The thirty-two-year-old assistant D.A., let's call her Theresa Chavez, was awakened in the middle of the night by a phone call. A drunken, coked-up TV star had tried to rape a seventeen-year-old girl, and Theresa had been given the case. She was told that the victim promised to do whatever was necessary to put her assailant behind bars, and her varsity football-playing boyfriend had witnessed the whole thing. The clearly intoxicated TV star was belligerent to the police and refused to take a blood test. That was all Theresa needed to nail the pederastic creep.
In her six years in the D.A.'s office, Theresa had made a name for herself for putting rapists behind bars. It wasn't an accident. It was why she had become a lawyer.
When she was nine years old growing up in Compton, she saw her stepfather forcibly molest her fourteen-year-old sister. She saw the judicial system paint her sister as a liar and a slut, saw her stepfather go free, and saw her mom forgive him. She knew it was only a matter of time till he came for her next, and there would be nothing she'd be able to do about it. The only thing that saved her was that the bastard dumped her mom for a younger woman and was out of the house before Theresa developed.
Theresa was highly competent at prosecuting murder, theft and drug charges, but she pursued cases dealing with child molestation as a religious quest. The plea bargains she offered were extreme, and only the most obviously guilty accepted them. Those who insisted on going to trial often ended up with even longer sentences. For Theresa knew that young girls never made up this stuff. If they said it happened it did, and any lawyer who made the victim's lying the basis of their case personally offended her.
Theresa watched the police take Lisa's statement, and she knew she had an unbeatable witness. A brilliant, albeit unstable girl, Lisa seemed to remember every detail, right down to the scratches and bruises on Robby's body. The medical examiner reported that the vaginal examination showed severe bruises and lesions on her inner thighs, but also curiously showed the girl to be a virgin. Lisa explained that Mitch had jumped in before Robby had had the chance to actually penetrate.
To Theresa, this was inconsequential. In her mind, the only difference between rape and attempted rape was the competence of the perpetrator, and she saw no reason to go easier on Robby simply because he failed to complete his heinous crime. If she did her job right, neither would the judge or jury.
But Robby didn't give up after that, Lisa continued. After Mitch jumped in to help her, the adult TV star began to beat up on him. As the two fought, Lisa knew she had to help her boyfriend. So she jumped into the fray and tried to bite Robby's nose. But in the confusion, she admitted, she had bitten Mitch's nose by accident.
Theresa saw her sister in the fragile North Hollywood girl, and she wanted to cry. She vowed to send this TV star away for a very long time.
It was Mitch's statement that didn't add up. He claimed it had been Robby who bit his nose. He also said that there had been penetration. When the lead detective pointed out that Lisa claimed otherwise, Mitch only looked up at the ceiling nervously.
"He did," Mitch finally answered. "I saw him! Why are you trying to trick me?"
Theresa found the inconsistency a little odd but wasn't very concerned. She had seen this kind of thing many times before. Twenty people see a man rob a bar, but they all have a different description of him. Worst-case scenario, Theresa doesn't call Mitch as a witness. She knew for a fact Rockman's defense wouldn't call him because Mitch had an even more damaging description of the evening than Lisa.
Robby spent the night sitting on the hard wood bench of the Van Nuys holding cell along with the other Independence Day drunks and thieves. Not counting Robby, there were three in all. One was asleep on his area of the bench, and Robby assumed him to be a simple DUI. There was a desperate-looking teen-age boy in pauper clothes and expensive running shoes, and an angry, threatening glare. Robby wondered if the anger was real or just the act one must adopt in jail. He considered adopting the act himself -- he certainly had the chops for such an easy role -- but he decided against it because he was afraid it could inadvertently antagonize one of the others.
The third cellmate appeared to be a very tall, beautiful, black woman. Standing at six foot eight, the she-man had long straight blonde hair and exquisite features. His perfectly proportioned breasts seemed real, enhanced by a fantastic Ralph Lauren dress, artfully applied makeup and all the right accessories. I'll call him Leon, and it was easy for Robby to assume that he was here on some kind of solicitation charge.
