Another City Not My Own

by Dominick Dunne

  “You go ahead, Gus,” said Schiller. “I want to speak to Kardashian over there.”

  There were not enough elevators in the Criminal Courts Building for the number of people using them. Often, especially at peak times, such as after lunch, it was necessary to wait in line to get into an elevator. So it was a great bit of good luck for Gus when he entered an elevator that appeared empty just as the door closed. The only other passenger, who had not been visible from the corridor, was pushing the close button so that he could have the elevator to himself. The doors closed in the faces of the people waiting.

  Gus turned. The passenger who wanted to be alone was Jason Simpson, O. J. Simpson’s son from his first marriage. The two men looked at each other. Neither spoke. Jason Simpson had spoken to no one during the ten months that the trial had been going on, except for his sister Arnelle and his aunts Shirley and Carmelita. In one of his “Letters,” Gus had described him as “surly and unfriendly, possessing none of the handsome looks of his father or sister.”

  Being alone with the son of such a famous defendant, who was thought to know things about the murders and the cleanup after the murders that no one else knew, was a reporter’s dream, but Gus was not the type to reach in his pocket and pull out his notebook and pen and start asking questions. Instead, he looked straight ahead, ignoring Jason. “It always works,” he said later to his friend Mart Crowley. “Invariably, they speak first.”

  In court, Gus had often watched as Simpson and Jason looked at each other. Unlike the loving looks exchanged between Simpson and Arnelle, Gus sensed in the looks of father and son a complicated relationship, sometimes bordering on dislike.

  Gus suddenly realized that Jason had spoken to him.

  “I’m sorry. What did you say?” asked Gus.

  “I said, how was dinner at Norman Lear’s the other night?”

  Gus was dumbfounded by the question. “How in the world did you know that I had dinner at Norman Lear’s?” he asked.

  The elevator arrived at the ninth floor. The doors opened. As Jason stepped out of the elevator, he looked back for an instant, and his eyes connected unpleasantly with Gus’s.

  “I cooked,” he said and walked away.

  The implications of what Jason said so unnerved Gus that the elevator doors closed on him before he could get out, and the elevator continued going up. He quickly pushed the button for the eleventh floor, where the media room was, and got out when it stopped. Reporters at every desk were typing out their stories for the next morning’s newspapers.

  “David, I know you’re on deadline, but I have to interrupt for a minute to tell you what just happened to me,” said Gus to David Margolick.

  “Unbelievable,” said Margolick, after Gus told him the story.

  “What are the odds of such a thing happening? The son of the defendant in this famous murder trial cooking for the catering service at a party where everyone’s knocking his father and his father’s lawyers. No one knocking him more than me, by the way. And what about the elevator? What are the odds that I should walk into an empty elevator for the first time in ten months and share it with Jason Simpson, who’s never spoken to me before? If I hadn’t stepped on that elevator, I would never have known. What do you think I should do?”

  “Call the Lears. Tell them,” said Margolick. “They probably didn’t know Jason was the cook for the catering service. Use this phone.”

  “This is Gus Bailey,” said Gus, when the Lears’ phone was answered. “May I speak to Mrs. Lear?”

  “The Lears left this morning for their house on Martha’s Vineyard, Mr. Bailey,” said the secretary who answered the phone. “I can’t give out that number, but I’ll be happy to pass on to them that you called when they check in.”

  “Thanks,” said Gus. “I can be reached at the Chateau Marmont.” When he hung up, he said, “They’ve gone to the Vineyard. I’ll call Margaret Weitzman and tell her. Jason must have heard everything we said last night. All those waiters passing the crown roast certainly heard, and they probably told him what we were saying. I wish I hadn’t told the story about O. J.’s father being a drag queen. No wonder the guy looked at me that way.”

