Robby lay on the cold cell floor, his head now forcibly buried in Leon's lap. It had been several hours since the guards had taken away the dead skinheads, and Robby's few attempts to get away from the giant she-man had only made his situation worse.
"Hush, child," Leon would say, his powerful arms holding Robby in place. Then he would stroke Robby's hair or sing him a sweet love song that he had helped to write.
On one such attempt, Robby tried to use chronic back pain as a reason to get up, but Leon insisted all Robby needed was "some lovin'," and kissed the top of his head.
But Robby persisted and politely explained that he had had this type of pain before, and he knew what was best for him. Slowly, so as not to offend his hulking benefactor, he began to sit up, but Leon wrapped his arms around the sitcom star's neck to hold him in place. It was a warm, tender embrace that came dangerously close to strangulation.
"Now where's my honey-pie going?" Leon asked girlishly. "Ain't you gonna let ole Mama Bear give you the lovin' you need?"
"I'm sorry," Robby squeaked through his choked neck, becoming increasingly frightened. "But I'm not gay. Please. Many of my friends are gay, but I'm not. I'm just not."
"Shhhh, my darling," Leon whispered back soothingly. "You will be."
"No," Robby snapped back in horror.
"I guarantee it," Leon replied with a loving smile as he forced Robby back into his original position. "Now, rest, my love."
By the time the detectives came for Robby more than an hour later, he was lying motionless with his head buried in the she-man's lap, drenched in a pool of mortified sweat. Leon continued to stroke the star's hair as he sang him yet another tender, sexually-suggestive love song that he had helped to write.
When he heard his name, Robby got up slowly and carefully -- the way one moves around a large hornet or a big, scary animal. He cautiously and politely thanked the transvestite for his help, then walked as quickly as he could towards the open cell door.
"Mr. Bell thanking me?" said Leon, touched to tears, as the door swung closed on his face. "No. Thank you, sweetpea. An' Mama'll be waitin' for you right here when you come back to me, an' then we'll have ourselves a real time. I guarantee it."
The interrogation room was cold and damp, and Robby was thrilled to be there. He sat down on a rickety chair in front of a rickety table. Two detectives, one in his early fifties, the other in his late twenties, sat down on rickety chairs of their own.
Robby couldn't help be amused by their appearance. The cheap suits, the short hair, the bags under their eyes -- it was as if someone had ordered them from Central Casting. They looked so much like cops, Robby thought, they could've been actors.
"So you tried to rape a girl and killed two men," began the younger detective in a threatening tone that Robby thought was overplayed. "Boy, are you in a world of shit."
"Which do you want to start with, Robby?" asked the older detective.
Theresa Chavez watched through a one-way glass and scowled her disapproval. She had specifically told the detectives to forget about the double-murder and concentrate on the rape. She was pretty sure Robby lacked the fighting skills to have killed the skinheads, while Leon's rap sheet was a mile long with charges of violent crimes -- and even one murder conviction. She knew she was lucky that Robby was answering questions without a lawyer present, and the last thing she wanted was to waste time on a charge that she would never prosecute.
"I want my phone call," Robby told the cops. "I know my rights."
"You know shit," said the younger detective. "You pervert."
"Hey, easy, a little respect," the older cop told his junior partner in a ploy so obvious that even bad cop shows don't write them anymore. "This man's a big star."
"I want my lawyer," said Robby.
"That's it," Theresa said to herself. She'd be able to question him in a day or so, with the lawyer present, and it was doubtful she'd get anything useful out of him then.
"Give him his phone call," the older cop sighed defeatedly. "Then throw him back in his cage till someone comes to get him."
"No!" shouted Robby. "I don't want to go back there!"
"Then you'll talk to us?" asked the older detective.
"Let me call my people," Robby negotiated. "And while we're waiting for them, I'll answer any of your questions, free of charge."
"Sorry, pal, it don't work that way," replied the younger detective.
But Theresa knew it was a deal worth taking, so she tapped forcibly on the one-way glass.
"You're in luck, Robby," said the older cop. "It's how we do things today."
As the detectives escorted Robby out of the interrogation room towards the phones, Theresa knew she had been given a gift. Anything Robby said would be admissible in court, and he could be asked anything with no lawyer to object.
She also knew it was too valuable a gift to leave to the police to screw up.
When the detectives returned with Robby, Theresa learned that his attorney was driving up from Beverly Hills. She calculated the drive over the canyon at about forty minutes, and told the cops to set up some roadblocks on the one-lane road. The detective smiled, impressed with the young lawyer's moxy.
"I'll take care of it and come back to do the questioning," he told her.
"No, I'm going to do this one myself," she said.
The detective was offended with the break in protocol, but Theresa knew an apology and a bottle of Crown Royal would get her back on good terms with him.
She entered the damp room and introduced herself to Robby as nicely as possible.
Robby assumed that no one had actually seen the physical evidence yet. One look at the time of the 911 call would show that it was impossible for him to have done what they said he had done. But he couldn't bring that up because Gloria had allegedly made the call. To show that he knew the time of the call would ultimately give away his entire scam and destroy his career forever. And that was the one thing he had to protect.
So he planned to stall for the forty minutes it would take for Gloria to arrive. He would charm the D.A., cajole her, and answer all her questions slowly and dramatically, offering significantly more backstory than needed. With luck, they'd never even get around to discussing what had happened up on Mulholland Drive.
"That's a lovely suit you've got on," he began. "Calvin Klein, Bloomingdale's, right?"
