by Ray Garton
“How do I reach you?”
“You won’t need to. We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I’ve really gotta fly. No swearing and drop the attitude, you’re working on those, right?”
“Shit, yeah.”
As soon as Lamont was gone, Adam got the satchel from the floor, put it on the bed. Knelt beside it as he pulled on the zipper, opened it wide. The satchel was Carter’s, probably older than both their ages combined, tan leather, brittle and cracked. Faded X-Men decals on the sides. Carter had put them there in the fifth grade, when he’d started using the old satchel to carry around all his X-Men paraphernalia. Lately, he had been using it to carry sketchbooks, projects in progress. It was that satchel Carter grabbed when they decided to go sit in a coffee shop at two or three in the morning.
In a zippered compartment inside the satchel, Carter kept a small handheld PC, about the size of a VHS cassette, equipped with a cellular modem. If someone had searched the bag carefully, the computer would not be there. But it was so small and slender, it might have survived a cursory glance.
Adam smiled as he closed his hand on the lightweight slice of plastic, unnoticed by Horowitz. He e-mailed Alyssa, instructed her to meet him in the Movies chat room at Yahoo. Then he waited, with no idea how long it would be before Alyssa found his e-mail. He channel-surfed with the television remote for a while. The Superstation was showing a marathon of the old black-and-white series, The Outer Limits. Adam tossed the remote aside and lay back on the bed. Got comfortable so he could watch the show while he waited. And promptly fell asleep.
* * *
He awoke four hours later, washed his face. Switched from the Superstation to Letterman on CBS. His computer—actually Carter’s—was still online, and he had mail. Two notes from Alyssa. The first was excited, asked where he was, what had become of him, and why the strange e-mail address. The second, sent less than five minutes ago, simply said she was still waiting for him in the chat room he had specified.
Adam had neglected to tell her not to e-mail him, and wished he had. If Horowitz discovered the computer, he did not want to give her any proof that he had contacted anyone. He especially wanted to avoid involving Alyssa.
He went to Yahoo, logged onto the Movies chat room.
She was there, using the nickname he had given her. Adam was Nick666 and Alyssa was Nora666. There were sixty-two people in the chat room. Usually, more than half were kids much more interested in shouting obnoxiously in capital letters—“BRITNEY SPEERS IS THE MOST BODAYSHUS BABE WHO EVER LIVD!”—than in reading what anyone posted. In the rush to be the funniest, hippest, most informed or disgusting, no one would notice them.
Alyssa posted, “I miss you so much! I’m so sorry about Carter I didn’t even know what happened till I got out there I didn’t think I’d ever stop crying! Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m better now that I’ve got you online.”
They chatted for two hours. Adam did not want to end their conversation. She knew him, he could be himself with her. His life was suddenly filled with strangers. Alyssa was the only part of his real life that remained. But he knew if he did not end the conversation, neither would she, and they would still be chatting when the sun rose behind the smog in the morning.
“I have to go,” he typed. “Need to get up early in the morning.”
“To do what?”
“Prepare for the trial. Whatever that means. Won’t be able to see each other for a while.”
“How long is ‘a while?’”
“I don’t know. However long it takes. I’m sorry, Alyssa, it’s not up to me. My life is in the hands of an uptight Munchkin who smokes beige cigarettes that smell like burning goat turds.”
“LOL!” Alyssa replied. It stood for “Laughing Out Loud.” “You mean R.H.?”
“Yes. You know how, at a circus, a little tiny car will pull into the ring, and then about a hundred little midget clowns pile out of it? Well, she’s the one at the wheel kicking them out because they refused to wear the clothes she wants them to wear. She’s got me wearing Armani suits. As long as you don’t tell ANYBODY, we can stay in touch this way. Don’t even tell Brett. And don’t talk to the press. You’re not obligated to answer ANY questions. By the way, have you heard from R.H.?”
“Heard from her? No. Should I?”