  Six members of the Fruit of Islam, the security arm of the Nation of Islam, patrolled the ninth-floor corridor of the Criminal Courts Building carrying walkie-talkies. Six feet tall, dark-suited, bow ties in place, they cast an ominous and menacing feeling in the already troubled atmosphere outside the courtroom. They had been brought in by Johnnie Cochran to be his personal bodyguards. Their presence was resented by almost everyone, including the sheriff’s deputies who monitored the floor and courtroom. Male members of the media complained to Judge Ito that the Nation of Islam guards would not let them use the men’s room when Cochran was inside. The judge put a stop to that. Blacks and whites who had been together for so long in the courtroom and had long since worked out an everyday truce began to look at each other in an uneasy fashion.

  “In the novel, I think I’ll have Cochran’s bodyguards cause a riot,” said Gus to Larry Schiller. “It’ll go something like this: Chris Darden tries to walk into the men’s room. But the Nation of Islam bodyguards won’t let him in because Johnnie Cochran’s inside talking to his favorite reporter from the Los Angeles Times, who’s going to write his book for him when the trial’s over. Chris says to the guard, who’s the same height he is, ‘Get out of my way. I’m going into that bathroom.’ He pushes past the guard and heads straight to the first urinal. The guard fires his gun, barely missing Chris at the urinal. From there, I’m going to build the novel into a Day of the Locust ending, with all of West L.A. on fire. Beverly Hills, Holmby Hills, Bel Air, Westwood, Brentwood, Pacific Palisades. All of it on fire.”

  “I think you’re flipping out, Gus,” said Schiller.

  “You already told me that,” said Gus.

  No one found the presence of the Nation of Islam guards as repellent as Cochran’s fellow defense attorney Robert Shapiro, who already disliked him for having assumed the leadership of the defense team that Shapiro had built up so carefully. After Gus left David Margolick in the media room, he returned to the ninth floor twenty minutes before the afternoon session to use the pay phone to call Wayne Lawson, his editor at Vanity Fair, to see if he could insert a few paragraphs in his next “Letter” about the encounter with Jason Simpson that he had just had in the elevator. It was too late, said Wayne. The issue was closed, gone to the printer.

  “Damn,” said Gus.

  “Save it for your novel,” said Wayne.

  At the far end of the corridor, all alone, stood Robert Shapiro, looking downcast and unhappy. Such solitude was uncharacteristic of him; he was usually schmoozing and joking with the reporters. Gus had gone through a variety of feelings about Shapiro since they first met at the Marvin Davises’ ball a year before. He hadn’t admired Shapiro for introducing the race card before the trial began and then distancing himself from it when the criticism began. But with time, and after meeting his wife, Linell, Gus had started to like him.

  Gus watched Shapiro from the phone booth and realized he was in distress. His early popularity with the public had evaporated. Recently he had been booed at several sporting events, which had devastated him. Even worse, members of the congregation at the Stephen S. Wise Temple hissed at him when he held the Torah during Rosh Hashanah services. When Gus hung up, he walked down the long corridor.

  “Is something the matter, Bob?” he asked.

  “How could he bring in those fucking anti-Semitic Nation of Islam guards?” Shapiro asked. “How could he?”

  He was enraged at Johnnie Cochran. For him, it was the ultimate affront.

  “Sneaking them in here on us like this,” said Shapiro. “I wonder how Scheck feels. I wonder how Neufeld feels. He says he’s in danger? Bull fucking shit! I have bodyguards, too. If you’re in danger of being shot, your bodyguards don’t strut around like that. They make themselves invisible.”

  “Everybody’s angry,” said Gus
. “They wouldn’t let anyone in the men’s room when he was in there.”

  Shapiro leaned toward Gus. “I hate Cochran. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him,” he said over and over. He twisted his body as if he were in pain. “This is all off the record. Right, Gus?”

  “Sure, but it’s not exactly the surprise of the year,” said Gus.

  “It’s very nice of you to call me back, Mr. Bailey. I didn’t know when I called your magazine in New York if they would ever get the message through to you that I had called, and then I didn’t know if you’d ever answer it, you probably get so many calls,” said Wanda Perlini, when Gus returned her call in Seattle. “I was afraid you might think I was some sort of crackpot.”

  “No, no, go on,” said Gus. “The operator at the magazine indicated it was important.”

