Sex and Violence in Hollywood

by Ray Garton

  She stood with her hands on the rail of the jury box, no notes on the lectern, her attention focused completely on the faces of the jurors, as if no one else were in the room. “At the beginning of this trial,” she went on, “I said I would prove that the explosion that killed those six people could have been an accident. Only you know if I have succeeded in doing that. But I remind you again that the defense is not obligated to prove anything. The burden of proof is on the prosecution. It is the duty of the prosecution to prove—beyond all doubt, beyond all question, beyond all further discussion whatsoever—that the defendant is guilty. Once again, only you know if the prosecution has succeeded in doing that.”

  Her voice was soothing as she went over the case again, speaking with them, not just to them. Discussing something they had just gone through together, solidifying a shared experience.

  Adam was as mesmerized as the jurors and spectators, could not take his eyes off her. He listened to her words as if she were telling a riveting story he had never heard before. But it did not last. His eyelids lowered slowly and he turned away as he realized with disgust, Jeez, she sounds just like Oprah!

  What Horowitz had taught Adam over a period of months came naturally to her. Everything she did, everything about her, was meticulously calculated. From her posture to the modulation of her voice, to her hairstyle. She knew how to talk to them as if they were all friends, had known one another well for months, years. She knew exactly what they wanted and gave it to them. And no matter how far from the truth, they lapped it up like thirsty dogs.

  Adam thought again. Just like Oprah.

  “If you think the prosecution has met its obligation,” Horowitz said, “then you must turn in a verdict of guilty. But before you do that, I must ask you...are you sure? Do you have it all worked out in your head? Have you considered motive? Why would he do it for money? Adam has never been needy. His parents were very successful and wealthy. They worked hard to provide a life for their son in which money would never be a concern. Can you imagine that? Not living from paycheck to paycheck? Having the kind of life in which you never had to worry about juggling the bills, or getting the rent in on time, or going broke at the holidays? It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

  Adam had no doubt that, for that moment, those jurors thought Horowitz was one of them, that she too had to worry about money and keeping groceries in the refrigerator. He suspected Rona Horowitz had forgotten long ago what dollar bills looked like.

  “That’s the kind of life Adam Julian has always had,” she continued. “If you really believe that, with that kind of life, he would need money so badly he would kill his father and stepmother and four other people for it...well, I’d be interested to hear the reasoning behind that. Or perhaps you believe he hated his father. Was there any evidence to support that? I saw none. This is a young man who had the kind of relationship with his father that millions of other Americans have had, and continue to have, with their fathers. Maybe they didn’t always get along, but what father and son do? Or father and daughter, for that matter? Maybe communication between them wasn’t crystal clear. I remember trying to talk to my parents, even as an adult. I sometimes wished they had subtitles so I could figure out what they were talking about. Am I the only one? Is that such a rare thing? I don’t think so.”

  It went on for a long time, but did not feel long at all. Adam was astonished once again by the transformation in Horowitz as she faced the jury. She was softer, gentler. She was warm and feminine and human for the jury. He had thought television softened her, but she did it herself, at will. Adam liked to think it was the real Rona Horowitz shining through. But he knew better.

  “What about Gwen Julian?” Horowitz asked the jury. “Mr. Lazar would like you to believe I brought her up simply to confuse you. The truth is, had the police and the FBI been doing their jobs, I would not have had to bring her up. They would have investigated the possibility that the explosion of Money Shot was a botched murder attempt by her, not by Adam Julian. I am not saying that is what happened, but it is a very real possibility. There are many possibilities in this case. Too many to point the finger of guilt at my client without further investigation. As I said, this trial never should have taken place.”

  Adam became restless. Glanced at the clock.

