My relationship with Frank is more contentious than the one I have with Paul. No less tantalizing at times, however. I couldn’t honestly say which I preferred: lemon meringue pie or tiramisu. I’d confessed my men-as-desserts-dilemma to Bernadette who felt compelled to make sure I resolved my conflicting feelings before misleading either man. She had reminded me of that on the way to the courtroom this morning.
“You don’t want Paul or Frank to be your rebound guy,” she’d warned. “They deserve better. Besides, what would you say to Father Martin?”
In a moment of weakness, I had scheduled time with the priest. I’d consulted him more than once already, seeking counsel about how to manage the rage and disappointment in my trauma-ridden life. Here I was again, pushed to the edge of despair. Not just by Jim’s latest folly, but by my mother’s recent self-inflicted brush with death.
Months ago, I’d made a promise to the priest. Before getting involved with another man, I’d figure out what part, if any, I’d played in the dissolution of my marriage. That promise and the fact that I don’t fully trust my judgment about men had kept me from crossing a line that couldn’t be uncrossed. It had been a close call last night.
What is my problem? I wondered as my mind wandered back to that close encounter. A belated New Year’s Eve celebration with Paul had gotten a little out of hand. At some point, I had lost count of how many glasses of exquisite champagne we’d downed. He likes to dance and so do I. The derailing had started with a “Happy New Year” kiss intended to be lighthearted and friendly.
My skin rippled at the memory of that kiss as it had zipped past friendship to passion in a split second. I’m not sure who was more startled as that kiss turned into a crushing embrace, and a series of more breathless caresses as our lips met again and again. I could see reckless disregard in the eyes of a man given to reticence and his sense of abandon encouraged mine. The excitement of that moment lingered this morning even though I was grateful that fate had intervened.
Things between us were already plenty complicated, but could have been trickier this morning if a phone call had not interrupted us when it did. To be more precise, Bernadette had done the interrupting at the behest of an irate caller. The angry caller was Jim. Both Paul and I had turned off our phones when we’d settled in with champagne and put on the dance music.
At that moment, with Bernadette brandishing her cell phone, the irony of our situation had been inescapable; laughable even that Jim had intruded into my personal life. Bernadette hadn’t found it funny when she walked into the great room of my father’s Brentwood home and caught us in that embrace. Champagne glasses, slow dance music, and a cozy fire must have made quite an impression. I doubt I could have created a more romantic setting if I’d planned it.
“Your ex-husband is desperate to reach his attorney,” was all she’d said. There was a hint of sarcasm in her tone as she delivered that news. When she headed back to the guest suite in which she was staying, I had half-expected her to wag her finger at us before she left, but she’d saved the chiding until this morning as we drove to the courthouse.
Paul had grabbed his phone, turned it on, and hit speed dial. He had Jim on the line instantly. Not long after that, Paul made a hasty departure. I had helped him slip back into his dinner jacket. He’d hurriedly stuffed his tie into a coat pocket, but we’d missed that tie-clasp.
“I don’t know how Paul can stay so calm with a loser like Jim as his client,” I sighed.
“He’s had lots of experience with losers like Jim,” Bernadette retorted. “That’s why Jim hired him.”
Bernadette was right. That Jim had hired Paul Worthington was not surprising. A no-brainer in fact, given Paul’s near-legendary status as a defense attorney and trial lawyer. Jim could afford to pay the man’s price, too, and he was the sort of high-profile client who sought out Paul Worthington’s services.
Still, I couldn’t help resenting the fact that I was mixed up in this, too. Had Paul taken Jim on as a client, in part, to help me get closure on the soap opera my life had become? The lawyer in me recognized that Jim had the right to the best defense he could get, and that Paul was it. On the other hand, as the betrayed wife, I felt Jim had made his own bed so why not lie in it? Vengeful, I know.
My eyes drifted toward Jim, who was staring straight at me. I squirmed in my seat as if he could read my thoughts. Had he caught the flicker of electricity that had surged between Paul and me?
