VICK, LITERARY AGENT. Sharon sighed in exasperation as Trigg said, “She wants to talk about packaging a book deal for us,” Trigg said. “Hey, Sharon, I’m not greedy. I propose a fifty-fifty split, because I want you to know going in, I regard you as a one hundred percent equal in this.” He showed a patronizing grin.

  Sharon watched him. Jesus Christ, she’d created a monster. “You’ll have to go it alone, Pres,” she finally said. “I’ve just realized, I’ve got something else to do.” She left the California lawyer standing by the defense table, scratching his head, as she hurried after Darla and her captors. Darla ducked her head as she went through the holding cell entry. “Hey, fellas,” Sharon called out. One of the deputies stopped and turned as Sharon rushed up to him. “I think I’ll have lunch with my client,” she said. “You have any extra chow back there? The way things are going, the holding cell is the safest place for me.”

  The prisoner’s fare consisted of pickle-loaf sandwiches, fragments of dill and pimento mashed into Spam, topped off with a greenish slab of processed cheese, poked in between two stale bread slices, and then flattened into a wax-paper bag along with a mushy chocolate chip cookie. The deputies locked up Sharon and Darla inside the holding cell and then went off for cheeseburgers. Sharon sat on a steel bench on the opposite wall from Darla, with the barred window on Sharon’s right, Darla’s left. Sharon had visited behind-the-courtroom holding tanks many times in the past, but couldn’t remember ever being locked inside. She said as she chewed, “We should have tried pickle loaf back when we rode the subway.” Darla hadn’t touched her food, which lay, still inside the bag, on the bench beside her hip.

  “Harlon Swain,” she said.

  Sharon’s forehead tightened. “Who?”

  “The writer.”

  “Good name for a writer. What did he write?”

  “Dead On. The novel Curtis Nussbaum optioned for David to play the lead and me to play the love interest. I thought of his name while you were questioning the FBI agent.”

  Sharon thoughtfully gazed at the actress. “Darla, I’ve had clients tell me, in jail, the time passes faster if you can focus on other things. Keep your imagination running full-tilt. There’s a guy back home who had three novels published during a federal prison term. With your talent, maybe you should think about a few screenplays. It’s good you’re dwelling on things like that.”

  “I was dwelling on Harlon Swain because you asked me about the people pictured on the movie set with David and me. Mr. Nussbaum and that security agent. And the argument over David backing out on the Dead On part.” Darla’s eyes were suddenly moist. “Can that be important?”

  Sharon wanted to lie, but bolstering Darla’s hopes would be only a temporary Band-Aid, far to small to cover the wound which could come later on. “It could be, babe,” she said. “A lot of things could be, but we’re just grasping so far. What we’ve got is one guy who’s showed up in three different pictures where there’s no logical explanation for him being there. It could be nothing. It could be something. Assuming we’re eventually going to wind up in trial over this thing, we need to investigate every possible alternate theory of the crime other than that you did it.”

  “I know. That’s what you told me. It’s also what made me think of Harlon Swain.”

  Sharon’s lips tightened in interest. “You mean, he could be a suspect?”

  “Well … you’d have to know David.”

  “I’m learning,” Sharon said. “I’m learning that he wasn’t exactly Mr. Popularity and that a lot of people could be suspects, and that’s what we’ve got to emphasize. Did he have a tiff with this writer, too?”

  “David’s ego required all sorts of stroking. During the time he was committed to the part, he had the writer over, oh, four or five times. Trading input over the depth and purpose of the character, that sort of thing, but anyone who knew David understood that he was going to play the role his way whether the writer liked it or not. But having this poor miserable peasant of a writer fawn over him … David got off on leading people on. I mean, smokes, Sharon, when Curt Nussbaum optioned the book, the writer was living in a hovel out in West L.A. David used to send the limo over to pick Swain up, more to impress the guy than anything else.

  “Then when David decided he’d rather do more dope and screw more young girls than really concentrate on playing a meaty role,” Darla said, “he suddenly dropped the writer flat. In the weeks after David backed out on the deal, Harlon Swain must have left a hundred messages on the machine which David never returned. There at the end, some of those messages were pretty wild.”

  “Threatening messages?” Sharon laid her sandwich aside.

  “Not per se, like, I’m going to kill you. But he did curse a lot. Called David a lying fuck in one. David just laughed at that. That writer was really green, and didn’t understand that out here, no one’s word means anything.”

  “Did you save any of the tapes?”

  Darla slowly shook her head. “Recorded over.”

  “Seems I’ve heard there are ways to retrieve recorded-over messages,” Sharon said. “I’ll have to check on it. If I wanted to visit with Mr. Harlon Swain, how would I go about it?”

  “I don’t have a number for him. David may have had one, but he would’ve disposed of it once he was finished jerking the poor man around. I suppose I’d try Marissa Cudmore.”