“Eventually. She’s going to tell you I can’t see you anymore—but DON’T BELIEVE IT! It’s a long story, I’ll tell you everything later. Don’t tell her about chatting with me. Just act upset and get rid of her.”
“There’s no way I can see you? I miss you so much!”
“I think about you all the time. Every second.”
“You’re all I can think about, too. I want you on top of me, I want you inside me.”
Someone using the nickname Barnstormer said, “Get a room, Nick and Nora. This is a family chat room!”
They agreed to meet in the chat room at noon the next day. If he was not there, Adam told her to keep checking until she found him. He did not know what his schedule would be yet, so he wasn’t sure when he would be able to get back online.
They declared their love for one another in front of sixty faceless strangers, and said their goodnights. Adam went back to sleep thinking of Alyssa. And hoping that if he dreamed that night, it would be of her and nothing else.
FORTY
Adam dreamed of kissing Alyssa. They stood in a naked embrace, sucking each other’s tongues as if for life. She pulled away from him and said, “Adam. Wake up.”
He tried to pull her to him again, but his arms slid through her as she disappeared.
“Time to wake up, Adam!” The voice was female, but not Alyssa’s.
Adam looked down. Horowitz stood where Alyssa had been, squat and naked and frowning, but somehow—and this made Adam cringe—not unattractive.
“Breakfast is getting cold,” Horowitz said.
The dream vanished and Adam opened his eyes. Horowitz’s face hovered over him like a balloon in the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade. He realized he was lying naked under a sheet, on his back with a tingling erection pointing at the ceiling. He rolled over and grabbed the blanket, pulled it over himself. Sat up and hugged his knees. “Out of one nightmare and into another,” he said, groggy. “This is like a Brian DePalma movie.”
“Shower and dress quickly,” Horowitz said.
Adam looked at his bedside digital clock. The green numbers changed to 4:59 a.m. “It’s only five o’clock,” he said. “I’ve got another—”
“No, you do not. Get up immediately.” She walked to the open double doors, turned to Adam. “We have a big day ahead of us.” Leaned toward him slightly, a doorknob in each hand. “Actually, you have a big day ahead of you. There has been a development that requires our immediate attention. Now, hurry and come to breakfast.” She pulled the doors closed as she backed out.
“Son of a bitch,” Adam said as he got out of bed.
“I heard that,” Horowitz called from the next room.
He rolled his eyes on the way to the shower. Muttered under his breath, “You...you...treacherous twat.”
“I heard that, too.”
He froze, cringed, and gooseflesh bubbled on his shoulders.
* * *
Two months after his arrest, Adam Julian was all over television. For the first three weeks, one of his few outings showed up on television repeatedly. Newscasters spoke over footage of Adam leaving his hotel, entering the courthouse for his arraignment, leaving the courthouse after his arraignment, or entering his hotel. In the clips, he wore a gray Armani suit with a plum-colored shirt and black-and-gray tie. Adam was afraid people would think he never changed his clothes. For three weeks, it was all the public saw of him, except for the high school photograph some news outlets used occasionally. Both CNN and Court TV used the footage in promos of their ongoing coverage of the story. CNN’s was a grainy black and white, in slow motion, accompanied by melancholy strings and ominous, dirge-like drums. Court TV
was calling their coverage “Murder in Beverly Hills,” which made no sense to Adam because the actual murders had taken place off Marina del Rey.
The trial would not start until February, but it was already a highly-anticipated television event. Right after Adam was arrested, Michael Julian’s movies began to show up everywhere. They ran on premium channels, broadcast networks, and all points in between. Two of them, neither intended to be a comedy, showed up on Comedy Central. TV Land was planning a marathon of episodes Michael had written for various television action series. Even American Cinematheque had scheduled a retrospective of Michael’s movies to be shown at the Egyptian.