  “Is it all right if I call you Gus? Everyone calls you Gus on TV. Mr. Bailey sounds so formal.”

  “Yes, by all means call me Gus.”

  “I watch every minute of the trial, and I’d like you to know I agree with you one hundred percent about Mr. O. J. Simpson. Guilty, guilty, guilty is what we say in my family. And I just can’t stand that Barry Scheck. But I’d like you to know that my heart breaks for the Goldman family. My daughter and I love Kim, But that’s not why I’m calling, Mr. Bailey, I mean Gus. I know you’re busy, and I won’t take up much of your time. I’m calling because my daughter works for Lefty Flynn here in Seattle.”

  “Oh?”

  “She’s a sous-chef at the Boromeo Bistro, where Lefty’s the head chef. Are you with me?”

  “Go on, Wanda.”

  “Recently, Lefty’s fiancée, Alison Goodhue, who was a friend of my daughter’s, broke up with Lefty. Moved away. She told my daughter she’d just learned that Lefty had once killed a girl and done time, which he had never bothered to tell her about. No one here in town knew he’d ever killed a girl. It was a terrible shock to everyone at the restaurant. A couple of the waitresses quit when they found out. They said they didn’t feel safe working for a man who had committed a murder, even if he had done time. After Alison left town, Lefty told my daughter that the writer Gus Bailey was responsible for her leaving him. He said that Gus Bailey was harassing him.”

  “Lefty Flynn said I was harassing him?” repeated Gus.

  “That was the first time that anyone here realized that it was your daughter Lefty had murdered. I had read about your story in some interview, and I’d seen your biography on the Arts and Entertainment channel, but I never put the two together until now, and I just thought that you ought to know about this.”

  “Thank you very much, Wanda,” said Gus. “I’m deeply appreciative.”

  “Just in case you’re in danger or anything,” said Wanda.

  “Oh, I think Lefty Flynn’s done all the damage in our family that he’s ever going to do.”

  “One other thing, Gus.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s just changed his name.”

  “Oh?”

  “He’s no longer John Flynn. He’s taken his mother’s first name for his last name.”

  “Siobhan,” said Gus quietly.

  “Yes, Siobhan. How in the world did you ever know that?”

  “I remember his mother from the trial,” said Gus.

  “My daughter received a fax from him today about his name change. He sent it to all the employees at the Boromeo. Would you like me to read it to you?”

  “Yes.”

  “It says, ‘Greetings to all employees. As I believe myself to be a victim of harassment in the media, I have decided to legally change my name. From this time forward I will now be known as John Siobhan. I have adopted my mother’s name, Siobhan, as my surname. The name of Lefty Flynn is never to be used again.’ ”

  “I see.”

  “It has his home address and phone and the number and address of the restaurant. Would you like me to fax it to you?”

  “Please.”

  25

  In his “Letter from Los Angeles,” Gus wrote:

  A reporter I know who’s a friend of a deputy who’s a friend of another deputy who’s connected to the jury of the Simpson trial called me at the Chateau Marmont early on the morning of October second the first day of jury deliberation on the fate of O. J. Simpson, to tell me that some of the jurors had already packed their bags in the Inter-Continental Hotel, where they have been sequestered for nearly a year, before leaving for court. At that time, that bit of information seemed too far-fetched for me to pay serious attention to. I had told both Dan Rather and Larry King on television that I believed there would be a hung jury. But it turned out to be true. Some of the jurors had packed their bags and belongings. Apparently, they had also already made up their minds. The deputy who told the deputy who told my friend said three of the jurors had made plans to fly to Las Vegas for the weekend. The night before, a person I know had visited Simpson in the county jail. He reported him to be upbeat, making plans for his future, looking forward to being with his kids. He said he was a man without a negative thought on his mind.

  Because of the pressures of time, Gus was being photographed by the pool of the Chateau Marmont as he was being interviewed by Austine Brophy of TV Guide. Shooting on the miniseries of his last novel, A Season in Purgatory, had just been completed, and TV Guide was doing an article on Gus and his upcoming miniseries. Gus and Austine Brophy had known each other for years.