  Sharon tilted her head, wondering where she’d heard the name. She remembered. “Oh, the—”

  “Right,” Darla said. “Mammoth Studios. She was the studio liaison for the entire project—the writer, the actors, a director if they’d gone far enough to hire one, everything coordinated through her. I’d soft­pedal it with Marissa, Sharon. I doubt if Dead On was a real highlight of her career.”

  “Not exactly a feather in her cap,” Sharon said. “To put it mildly. Once David showed an interest in the project, the novel became a heavy buzz for a couple of weeks or so. Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, the trades picked up on it, then really roasted Mammoth when the deal fell through. They were all pretty embarrassed, with Marissa shouldering the blame.”

  “I’ll be in touch with Ms. Cudmore right away.”

  “You’ll need direction there,” Darla said. “These studio execs won’t talk to just anyone. You’ll get an assistant with whom you’ll leave a message. If you’re someone important, she’ll return your call in a week or two; someone she never heard of, forget it. Someone hot at the moment, say Harrison Ford, they’ll punch right through. Chevy Chase can wait until hell f
reezes over.”

  “How about at home, in the evening?”

  Darla laughed without humor, a bitter, hollow sound. “It’s easier to get the number for the hot line in the Oval Office. Marissa would probably talk to me, if I were to call in person.” She looked ruefully at the barred window. “Though I’m sort of occupied at the moment.”

  Sharon dug into her purse and then held Cherry Vick’s business card between a thumb and forefinger.

  “How about an agent?” Sharon said.

  Darla’s plucked eyebrows moved closer together. “Let me see that.”

  Sharon got up and carried the card over to where Darla sat. Darla looked at the logo and read the name. “Not that agent. That woman’s bad news.”

  Sharon sighed. “I was afraid of that. Poor old Preston Trigg.” She showed Darla a look of intense concentration. “We need desperately to find out if there’s anything to this, sweetheart. I don’t have two days to wait to see this woman, much less two weeks or the rest of my life. Think hard. Do you know anyone with the pull to get me together with her like, after court today?”

  Darla looked thoughtful, crossing her legs and clasping her hands over her knee. She looked at the ceiling. “You’re becoming sort of a celebrity yourself over all this. Are you willing to conduct a little subterfuge?”

  Sharon turned her palms up. “At this point I’m willing to try anything.”

  Darla licked her lips. She folded her arms. “I know of one person, then,” she finally said.

  22

  Aaron Levy had three phone lines in addition to his fax. The number listed in the Los Angeles directory under Levy Talent Agency fed directly to his computer so that would-be clients, out-of-work writers, and bit-part actors could leave voicemail messages. These were the calls to which Levy responded at his leisure, or sometimes not at all.

  His other telephones weren’t listed. One of these numbers he gave out to his special clients: major or minor stars, writers whose work had recently made it to the screen, or character actors who were constantly in demand as straight men to comedians or serial killers, the talent which made up the bread and butter of Levy’s agency.

  Only studios and producers were privy to Levy’s third and most secret line, the one over which he made ninety percent of his outgoing calls, most of which went to the same studios and producers to whom he provided the number. Often the movie makers were just as unavailable to Levy as Levy was to his minor or would-be clients. In the long run, who was most in need of whom determined the outcome of the game.

  It was one-fifteen in the afternoon when his special­ client incoming line buzzed. He had one foot out the door, headed for a late lunch with a producer in Tarzana, and retreated to his desk with his mouth puckered in irritation. Even with special clients Levy was abrupt and businesslike. He made it a point never to deal with anyone on a personal level, because today’s special client was often tomorrow’s minor client, and the day after that was no longer a client at all. He sat down and spun his chair around, gazing through venetian blinds at traffic going back and forth on Ventura Boulevard. Sunlight filtered through a curtain of smog, illuminating the forest-covered San Gabriel peaks to the north. “Levy,” he said brusquely. He pulled a notepad over in front of him and picked up a pen.

  A cultured female voice with a slight Texas drawl said over the line, “Sharon Hays, Mr. Levy. How are you?”

  Levy said nothing. He drew a dollar sign on his pad. “I’m calling from behind the courtroom,” Sharon said. “Are you keeping up with Darla’s trial?”

  Levy had no time for chitchat. “You coming around? If you are, I got to establish parameters.”

  There was a pause. Sharon said, “I’m not sure I…” “Chet Verdon’s a good guy, but don’t get no idea I’m joined at the hip. I do business with a lot of lawyers. So the tabloid deal is still laying there. The television movie people are still calling; so far I’m putting them on hold. The exposure you’re getting helps, but don’t get no idea you’re going to retire on this. Personally I think here, right now, the book is the thing.”

  “Darla’s fighting for her life, Mr. Levy. Even if there is a possibility of a book, now isn’t the time.”

  “Darla Cowan is old news. You are new news, hot right now. You are one of the focal points in what can be the trial of the decade. The movie guys are in a cautious pattern, but the book people get caught up. In a month the next greasy mechanic that schlongs the Long Island Lolita, who knows? But at this instant here, no telling what they might piss off trying to sign you.”