Horowitz’s prediction about the four late-night television talk show hosts pulling Adam out like a rubber chicken whenever they wanted a laugh had not quite come true. Not yet. So far, Adam’s name had been mentioned only twice, most memorably by Craig Kilborne, who admired Adam’s “cool and collected” Armani suit, “which appears to be the only clothing Adam Julian owns.” One night, he held a mock telethon to raise money to buy Adam Julian some new threads. Nothing the talk show hosts had said made Adam feel as if he were under attack. The frequency of the jokes dropped significantly in the second month. But Horowitz had promised him that would change.
“Maybe it won’t,” he had said.
“In that case,” Horowitz had replied, “you would be a rare exception to the rule, and so far, nothing about your case is exceptional.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means that yours is a relatively straightforward case with no surprises.” She cocked her head and lifted a brow. “Unless there is something you have not told me.”
Adam’s television appearances were not nearly as frequent as Horowitz’s. She had appeared at least once on all the morning happy-talk shows, five times on Larry King Live, and Adam had lost track of how many appearances she had made on Rivera Live. He had been surprised to see her on The View, the morning talk show hosted by Barbara Walters and her giggling sleepover of female cohosts. Horowitz did not strike Adam as the coffee klatch type.
One evening, Horowitz had come to Adam’s room to go over some of the details of their story. They talked as she shuffled through a stack of folders and papers on the table. Horowitz often seemed capable of doing two separate things at the same time, like carrying on a conversation while reading through folders. But her multitasking had little endurance. As usual, she became preoccupied with something before her on the table, all talk forgotten for the moment.
Adam had stared at the television from his chair and channel-surfed as he waited for Horowitz to come back. Stopped on Larry King Live, where she had been a guest two nights before.
“What’s Larry King like?” Adam asked, not expecting a reply.
He did not get one.
“Did he hit on you? I’ve heard he hits on most of the women who come on his show. A lot of people think he’s a sleaze, but I really think the poor old dork honestly forgets he’s married. Did he fart a lot?” He flipped over to CNBC, where Geraldo Rivera was talking to Gloria Allred. “How about Geraldo? Does he primp a lot? I’ve always imagined him as a primper.”
A moment later, Horowitz lifted her head and said, “Pardon me, were you saying something?”
“What about Barbara Walters and her band of merry hens?” He laughed. “I bet you couldn’t get off that show fast enough.”
Horowitz frowned. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“The View. I was just wondering what they were like. You know, those talk show women. Are they like Stepford hosts? Do they giggle and yip like that all the time?”
“Are you serious?”
“Sure. Does Barbara Walters smell like mothballs?” He chuckled. “Do bronzed, oiled-up musclemen carry her everywhere on a canopied litter?”
Horowitz bowed her head as her shoulders bounced, and Adam realized she was laughing silently. When she spoke, there was no sign of it. “I do not know any of them. We hardly speak off camera. Sometimes they invite me to parties. Sometimes I go, sometimes I do not.”
“What about Larry King? What shade of gray is he in real life, anyway?”
“I am speaking of all of the talk show hosts. I did not know the ones who came before them, and I will not know those who come after. You probably know more about them than I. They are simply people whose jobs allow me to go on television to further my client’s cause.”
“Okay, if you say so,” Adam had said. He had continued channel surfing then. “But I bet Barbara Walters smells like mothballs.”
Furthering Adam’s cause was something Rona Horowitz did with amazing skill. He marveled at the transformation she underwent before the television cameras. In person, she was abrupt, rather chilly, not exactly uptight, but not someone to bring words like “relaxed” and “laid back” to mind. When she spoke in person, her words were clipped neatly around the edges and arranged perfectly, and even the most casual remark sounded like a prepared speech. She was angular, intense, sometimes distracted, always acutely alert. Television softened her, rounded her gently and made her quite pretty. Her voice was smooth and low, soothing, reassuring. She came across as a pleasant, intelligent, independent, confident woman, compassionate and fair, and devoted without reservation to her cause, which was Adam. When he watched Horowitz on television, he sometimes forgot he was the person she was talking about.