So, what if he had? I thought, as I shifted in my seat again and then folded my arms across my chest. Protective. Defensive.
Too bad I didn’t have such a keen eye when the philandering swine was up to no good during our marriage. That set off a telltale flip-flop as my heart skipped a beat that sometimes signaled an impending panic attack. I tried to calm myself as I wondered for the umpteenth time, how long had that been going on? In our bed, too! Had there been other women before Cassie? In defiance, I set my jaw, raised my chin a little, and stared back at Jim.
Grr! Let it go, I thought, as Jim dropped his eyes. Jim had been up to no good with Cassie right under my nose. And while I was awash in a hormonal stew, trying like hell to get pregnant hoping to save our marriage. Despite my efforts to calm myself, that thought burned hotter than the chagrin I felt about my misstep with Paul last night or having that moment that had just passed between us witnessed by my scumbag ex-husband.
I tried to read what was in Jim’s eyes as he peered at me. Anger? Fear? Mistrust? Jim had plenty of reason to feel all those things as he waited for the arraignment to begin. Not about me. His beloved second wife had gotten the upper hand in the media war surrounding the events that had landed Jim in the worst trouble of his life.
Shortly after a disastrous party at their house, the sobbing diva, wearing waterproof makeup, had read a brief statement at a press conference. She’d expressed hope that her “handler” and friend of many years, “Cousin Marty Hargreaves,” would recover from injuries he had sustained defending her honor and safety during a “terrifying moment in my difficult marriage.”
It didn’t look good for Marty Hargreaves. He was still in a coma after more than a week at the LA Medical Center. The diva’s spell held sway over the media, which appeared to be almost drooling over the prospect that Jim Harper might be tried for murder. It didn’t seem to matter that their lust for justice, psychodrama, or higher ratings required that Marty Hargreaves, a man fighting for his life, had to die.
“Where is the martyr of Hollywood and Vine?” I whined just as a hush fell over the crowd. An excited buzz followed. The guards hadn’t allowed cameras into the courtroom, but smartphones were whipped out, unleashing a spate of clicks and flashes.
“Speak of the devil,” Bernadette muttered under her breath.
Cassie Carlysle-Harper wore dark glasses and bright red lipstick that was striking against the backdrop of her platinum blond hair and pale skin. The tall, silicone-enhanced woman was still several sizes larger than she had been before she became pregnant, but apparently, that didn’t cause her any concern. The knee-length, low-cut, slinky black dress she wore left little to the imagination, clinging to her body as though it had been poured on.
Ambling down the aisle, she wore a neck brace and used a cane. It was hard to imagine what injury she presumed to be advertising with the cane that would still have allowed her to wear stilettos. The six-inch heels on her feet would have been agony for anyone with an ankle or knee problem. Cassie slithered into a seat up front right behind the prosecuting attorney and across the aisle from where Bernadette and I sat.
“She needs a new handler,” Bernadette whispered barely loud enough for me to hear.
“Yeah, you’re right. Someone should have talked to Cassie about how to dress for court—and I don’t only mean those pointy-toed stilts she’s wearing. That slinky dress makes her look more like a wily temptress than a battered victim.” Before I could say anything else, the bailiff interrupted.
“All rise,” the bailiff ho
llered. “Los Angeles County Superior Court is now in session.” As we stood, the judge entered. “The Honorable Judge Arthur Jessup is presiding.”
The judge took his seat and called the proceedings to order. The representative from the prosecutor’s office rose to address the judge. As he did so, Cassie Carlysle-Harper stretched out her long, shapely legs and dropped her cane on the ground. It clanked loudly, drawing all eyes to her. She covered her mouth in mock alarm and then bent to retrieve the cane, her ample cleavage aimed directly at the bench. That the judge noticed was evident by the bulge of his eyes, and the click of smartphones indicated he wasn’t the only one.
“Put those cell phones away!” The judge shouted. “No photos while court is in session. I’ll collect those wretched things at the door if I see one more flash or hear as much as a peep or a beep. Approach the bench, please,” the judge ordered.