  “And there’s the other question,” she said. “What if it was just an accident? Until that question is answered, until that doubt is ruled out completely, my client is not guilty. The prosecution did not even approach the possibility that it was an accident. I had to bring it up. As defense counsel, that is not my job. But that is the kind of trial this is, ladies and gentlemen. A quick rush to judgment. Let’s turn a vague, unsubstantiated possibility into a case of murder. Of course, the prosecution doesn’t have to worry about money or paying the tab, either, because you get the bill for this. This is one of the reasons your taxes are so high. This is one of the reasons the courts are so backed up. So we can have trials that get the attorneys on television, and set them up with fat paychecks for lecture tours and books they don’t even write themselves, they have someone ghostwrite them. Riding around in a limousine from talk show to talk show, staying in all the best hotels. I know what it’s like because I do those things. But I am a private attorney. I work for myself, and all those things are part of my profession. I do not represent the people of the state of California. I do not decide how to spend their tax dollars. Whether Mr. Lazar gets the verdict he wants or not, he will get all those things, because he has been involved in a very high-profile trial. He is now a celebrity. He’s not just an attorney anymore. He is now and always will be the attorney who prosecuted the Money Shot Trial. If he wanted to, he could quit his job the day after this trial ends and be assured of a very comfortable life. For that, all he had to do was show up. He did not even have to do a good job! And as far as I’m concerned, ladies and gentlemen, he did not do a good job. I have provided you with far more doubt than he has provided you with evidence that my client, Adam Julian, paid for murder. He could not even prove a murder had taken place, never mind who did it. The prosecution has given you something, however. He has given you no choice but to find my client not guilty. I have faith in you, in your reason, in your wisdom. And I feel in my heart that is the verdict you will deliver. Thank you.”

  There was not a sound in the courtroom except Horowitz’s heels against the tile floor. They sounded like firecrackers going off in the silence. She took her seat, put a comforting hand on Adam’s shoulder and whispered into his ear: “It’s all over but the verdict.”

  FIFTY-FOUR

  That morning, dark clouds rolled in over Los Angeles. By the time Adam left the courthouse, a cool rain was falling. As Horowitz had instructed, they offered no comment to the reporters as they got into the car.

  The backseat of the Lincoln seemed to shrink as Leo drove them away. The ceiling seemed to lower on Adam, the door to shove him up against Horowitz.

  She asked, “Are you going to be sick?”

  Adam took a few deep breaths. Shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “Is that a no?”

  “Jesus, I’m off the stand, gimme a break,” Adam said. His lungs began to shrink and he started panting. He sucked in a breath every couple of words as he said, “I-I’m getting dizzy. I think I may be having a stroke.”

  “You are hyperventilating, Adam,” Horowitz said, holding her left hand, palm up, out to Lamont, who sat on the other side of her.

  Lamont fished around in the inside pocket of his suit coat, removed three small pill bottles. He squinted at the labels from beneath a head of shaggy, mussed hair. His beard, which had to be trimmed two or three times a day, had grown in around splotches of hairless skin. “I’ve got one for depression, one for anxiety, and...and I can’t read this third one. Fuck it.” He stuffed the third one back into his pocket.

  “Anxiety,” Horowitz said.

  Adam pressed a hand to his frantic chest, tried to calm himself. None of the rela
xation exercises Dr. Remini had taught him worked. His lungs only got smaller.

  Horowitz pressed a pill into his hand and said, “This is the anti-anxiety drug Dr. Locket prescribed for you. There is a bottle of water attached to the door by your leg.” As Adam took the pill, Horowitz poked and prodded in her purse. Removed a small paper bag with the Tiffany’s logo on it and handed it to Adam. “After you take the pill, put this over your nose and mouth and breathe regularly. I am sure you have seen it done on I Love Lucy.”

  Adam breathed into the bag as he replaced the bottle of water on its hook.

  “Does everybody who uses the car drink out of the same bottle?” he huffed into the bag.

  Lamont rolled his weary eyes. “I can’t believe you could be getting the death penalty today and you’re worried about germs!”

  “That will be enough, Lamont,” Horowitz said impatiently. “No one is going to get the death penalty today.”

  “I’m not?” Adam asked, pulling his face out of the bag.

  “If that happened, we would appeal and you would probably do no more than life.”

  “No more than that? Y’think?” He put his face back in the bag.