On Larry King Live, she said, “Adam first lost his mother in a swimming accident, then his father, stepmother, and stepsister in that awful explosion. And just days later, after all that pain, all that death, he watched helplessly as two uniformed officers of the Marina del Rey Police Department, Officer Stanley Pembroke and Officer Warren Buchwald, came through Adam’s friend’s house like stormtroopers and put two bullets through the brain of Carter Brandis, Adam’s best friend since childhood, who was armed with nothing more than a squirt gun. On top of all that, he is accused of murdering his family. I don’t know about you, Larry, but I’m not sure I could hold up under all that. But he is a strong young man, willing to cooperate fully and for as long as it takes, because he is innocent of these charges and because he believes in our judicial system.”
To Geraldo Rivera, she said, “I have no doubt that Adam Julian’s name will be cleared in court. You’re an attorney, Geraldo, and I’m sure you share my great respect for juries. Well, once the facts are laid out, I don’t think there’s a jury in the world that would convict him.”
On The View, she said, “Adam is just a boy who has lost his father...and has no mother to comfort him.” It drew a simultaneous “awww” from the five cohosts and brought Meredith Vieira to the verge of tears.
Whenever she appeared on a show that took calls from viewers, Horowitz planted callers. Adam had recognized Lamont’s voice on TalkBack Live: “If your client is innocent, then who really killed Michael Julian and his family?”
“That is a very good question, sir, and you aren’t the only person asking it, I assure you. My client would also like to know what happened to his family, whether it was murder or a freak accident, and I think he has a right to know. Until Officers Stanley Pembroke and Warren Buchwald came storming into his house to shoot Carter Brandis to death, Adam had been told by Officer Miguel Ruiz of the Marina del Rey Police Department that the explosion was an accident. But if the worst an officer of the Marina del Rey Police Department does to you is lie, I suppose you should consider yourself quite lucky.”
Adam shared the headlines with what comedian Lewis Black of The Daily Show called “Uncle Waldo’s All-You-Can-Eat Summer Camp for Wayward Boys and Guns-N-Drugs Emporium”. The raid on the desert compound was a blockbuster story by itself. It contained enough lurid sex, drugs, and guns for a dozen network miniseries and made-for-television movies. But its link to Adam, and the existence of Waldo Cunningham’s client list, which authorities refused to discuss with the press, sent the media into a frenzy.
Reporters spoke of it as if it were an actual slip of paper with names l
isted on it, locked away in a secret safe. It became the Holy Grail of the tabloid papers, and it seemed an unspoken conclusion that, sooner or later, someone with access to that safe would cave under a wad of money offered by some fat, oily, sweaty-palmed tabloid reporter, and those names would fly with the leaves on the wind.
In the meantime, speculation was rampant. Betting pools sprang up on the Internet, where suddenly Michael Jackson pedophilia jokes were resurrected to a new life and were becoming so elaborate as to take on plots, themes, and characters. Names of celebrities, politicians, and religious leaders were tossed around as possible clients of Cunningham’s in serious tones as well as in jest. Some were whispered, others laughed at out loud.
Six of the underage boys found in the compound had been reunited with their parents on Good Morning America, Today, Oprah, TalkBack Live, and The Rosie O’Donnell Show. One of them fled his parents outside 30 Rockefeller Plaza after their appearance on Today, disappeared in the crowd, and had not been seen since. Another sneaked out of his parents’ Chicago hotel suite late at night as they slept after appearing on Oprah that day. He, too, remained missing.
Two unofficial biographies of Michael Julian were in the works, one by a former lover, another by some pseudonymous hack who wrote half a dozen movie novelizations and breathless celebrity bios a year. A third, written by Michael’s first agent, already had been turned down by all the major houses. “Too bitter,” explained an anonymous publishing source to a reporter at the New York Post column “Page Six.”
The National Enquirer and other tabloids like Star magazine, the Globe, the New York Post, and even closet tabloids like the Los Angeles Times, Newsweek, and Time interviewed a string of women who claimed to have been Michael’s lovers, one of whom said she had made love with him the day before his death, and another who claimed she once had heard Adam threaten Michael’s life.