  “Where are you cutting me off, Herb?” Gus asked the photographer.

  “Waist,” replied Herb.

  “Make it tighter. Make it a chest shot. My waist is widening. I’ve been going to too damn many parties. Where were we, Austine?”

  “You just said you didn’t go to the set once,” said Austine, checking Ber notes. “Why, for heaven’s sake? It was shooting right here on the Sony lot in Culver City.”

  “I still call it MGM,” said Gus. “Sounds better to my ear. The reason I didn’t go, Austine, is that I’ve been so involved in the trial I never had the time to watch any of the shooting, which is quite unlike me. I’m usually a pain in the ass when they make changes in my books.”

  “I remember all those fights you had on People Like Us,” said Austine. “Remember, I interviewed you then, too.”

  “I remember well. I think I said something in your article that pissed off the producer,” said Gus. “So I don’t have much to say about the miniseries except that my agent says the network is pleased, but they always say that. Other than Brian Keith, I’m not even sure I know who’s cast in it.”

  “It’s not Brian Keith. It’s Brian Dennehy,” said Austine.

  “Don’t ask me anything about Whitewater, either, because I don’t know,” said Gus. “I haven’t read a word about it. The only thing I can talk about anymore is O. J. Simpson.”

  “At least tell me the plot of Purgatory,” said Austine.

  “You mean you haven’t read it?” asked Gus.

  “Yes, I’ve read it, but I need to quote you on something,” said Austine.

  “It’s about a rich kid in Connecticut who killed the girl next door and got away with it,” said Gus. “It’s about how rich and powerful people can circumvent the law, even in matters of murder.”

  “Isn’t this book and miniseries of yours actually based on a real unsolved murder?” asked Austine.

  “The girl was called Martha Moxley. She was fifteen years old. It happened twenty years ago. In real life, the two main suspects are Ethel Kennedy’s nephews, the Skakel brothers. If you use that in your article, don’t quote me as saying it. It’s a known fact. It’s been in the papers. You could have heard it from anyone.”

  “Are you still going to meetings, Gus?” asked Austine, unexpectedly. “Off the record, of course.” She leaned forward in her lounge chair and switched off her tape recorder.

  For a second Gus didn’t answer. “The same way I go to Mass,” he replied. “Not enough.”

  “You should, you know. This trial must be a terrible strain day aft
er day, especially after Becky, and then Zander getting lost, and your wife so sick.”

  “I did a double whammy after Zander: Mass and A.A. on the same Sunday morning,” said Gus. “By the way, it’s ex-wife.”

  “People still say Gus and Peach, or Peach and Gus, you know,” said Austine. “How are things with you and your brother?”

  “I thought we were talking about A Season in Purgatory.”

  “The tape recorder’s still off. I’m curious,” said Austine. “People are talking about it. I know you both. Why not ask? Wouldn’t you have asked if you were me?”

  “I would have asked sooner,” said Gus.

  “Well?”

  “Things ain’t so hot,” said Gus.

  “You’re carrying around a lot of baggage, Gus,” said Austine.

  “You don’t know the half of it, Austine,” replied Gus. “Lefty Flynn’s back in the picture. One of the greatest fears of my life has been that I would someday run into him.”

  “Have you?”

  “No, but I understand that he is claiming in Seattle, where he now lives, that I am harassing him,” said Gus.

  “Are you?”

  “I wrote something about him that apparently caused his fiancée to leave him.”

  “Good. Maybe you saved her life,” said Austine.

  “That’s what Grafton says.”

  “Gus, it’s Judy Hilsinger. Do you know anything about a two-hour documentary the E! channel is making on your daughter’s murder?”

  “No. You have to be mistaken,” said Gus. “I would have heard if there was such a thing in the works and put a stop to it.”

  “I’m not. I just had a call from the producer. She knew I publicized your books. She said they’d like to interview you for the documentary. Are you interested?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “I said already that I didn’t think you would be What will I tell her?”