  “You will feel better after you eat,” Horowitz said. “Wolfgang is sending food to the office. This would not be a good day to attempt a restaurant. I am famished.”

  Lamont said, “I could eat my own feet.”

  None of them had eaten at lunch because none of them had been hungry.

  “We should have shared a vegetable plate in the cafeteria,” Horowitz said, “even though we had no appetites.”

  Adam dropped his hands and the bag into his lap and slouched in the seat. “I can’t believe I might get the death penalty and all you’re thinking about is eating.”

  “You will only feel worse if you do not eat,” Horowitz said.

  Adam made a nauseated sound and said, “I feel...I feel like...”

  Like Don Knotts in Caligula! he could hear Carter saying.

  The food from Wolfgang Puck was waiting for them when they arrived at Horowitz’s office. Adam smelled seafood. It sickened him.

  Horowitz lifted sterling silver lids, sniffed rising tendrils of steam. “Oh, this is marvelous. Sit down, Adam. Eat.”

  “I can’t eat,” he said angrily, as if that fact should be obvious.

  “You have had nothing since breakfast, if you ate that,” Horowitz said as if she had not noticed his anger. “I will not let you get sick, you have to eat something. Here, have some of this French bread. Still warm.”

  “If I eat, I’ll throw up in the car.”

  “If you do not eat, you will pass out at the verdict.”

  Adam’s eyes grew round. “What? You...you think it’s gonna be bad?”

  She popped a scallop into her mouth, closed her eyes. “Mmm, Delicious. Sit down, Adam.”

  He went to the corner to get the chair he always sat in, but it was not there. Panic exploded in his chest. He closed his eyes, told himself to calm down, it was only a chair. “My chair’s gone,” he said quietly through tight lips.

  “Oh, I needed it in the conference room,” Horowitz said as she spooned food onto a plate. “Lamont, go get Adam’s chair.”

  “Sure,” Lamont said, muttering on his way out, “I’ll get his blanky while I’m up.”

  Horowitz said, “Pay no attention to Lamont. He is just feeling cranky.”

  “Boyfriend problems?”

  “No. He cannot decide whether or not he wants to have electrolysis performed on his face.”

  “Are you serious? He’s upset about his beard? That’s his personal problem?”

  “You know Lamont. He obsesses about his facial hair. It grows like a Chia Pet on crystal meth. It is there even when it is not there. And yet, even when it is allowed to grow in, he has bald spots on each side the size of quarters. Rather odd, yes?”

  “Why don’t you just let him wear the beard?”

  “I am, until the end of his vacation. Then he has to make a decision.”

  “What decision?”

  “Whether to have the electrolysis or find employment elsewhere.”

  “Are you serious? You’re gonna fire him over his beard?”

  “Not exactly. I am going to fire him because the people who like beards do not dislike men who do not wear them. People who do not like beards, however, tend to dislike people who wear them. Often quite intensely. It is an unnecessary obstacle and against the policy of this firm.”

  Adam frowned, cocked his head. “You work so well together. I thought you liked him.”

  “Oh, Lamont is the best assistant I have ever had. But this firm operates the way it does because it works. I will not change that over a beard.” She walked over to Adam and offered him the plate. “Here.”

  “I told you, I can’t eat.” He stepped around her, lips curling at the smell of the food.

  Lamont walked in carrying the chair. “Okay, you can stop talking about my beard now,” he said, dropping the chair in front of Adam.

  Adam looked at it as if he did not recognize it. Turned to Horowitz. “How long do you think this will take? Can I go see Alyssa?”

  “The verdict probably will not come in today. It is almost four o’clock now, which does not leave much time for deliberation. That is as it should be, because typically, a quick verdict is a bad sign. But no, you may not go see Alyssa. If you like, she can come here or to your apartment. But between now and the verdict, I do not want you wandering around the city like some Dickensian urchin.”