Too bad, he thought. With what this guy seems to know about clothes and makeup, he could be a top-notch stylist for film or TV.
But it wasn't his temporary cellmates that consumed Robby's thoughts at this point, nor was it his fear of conviction. There was something far more terrifying about all this.
Robby had played a defense lawyer in one of his two movies -- a film so meticulously accurate that it was incredibly boring and that's why it failed -- but he had learned how the rules of evidence work.
Having had the time to piece together the chronology of the evening, Robby knew that it was only a matter of time till the prosecution would compare the time of his 911 call reporting the stolen Dodge with the time of the explosion -- then both of those with the time of the policemen's arrival. They would see that he just hadn't had time to commit the act of which he was accused, and they would drop the charges. Despite what happens in fiction, Robby was well aware that real D.A.s didn't pursue cases in which they knew they were wrong.
It was the accusation itself that terrified Robby. Driving drunk was a felony, true, but it was generally considered more a matter of poor judgment than criminal intent. A stupid thing that many Americans have done at one point or another, only to wake up the following day to realize how lucky they had been. A public figure caught in such a scandal would be easily forgiven as long as no one was hurt and he apologized. And having something for which to apologize was the whole point of his plan.
But raping a child was completely unforgivable. It didn't matter that it would never come to trial. The accusation would be all over page one, but the eventual acquittal would be buried somewhere in the paper's B section. Even then, it wouldn't stop Leno, Letterman and Maher from playing on it as if there had been no acquittal at all. Robby would never escape its legacy, and consequently he'd never be able to get as much as a dinner-theatre gig in Peoria.
He had to come up with a way to spin this, he thought. But spin was never his forte. Artie always took care of that for him. As much as he hated the notion of asking for help from the man who had screwed his wife, Robby didn't see that he had much choice. Robby was an actor who could play any role he chose, and right now he just didn't know what to play.
Yet just to give you an idea of how nice a guy Robby truly was, listen to this. Most people, myself no exception, would truly hate and despise their false accusers and spend their solitary moments plotting their revenge. But Robby actually pitied the young girl who got him into this mess.
What kind of psychological demons must Lisa suffer from to ruin his life like this, he wondered. It couldn't be for money or fame because she didn't even recognize him at the time. She was in pain and scared of something beyond the near-death experience of the crashed Volvo. He thought it was warped and it was sad, and he honestly wanted to help her.
This was not his spin. His spin would come later, and it would be far more diabolical.
It was around six a.m. when the heavily body-pierced skinheads were brought in. The first wore a cotton shirt unbuttoned to his navel to boast a thick black swastika tattooed across his chest. The second had an array of smaller tattoos all over his body and face. Many snakes, a few dragons, and a cartoon black man swinging from a noose tied to a tree.
As an officer slammed the cage door shut behind them, the swastika-clad skinhead sized up his new roomies. His eyes immediately fell upon Leon.
"How ya' doin', sugar?" Leon said to the swastika as he smiled back, wholly unafraid. Robby wondered if it was an act or if the transvestite was just nuts. Either way, the swastika didn't like it.
"Wha'd you call me, faggot!" he shot back as he threateningly headed his way.
But he was interrupted when the hanging-blackman-clad skinhead noticed Robby.
"Hey, it's Mr. Bell!" he shouted. "You're him, you're Mr. Bell, ain't ya?"
"Yes," Robby modestly responded, sensing this could only lead to something bad.
The swastika immediately turned away from Leon to check this out for himself.
"Well, fuck me," he said, seemingly impressed. "I loved that fucking show."
"Thank you," Robby said oh so quietly.
"You know what I loved most about it? The way you always told your kids to stand up to bullies. That bullies are just fucking cowards and'll run away if you stand up to `em? You believe that shit?"