Both lawyers did as they were asked and had a quick tete-a-tete with the judge. When the attorneys returned to their seats, Paul sent me a wicked little grin before sitting down.
Charlie Calhoun, the prosecutor assigned to the case by the DA’s office, bent over and whispered something to Cassie. The body language she had used so aptly to manipulate the crowd in the room earlier, betrayed her now. She visibly recoiled at whatever Attorney Calhoun had to say.
Her reaction nearly sent her cane to the floor again, but Calhoun grabbed it and steadied it for her. Her hand fluttered to her chest as she tugged a bit at the front of her dress. Cassie glared at Calhoun and then at the judge—that glare noticeable even though she’d donned her dark glasses again. The judge remained stone-faced and didn’t blink until Cassie dropped her gaze.
“I guess the judge told her to keep her cleavage to herself,” I whispered, leaning in close to Bernadette.
“Yeah, I think she just got herself a new handler.” I suppressed a giggle as I nudged Bernadette in acknowledgment.
The proceedings were set to begin again when a messenger rushed into the courtroom and headed to Calhoun. A moment later, Jerry Reynolds stepped in through the same doors. The tall, good-looking investigator who works for Paul’s law firm only needed several long strides to close the distance between the door and Paul. As he passed a note to Paul, Cassie wailed from her seat across the aisle where the prosecutor had just spoken to her. A furious round of clicks began again among cell phone owners in the room.
“He’s dead. You murdered him!” Cassie needed no help from the cane as she got out of her seat. She raised it above her head and hurled herself in Jim’s direction, cursing at him. Courtroom security was after her immediately, but Jerry had already stopped her with a strategically placed nudge that landed the diva on her well-padded derriere.
“Excuse me. I’m so sorry I didn’t get out of your way in time,” he said, as he offered his hand to help her up. She refused and glared at Jerry as security reached her. Two uniformed guards helped the woman get back on her feet. In disbelief, I watched as she lunged toward Jim again.
“Clear the courtroom. Get that woman out of here. Now! Bring me that cane!”
As Bernadette and I left the courtroom, I was relieved to find that the lobby area had been cleared too—mostly. I overheard the opening sentence from a local reporter taping a spot likely to be repeated, ad nauseam. “This is going to be an arraignment to remember…”
I saw a flutter of recognition as the newscaster caught sight of me. I rushed for cover, joining the crowd of onlookers being ushered out of the courthouse by guards. I moved with that mob as they poured through those doors as a single organism toward escape. Or so I hoped.
2 Motion for Continuance
Outside, I took a deep breath as I stepped away from the gyrating crowd and into the shadowy corner of the overhang that shielded us from the bright California sunlight. Reporters at the foot of the steps were stopping people and asking them questions about what they had just witnessed. If I had to answer that question, I’d tell them they’d missed a down and dirty episode of Dallas or Dynasty—or one of the daytime soap operas that go on for decades.
“What was that about? Are you in a hurry to go see Alexis?” Bernadette asked confused about my sudden decision to plunge into the mob that flowed from the courthouse.
“I thought that newscaster in the lobby recognized me. I was trying to run away. Now, I’m not sure what to do. I gather from the hissy fit we just witnessed that Marty Hargreaves is dead. That can’t be good for Jim,” I said. “Not for Paul, either. I suppose we should keep moving, if I can find an escape route away from the paparazzi who are circling like sharks down there. I can always call and get an update from Paul later.”
“I’m sure he’ll be more than willing to deliver an update in person.” Bernadette had a smirk on her face. I slipped on a pair of dark glasses and scanned the churning bodies of courtroom observers and reporters milling about at the foot of the stairs. I searched for a clear path or one where the media interrogators already seemed busy with witnesses willing to describe what had gone on in the courtroom. A van sat at the curb, as though lying in wait. “Maybe we should go back inside and hide out in the bathroom.”
“That won’t work. Lindsay Lohan got cornered in there the last time she was here.”