  Adam took his cellphone from inside his suit coat. Opened it, punched in Alyssa’s number. Sunny answered and immediately began to cry. “Oh, Adam, we’ve been watching,” she said. “I know how worried you must be, honey, but I’ve got really good vibes about this, I really do.”

  “Yeah, the vibes are, um...vibrating over here, too,” he said. “Is Alyssa there?”

  “She’s here, Adam, but she’s in the bathroom and can’t come to the phone at the moment. She’s having a pretty painful flow this month. Can I have her call you back?”

  The Huffmans. Such open, honest people. “Yes, tell her to call my cellphone.”

  Chewing on a bite of bread from Adam’s plate, Horowitz opened the cabinet that held her television and turned it on, clicked the remote. Adam sat in the chair after putting the cellphone back in his pocket and Horowitz stepped before him, offered him the plate. “I am very serious, Adam,” she said. “You need to eat. You will pass out at the verdict.”

  “My God, you keep saying that!” Adam said, his voice higher than usual. He felt ready to pull out his own hair with clenched fists. “Why the hell do you think I’m gonna pass out? Are you expecting a guilty verdict?”

  Horowitz leaned close and raised her voice slightly. “From malnourishment! If you passed out after receiving a guilty verdict, it would be appropriate. But after a not guilty verdict, it would only ruin a perfectly good exit. Now take this plate before I drop it in your lap and bill you for the carpet stains.”

  Adam took the plate.

  Lamont gnawed on an oversized bite of French bread as he filled his plate. Horowitz made a plate for herself and took it to her desk. Put on her headset, punched a couple buttons.

  “It’s Horowitz,” she said. “Do you have any numbers for me?” As she listened, she wrapped a scallop in strands of pasta on her fork and put it in her mouth.

  Adam’s cellphone warbled. He sat in the chair and answered. It was Alyssa, and she was terribly embarrassed.

  “I can’t believe she said that to you,” she said. “And she actually told me she said that to you, as if it was nothing. ‘I just told him you were having a bad period,’ she says, like it’s no different than saying, ‘She can’t come to the phone right now.’ I mean, do you see what I have to live with here? Death is too fucking good for them. I’d torture them for a few weeks if I had a place to keep ’em so they wouldn’t be found.”

  Adam laughed. “Don’t be embarrassed. Shucks, ma
’am, I know all about that stuff.”

  “Oh, no you don’t. Just because you read Carrie and watch reruns of Maude on TV Land doesn’t mean you know squat. Have some of these cramps, then we’ll talk.”

  “You’re funny when you’re on the rag,” he said.

  Alyssa laughed. “Well, it just started this afternoon, so that means I’ll be the life of the party for the next few days.” Her words fumbled as she made the reference to the future. They said nothing for a while. Then she whispered, “It’s gonna be fine. I feel it in my gut, Adam.”

  There was another pause. Adam did not want to talk about what was coming, what might happen. Instead, he remembered something he had intended to bring up earlier, but had forgotten. He said with a chuckle, “Hey, I didn’t know you were a party girl.”

  Horowitz’s phone trilled again and she put her call on hold.

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe he said that!” Alyssa said. “A regular at the Jugular? I was there twice! Maybe three times. I never had a goth fetish, I just hung out with goths. I wanted so bad to tell him to kiss my ass!”

  “Yeah, yeah. Your past comes back to haunt you.” He laughed.

  “What do you mean? You...you believe me, don’t you?” Her voice dropped and she sounded genuinely hurt.

  “Of course I believe you. How could I not believe you, Alyssa?” He whispered, “I love you. And if I get out of this, when I get out of this, whatever...I want to be with you.” Clenched his teeth. “I have to be with you. I...I have a surprise for you. If things...turn out.”

  “A surprise?” Alyssa sniffled. “Can I see you? Now?”

  “You wanna meet me at the apartment?”

  “Adam,” Horowitz said.

  He turned to her and saw what looked like surprise on her face. Four fingertips lightly touched the curved black tube of plastic that ended near her lips.

  “The jury has reached a verdict,” she said.

  “When do you want me there?” Alyssa said. “Right away? Please say right away.”