The police led Robby to a tiny, closet-sized conference room where he could confer with his lawyer, and his head swimmming with questions. Who hired this guy? If not Gloria, it had to be Artie, but why? Robby hadn't recognized Norman from his face, but every Angeleno knew his name -- the man had virtually invented the race card. Why would Artie choose him? Why would Norman want to defend a white star? It couldn't be for money. Just two of Norman's rapper clients alone would keep him in his Bel Air mansion for years to come.
And what should he tell Norman once they were alone? He saw from his session with the D.A. that his story didn't hold up. How DOES one fall out of a car?
It was the only question he hadn't anticipated when he pushed the Dodge over the cliff. He had reeked of alcohol, had a baggie of cocaine in his pocket, walked crooked and slurred his speech. Who would question how he fell out? They'd dump him with a DUI and possession, that would've been that.
But when you're accused of rape, everyone wants details and all bets are off.
He knew he couldn't tell the truth. True, Norman and his law firm were bound to secrecy by attorney-client privilege. But it would only take one secretary to boast her Hollywood dirt to a trusted friend, who would then sell the tale to the tabloids. It didn't matter that the employee would be fired and Norman would be disbarred. Robby's career would be over, and he'd have as much chance of a comeback as Milli Vanilli.
But when the police left the two alone, Robby became more confused than ever.
"I'd like you to play a role in my next picture," Norman said to begin the meeting.
"Come again?" was all Robby could think to say.
Norman opened his brief case and took out a one-hundred-page screenplay with the words "Gun Butt, by Savannah Jones" emblazoned above the Nocig logo -- a burning cigarette with a red line struck through it.
"It's not the lead, per se," Norman explained. "But its about three weeks of work, and you completely dominate every scene you're in, even when its opposite the leading man."
"Um, call my agent?" Robby said as a reflex.
"My partner tells me that your agent will say no," Norman continued. "It's a low budget movie and we can't pay more than scale."
"Why are we talking about this now?" asked an increasingly bewildered Robby.
"Scale-plus-ten, according to SAG rules," Norman went on. "Plus me."
Just in case you don't understand the jargon, SAG is the actors union. It stands for "Screen Actors Guild." "Scale" is the minimum wage that has been pre-negotiated between SAG and the Producer's Alliance. For a low budget movie such as the one Norman and Ciggy were making, scale meant $1620 a week. (I bet you thought it was more. The truth is, only a handful of actors get the mega-million dollar deals that you read about. The ones who command no more than scale only work a picture or two a year and ultimately make far less than a migrant fruit picker or a high school teacher. That's why they threaten to go on strike every few years.) "Scale-plus-ten" means that the actor will get his full salary, and the production company will have to cover the agent's ten per cent commission. "Plus me" was Norman's own invention.
"What does that mean, 'plus me'?" Robby asked, more bewildered than ever.
"You do the movie for us for scale," Norman smiled as he played his final trump card. "And I take on your case, pro bono. You'll be out of here in less than two hours."
"I'd, uh, still have to read it first," Robby said tentatively.
"There's no time," Norman advised. "You're on the set tomorrow, my friend. I've got to get you out of here and over to wardrobe for a fitting, pronto."
"I'll be honest," he explained. "I need the work. A good independent could put me back on top. But a bad one could kill my career forever. I have to read it first."
"All right," sighed Norman. "Take it with you to the holding cell and I'll wait."
"No!" shouted Robby. "I'll do it!"
Norman stopped on a dime. "What happened in there?" he asked, concerned.
Robby told him about Leon and the skinheads and the deal he made with the D.A. Norman knew he had Robby over a barrel the same way that Theresa had him earlier. All he had to do was accept Robby's terror-stricken offer and the movie would be cast.
But he couldn't prey on someone's fears like that. No movie was worth it.
"Tell you what," Norman began. "I'll get you out of here. If you do the movie, I'm your lawyer, free-of-charge. If you don't, just pay me for my time. But there's no way I'm going to let them throw you back into that cage. You're not leaving this room till you walk out of this station with me. I charge six hundred dollars an hour."
"Thank you," said Robby, more in awe of this man than ever before.
"Now let's see what I can do about bail," said Norman as he headed to the door.
"You do know this rape thing is going to be all over the news, don't you?" Robby warned him. "I'm bad publicity and it will hurt your movie."