  Sharon’s tone was puzzled. “Piss off?”

  “That’s, ha-ha, a term I use. What I mean is, they are more attuned to the proper value of your signature on the line.” Levy pictured Sharon Hays, a tall, photogenic brunette with a forceful, crackly-sexy courtroom voice, Christ, every woman’s fantasy, the previously unknown Texas female thrust into the spotlight and fielding the pressure. Maybe a cover photo wearing jeans, a little cheesecake with a rack of lawbooks in the background. A western shirt tight enough to show her figure, some pocket fringe …

  “I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t fascinating, Mr. Levy,” Sharon said. “Do you know a woman named Cherry Vick?”

  “Jesus. She hanging around?”

  “She has been.”

  “Well, listen,” Levy said, “you do not talk to her. You converse on this matter with Aaron C. Levy, no one else. I don’t get where I am, letting my people down.”

  “You’re Darla’s agent. You don’t feel as if you’re letting her down? She might be entitled to a visit from you.”

  “She’s a nice little girl. They are all nice little girls, but I’m making a living here.”

  There were five seconds of silence, with a hubbub of voices in the background. Sharon said, “I’m going to be late returning to court. I do have a favor to ask.”

  “Name it. Hey, you need a little front money, I can—”

  “Could you get me a conference with Marissa Cudmore?”

  Levy groped for a tin of Altoids. “That would not be a prudent move.”

  “She’s the one I have to see,” Sharon said.

  “Which is why you need an agent. I know these things. Marissa Cudmore is a theatrical movie person. She is in search of the next Steve McQueen, not the current Marcia Clark, which happens to be the category in which you fall. No way is that the route you should go.”

  “There are reasons I’ll have to explain, Mr. Levy. I speak with Ms. Cudmore, or I speak to no one.”

  “She can’t make no theatrical movie on this. Look … may I call you Sharon?”

  “Why not?”

  “Look, Sharon, keeping your interests in mind, you’ll be spinning your wheels. Best you’ll get from her, she’ll call in people from the television division. And TV isn’t the route here. Think book. Book, with a capital B. A couple of feelers, the proper calls placed to the two-one-two area code—”

  “I have to go, Mr. Levy. I’m due in court.”

  “You do not hang up, not without my cell phone number. Is there a number on that pay phone? Something comes up, I’ll have to—”

  “You can’t call me in court, sir,” Sharon said. “I’ve already experienced that. I have a pen here, give me your cell phone.”

  Levy dictated the number, twice, then said, “I carry it on my person. Any place, any time, you can interrupt, I got time for you.”

  “I have time for you,” Sharon said, “as long as it involves a conference with Marissa Cudmore. Those are my terms.”

  Levy drew a vicious slash through the dollar sign on his notepad. “Suppose I could arrange this. You’d be wasting time when we could be talking New York, the real dollars.”

  Sharon gave a long sigh. “I can see we don’t have any—”

  “For you, however, I can do this. You can commit to me, I can commit to you. If you want
to see Marissa Cudmore, done. I do not foresee anything workable there, but hey, she is a citizen and reads the newspaper along with the rest of the world. She could tell her watercooler cohorts you came to see her, and in her business, with whom you have conversed lately is a very big deal. For one of mine I will walk the extra mile.”

  “It’ll have to be late afternoon. There are a couple of more witnesses, but I expect the judge to cut this off before we get into East Coast prime time. Listen, I really have to hang up.”

  “Consider it done. Call my cell phone the moment you’re free.”

  “I will. Thanks, Mr. Levy.” Sharon disconnected.

  Levy hung up and drummed his fingers. Jesus Christ, another schizo female. There were times when Aaron Levy felt he should have stayed with his father, running the pawnbroker in Queens. Always problems in this business. Darla Cowan, Jesus, her fuck scenes had guys humping fireplugs, she wanted to star in Little Women or some shit. Now she was in jail for offing her boyfriend. No telling what that was going to cost Aaron C. Levy in commissions. Now this other woman, could collect three, four million dollars talking into a tape recorder while some ghost wrote the book for peanuts, she wanted to talk to movie people. Everybody wants in pictures, Levy thought.

  He thumbed through his Rolodex, punched in a number, waited through a series of rings. Levy said, “Yeah, put Marissa on. This is Aaron…Hell, no, Aaron Levy, what fucking Aaron you think I’m talking…She’ll speak to me. You want to be in a world of shit, you try taking my number. Yeah, okay, I’ll hold.” He scratched a front tooth with his thumbnail as he waited. Suddenly he straightened in his chair. “Yeah, love,” Levy said. “How you doing? Listen, I’m giving you an exclusive. Nobody else but you, you’re the first one I thought of. Think big, now. I will give you three guesses who I can set up for you to see this afternoon.”