“What do you recommend?” Bernadette did the same thing I had just done—scanned the crowd. As I took another look, too, I could tell that some of those who had been in the courtroom were being interviewed for a second time by a different reporter. They appeared to be enjoying themselves as they spoke animatedly. One of them appeared to be demonstrating Cassie’s intended use of her cane as a weapon. I shook my head.
“This could go on for hours. Let’s dash down the steps, keeping as far to the left as we can, and take our chances.” As Bernadette and I moved closer to those steps, I heard Jerry’s voice.
“There you are,” he said, hurrying over to us. “That was quite a sideshow, wasn’t it?”
“Worthy of Barnum and Bailey’s Circus,” I said. “What’s up?”
“Both sides filed a motion for continuance. The judge granted it in a flash. He’s probably grateful to get out of that courtroom himself after the attack of the cane wielding she-beast.”
“You missed the first two acts. They were pretty good, too,” Bernadette offered and filled him in on what had occurred before he arrived. It didn’t take long, and her description couldn’t convey the sheer idiocy of the sequence of interactions between the terror on two heels and the judge before she’d decided to try to put Jim out of his misery once and for all. “You were un operador suave, weren’t you, Jerry?” Jerry looked puzzled as he considered the question.
“A smooth operator,” I said. “She’s talking about that little bump you used that landed Cassie on her behind.”
“Someone needed to stop her, although I wasn’t willing to throw myself in front of that cane and take a blow for Jim Harper. My intention was to slow her down long enough for security to nab her.” He shrugged.
“You did that and managed to engineer a soft landing for Jim’s would-be assassin,” I said. “What happens to Jim, now?”
“The prosecutor had come to court expecting to arrive at a bail agreement. That got done with surprisingly little fuss. Jim’s going to have to put up a big bond. The firm’s got that covered given the paperwork Jim filed before court. The judge was in expediter mode. The only condition he insisted upon, after that blow up in the court, was no-contact orders for both Jim and Cassie.”
“It’s amazing it all got worked out so quickly,” I said.
“Maybe they were all in a state of shock about Hargreaves’ death and Cassie’s outburst. Both sets of attorneys are eager to go off and try to figure out what this new development means for Jim. Given that Jim was just released from the hospital today, all he wants to do for now is avoid spending the night in jail. As it turns out, even before her tantrum, Cassie wasn’t off the hook.”
“It was stupid to try to kill Jim while the judge was in the room,” Ber
nadette asserted in an authoritative tone.
“She’s likely to face more consequences for that episode than the court-ordered restraining order Judge Jessup issued, but that’s not her only problem. Both Cassie and Jim can expect to be charged with drug possession considering what they found at the scene. There was drug paraphernalia everywhere—no needles but pipes and someone had been cooking something other than food in the kitchen. The investigation is still underway.” Jerry seemed apprehensive about that.
“There’s going to be more dirt,” Bernadette said. “I can feel it.” I opened my mouth to chastise Bernadette about the fact that she was practically giddy at the prospect of more dirt, but what good would that do? Instead, I kept it short.
“Ya’ think?” Then, I felt bad for sounding sharp. “Never mind me, Bernadette, I’m edgy about this whole mess. You seem to be, too, Jerry.”
“Mess is right—all the ‘he said-she said’ stuff will make it tough to get at the truth. Paul’s received some of the preliminary reports from police investigators but there’s lots more to come. I’m doing my best to compile a list of everyone who was at their house when the fight broke out so we can interview them and decide who Paul wants to depose.”
“I haven’t even asked Jim what happened that night. I’ve had my hands full with Mom and couldn’t bring myself to confront the second fool in my life. Especially since he’s not even supposed to be in my life anymore. Paul gave me an overview of the trouble Jim’s in, but I wasn’t sure I should press him for details since it’s not my case. There’s the relentless tongue-wagging in the media, some of it repeating what Paul told me, but some truly bizarre elements, too.”
Suddenly, I sensed that something was happening around us. “What’s going on? I want to hear more of what you can tell us about the investigation, but I don’t want to talk to anyone from the press. It looks like they’re on the move again.”
4 A Dead Mother Page 2