"We're counting on it," answered Norman as he banged on the door. "Dr. Kincaid, your role, is the biggest scum on the planet. If I do my job right, your case goes to trial the day we open."
"With all due respect, this isn't going to trial," Robby explained. "Once the prosecutor looks at the evidence, she'll see I couldn't have possibly done it."
"You're a Hollywood star accused of raping a seventeen-year- old girl," Norman said as the police unlocked the door. "There is no way the D.A. will drop the charges."
Oddly enough, they were both right.
By lunchtime, Theresa had looked at the evidence and saw that Robby could not have done it. The physical evidence showed it, Robby's mysterious, broken confession that it was a "hoax" added to it, and the lack of consistency between Mitch and Lisa's testimony confirmed it. The teen-age bitch WAS lying, and Theresa was more incensed than ever.
Theresa had built her career on the premise that women never lie about this sort of thing. To release Robby now and admit to the world that Lisa lied would cost the prosecutor more credibility than her career could handle. She could only imagine standing before a jury someday, arguing that women "usually" don't lie about this. Any defense lawyer worth his salt would cream her, and the true rapists would be set free to rape again.
There was too much at stake, too many innocent girls, for her to make such a pronouncement. She'd be better off taking the case to trial and letting herself lose in court. She could stick to her usual argument and then blame the "dumb" jury afterwards. And if she somehow stumbled upon a conviction and Robby had to do hard time, so be it. She'd simply have to think of him as a casualty of war.
Besides, what a great way to screw the man who defended her rapist stepfather.
So when Norman entered her office to negotiate a bail amount, she couldn't have had more fun.
"No bail," she said, calmly. "He waits in a cell till trial."
"What?!" shouted Norman in disbelief. "He's no flight risk. What the hell are you doing?"
Theresa was about seventy-five per cent certain that Norman would beat her on this issue in front of just about any judge. Robby would be released on some amount of bail, and Norman would gloat about his victory over her. But what did she care if Robby walked -- he didn't do it -- and the sheer joy of watching Norman's veins pop out of his neck made any gloating he eventually did at her expense well worth it.
"And it's non-negotiable," she responded calmly. It didn't matter that she knew Robby was no flight risk, it didn't matter that she knew he didn't do it.
She simply needed to be perceived as a hard-ass in a case that she was going to let herself lose.
"How many civil rights are you going to violate in this case!?" Norman shouted.
"None," she said as if she was actually offended. "And I haven't done so yet."
"You didn't let him make a call!" cried Norman. "You let him rot in that cell!"
"He was drunk and we let him sleep it off," she innocently explained.
"You questioned him without an attorney present!"
"He offered it," she countered.
"Only because you threatened to send him back to the transvestite-killer!"
"He was waiting for his attorney and we were going to send him back to the holding cell," she said. "Where all those arrested are held. That's why we call it that, Norman."
"Don't get smart with me, girl," he scolded.
"Just because he's a big star does not mean he gets preferential treatment."
"Nor does it mean he's denied his rights altogether! Nothing you got in that interrogation is admissible in court."
"Are you the judge?" she asked, knowing she had nothing she could use from Robby anyway. "So don't come crying to me because your rapist doesn't like the conditions here at Shangri-La."
"I'll see you in court, Counselor," he shouted as he stormed out.
"Not if I see you first!"
She knew it was an immature thing to say. She just couldn't help herself.
Robby approached the "Gun Butt" screenplay with hope and optimism. It seemed that his plan was paying off even earlier than expected -- except for the Leon part. Norman had been true to his word and convinced the police to let Robby stay in the little conference room by himself instead of returning to the holding cell where Leon awaited. The detectives were somewhat hesitant at first, but quickly relented when Norman pointed out that any more violence to Robby would be yet another scandal for the L.A.P.D.
By the time Robby opened the screenplay's cover, he had pretty much decided to do the film.
But it was the worst piece of dreck he'd ever read!
It wasn't simply because of the heavy African-American theme of the piece. Robby was a big fan of Spike Lee and John Singleton. Nor was Robby a prude when it came to violence, especially in films done by the likes of Scorsese, Tarantino or dePaulo. But "Gun Butt" managed to combine the most trite anti-white sentiments with random violence, cardboard characters and a story line that was full of holes.