"I don't know," muttered Robby, sensing the worst.
"Then why the fuck'd you say it if you don't believe it? You think I'm a bully?"
"I don't know you."
"Well, I am. You going to stand up to me, ya big faggot?" asked the swastika as he shoved Robby in the chest, knocking him hard against the steel bars.
"Leave the poor man alone!" blurted the courageous transvestite.
"Hey!" the swastika snapped back. "When I want your opinion, I'll kick your faggot teeth up your ass!"
"You know what I think?" the hanging-blackman asked the swastika.
"No, what do you think?", replied the swastika.
"I think Mr. Bell had a thing with Mr. Song."
"That true?" laughed the swastika as he moved in once again. "You had a thing with Mr. Song?"
"No," answered Robby.
"You and Mr. Song just a couple of Jew faggots?" he went on.
Bear in mind that Robby was an Iowa Methodist. Larry was a Massachusetts Catholic. The director of "School, Sweet School" was an Illinois Presbyterian. One of the creator-show runners was a Chicago Jew, and the other was a Kentucky Baptist.
"Look, I don't want any trouble," said the Iowa Methodist as he tried to squirm away from the swastika, only to find himself nose-to-nose with the hanging-blackman.
"Wanna suck my cock, Mr. Bell?" asked the hanging-blackman.
"No, I'm not a homosexual," Robby replied, desperately and terrified.
"I want a blowjob from Mr. Bell," the hanging-blackman went on. "I want a belljob."
"Belljob," laughed the swastika. "Good one."
"Please," pleaded Robby. "Don't do this."
"What's the matter?" asked the skinhead. "My friend's Christian cock not good enough for you Jews? What, if ain't circumcised, it ain't kosher?"
"It's kosher enough, Mr. Bell," said the hanging-blackman as he opened his fly. "Now suck it, Mr. Bell. Suck it now!"
"No," squeaked Robby, trying to appear brave and strong yet failing. "I won't."
"Now I'm offended, you goddamn Christ-killer!" shouted the swastika who threw a quick hard jab into Robby's gut.
Robby keeled over as the hanging-blackman kneed him in the face. He dropped to the ground as the two skinheads took turns kicking him in the belly and chest, laughing out anti-semitic slurs and obscenities, having a high old time. Robby did his best to block their assaults. He may have even landed a scratch or two on one or both of their legs -- he wasn't sure. Either way, it did nothing to stop their little party.
"This better than a Christian cock, Jew-boy?"
"Kosher enough for you, Mr. Bell?"
Robby had no idea how long this would have gone on and hoped to lose consciousness, but then it suddenly seemed to stop for no reason. He looked up through his swollen, bleeding eyes to see a tall, blonde black woman grab the swastika by the shoulders and throw him head first into the steel bars. Then, before he even hit the ground, the woman wrapped her right arm around the hanging-blackman's neck, pulled it tight, hard and fast, and a loud, ugly CRACK echoed through the cell.
Even the drunk woke up from it, and everyone knew that the recipient was dead.
The moment the swastika began to squirm, only nano-seconds later, Leon jammed his foot straight down on his chest, his four-inch spiked heel piercing in between the skinhead's ribs and puncturing his heart.
Robby looked up at the she-man incredulously as Leon dropped to his knees to comfort the has-been star.
"You once said," the transvestite began, "That we should always be ourselves. No matter how hard that may seem, it is the only way we can fulfill our true selves, our destiny, and God. You gave me the courage to be who I am, and I've always loved you for it." Then he looked out and shouted, "Guards! Me and Robby Rockman just killed the skinheads!"
Then he kissed Robby on the forehead, a light, loving maternal kiss, and he said, "I love you, Robby. I've always loved you. And at long last, I'm going to show you just how much."
"Oh my God," was all Robby could say, utterly afraid to move.
*** Up Next: "The Interrogation" ***
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.
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