And the Dr. Kincaid role was the worst of all. An educated intellectual on page nine and a foul-mouthed street thug on page eighty, he had a two-page monologue right after his big body-riddled-with-bullets scene. It couldn't be played. The only question was did he tell Norman before or after the lawyer freed him.
Norman succeeded in finding the perfect judge to rule on Robby's bail, and he only had to wait thirty minutes for the hearing. In order to kill time in the courthouse, he took out his cell phone and called Ciggy to let him know what was going on.
"He's reading it," he told him.
"Fuck!" shouted Ciggy. "What'd you let him read it for, Norman? That decreases our chances by a factor of ten!"
Norman defended himself by telling Ciggy as much as he could without violating the attorney-client privilege, and Ciggy still didn't care.
"Norman, lemme explain you something about the film business," he began. "Everyone screws everyone. If you last long enough, you're gonna get screwed by someone. It's just gonna happen. But if you don't play your advantage when you got it, you're gonna be screwed all the time and you won't last at all."
"Then maybe this is a business I don't want to be in," Norman said.
"And... what?" Ciggy retorted. "Go back to practicing law? From what I can see, that's an even dirtier profession than pictures."
Norman could only laugh.
Robby stood handcuffed before a Native-American judge as Norman and Theresa made their cases. Robby had apologetically told Norman that he couldn't do the movie, but Norman didn't care. By now, Norman was in legal-head, and he was just out to win.
Norman passionately offered reasons why Robby was no flight risk and why he should be released on his own recognizance. Theresa's style was much more calm and subdued as she harped on the concept of additional rape risks. She cited selected excerpts from Lisa and Mitch's testimony, twisting and spinning them to make Robby nothing less than the second coming of Charles Manson.
"How will you feel, Your Honor?" she asked, "If we let this man go free, then arrest him a week later because he raped another child?"
"The point of bail isn't to force incarceration," Norman argued back. "Bail is to minimize flight risk, and the prosecution has shown no evidence of its probability."
"No, the concept of bail is designed to protect society, and this man is a menace."
Robby watched as the two went back and forth, but he couldn't take his eyes off Theresa. She was evil, no doubt, yet the polite, genteel, almost uncaring manner in which she vilified him seemed to mesmerize the judge. It was how he used to play Mr. Bell, only Mr. Bell was nice and she was anything but. And that was the moment he saw exactly how to play Dr. Kincaid. Seemingly kind, polite, and well-meaning on the outside, while true evil lurked deep inside. It would be his greatest role ever. As the rest of his life lay on the line, all he could do was grow increasingly excited by his own brilliance and craft his acceptance speech to the Academy.
The judge ultimately ruled in Robby's favor and set bail at two hundred thousand dollars. Theresa seemed livid as she stormed out of the courtroom, and no one could tell that she really didn't care one way or the other.
Over the next two hours, Robby studied his lines as Norman shuttled papers back and forth between Robby and the bail bondsman, a block-and-a-half away. He had performed similar services in his early years of practicing law, but now it was like doing his own laundry. This is the glamorous film business, he asked himself?
Yet within two hours, as promised, Robby was a free man. Robby was utterly impressed with Norman, and he couldn't wait to begin shooting. No matter how bad this movie might be, he would have some awesome tape! So as Norman walked him out, Robby just wanted to kiss the man who had given him back his freedom, and his career.
But neither of them could help notice the two women being dragged in by the cops. They were both well dressed and unusually beautiful, and one could only assume they were very high-priced call girls. The brunette had a bandage wrapped around her head, and the blonde's left arm was in a sling.
"Bitch!" shouted the blonde.
"Whore!" shouted the brunette.
"I think you'd better help them," Robby said to Norman.
"Why? Who are they?" he asked.
"That's my wife," said Robby pointing to Trudy, the brunette. "And that other one's sort of my girlfriend," he said, pointing to Gloria, the blonde.
Norman sighed to himself as he headed over to the desk sargeant, "Actors."
*** Up Next: "Cat Fight On The Roadside" ***
The main characters in this e-novel are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual individuals, whether living or dead (except for Jeff Abugov who is a real screenwriter, director and producer.) Although certain real people and companies are mentioned in this e-novel, all of the events are fictional and are not intended to portray or resemble any actual events.
Copyright © 2015 Tinseltrash, Inc.