"Jaclyn Smith, K-Mart." she replied. "Now, Mr. Rockman, I want you to know---"
"Robby," he cut her off. "Call me Robby. And what should I call you? Miss Chavez? Mrs. Chavez? Or Ms. Chavez?"
"You can call me-"
"Or Theresa? Because, no offense, but I work in a business that is very informal. We call each other by first names all the time so it's just--"
"Miss Chavez will do just fine," she said, trying to move things along. "I want you to acknowledge that you've waived your right to an--"
"Miss Chavez? Really? Miss? But you're so attractive. You must be divorced and went back to your maiden name -- that must be it. Good for you. The hell with him!"
"Robby, I don't think my personal life pertains to--"
"Or are you just putting your personal life on hold while pursuing your career? I have so many women friends in the industry who do just that. You don't need a man in your life to fulfill yourself, Miss Chavez. You go, girl."
Theresa saw what Robby was doing, but she also knew she had most of the morning to get the answers she needed.
"Thank you," she replied matter-of-factly. "Now, Robby, I need you to acknowledge that you have waived your right to an attorney."
"You know, I said that very thing in my movie," he answered. "Did you see it? I bet you'd like it because it's about lawyers and it's very realistic."
"A great film," she lied. "So then you must understand the right you've waived?"
"Absolutely, Miss Chavez," he answered.
"Good," she smiled. "Now tell me what happened up on Mulholland."
"I think it will make a lot more sense if I start at the beginning," Robby began. "I started drinking heavily about four years ago..."
Theresa sat patiently and listened to his tale of woe, unemployment and alcoholism. The two detectives watching through the glass were mortified. They never would have let Robby outsmart them like that. But the moment that Robby gained confidence in his own plan was the exact same moment that Theresa implemented hers.
"So then you were drunk last night?" she asked.
"Very," Robby said. "I feel horrible about it and--"
"Where did you get drunk?"
"At Artie's party," Robby answered
"Tell me more about this party," Theresa asked.
"Artie has one every year," Robby began as he suddenly discovered himself discussing the past evening. She had gotten him to jump four years with only two little questions. This lawyer was smart, and he couldn't let himself underestimate her again.
For the next thirty minutes, Theresa allowed Robby to describe Artie's party in all its minutia. He mentioned virtually every celebrity present and whom they were secretly sleeping with, who was secretly gay and who was surprisingly straight. When he got around to telling about his drunken speech, Theresa saw her next opening.
"Your agent was having an affair with your wife?" she asked as if she had never heard of such a thing. "You must've been furious at him!"
"Both of them, actually," Robby said, as he tried to keep it real. "But him? Yeah. Sure. I trust my career to Artie and my career is my life, so-"
"Is that why you stole his secretary's car at the party?"
Robby paused at this and considered it. It was the first direct statement of guilt she had made, and he knew he had to be careful.
"Yes, I'll admit I stole the car," he confessed after careful consideration because the car theft was something he wanted in the press all along, and he knew Gloria wouldn't press charges anyway.
"So how did you get the keys away from the valets?"
"I didn't take the Dodge at the party," Robby said. "I stole it from her garage."
Theresa already knew that from the 911 transcript, the only piece of evidence she had looked at so far, but it was exactly what she had wanted him to say.
"Oh, you were at her house?" she feigned surprise. "What happened there?"
And Robby knew in that instant that Theresa had won again. He was suddenly one location away from the scene of the crime, and there was still no sign of Gloria coming to his rescue. He was beginning to realize that he was out of his league, and he was getting scared.
Why isn't Gloria here yet? he asked himself. Where is she?
He had no way of knowing that Gloria was sitting next to his wife in Trudy's red Cherokee, stuck in motionless traffic, the two women so consumed with hate for each other that they had virtually forgotten their mutual quest. And they were still a good hour away.
So Robby told Theresa of the late nightcaps he and I had at Gloria's, stretching it out as long as he could, but he was simply outmatched. Like a car skidding out of control, he soon found himself describing the events on Mulholland Drive.
"Then I fell out," Robby muttered, his confidence shot, his imagination depleted.
"How?" she asked.
"I, I, I just fell out."
"Yes, you fell out," she demanded. "But HOW did you fall out of it?"
"I was drunk," he insisted. "Okay? I admit it. I stole a car and I drove it drunk."
"You already admitted that, Robby," Theresa insisted as she moved in for the kill. "But how does one fall out of a car? "
"I wasn't wearing my seatbelt," he uttered, knowing how preposterous it sounded.
"You didn't fall out of the car, Robby, did you? You were pushed out of the car while you were trying to rape Lisa, weren't you?"
"No!"
"Was it Lisa or Mitch who pushed you out?"
"I fell out on my own!"
"If you don't answer me honestly, we'll send you back to Leon," she demanded. "But you'd better tell him you're sorry because he's angry that you walked out on him. He told me he wants to fight with you because he's looking forward to great make-up sex."
"No!" he begged. "Don't do that!"
Theresa had him, and she knew it.
"Who pushed you out?" Theresa demanded. "Mitch or Lisa?"
"Neither," answered Robby sheepishly as he realized that his choice was now career suicide or getting raped by a giant she-man. "No one pushed me out."
"Guards!" Theresa called off.
"It was a hoax!" Robby blurted. "It was all a big hoax! Don't send me back! I'll tell you everything! No career, no amount of money, is worth... that!"
This was so not what Theresa expected.
"What was a hoax, Robby?" she asked sensitively. "What was a hoax?"
"All of it," Robby confessed. "It was just one big, stupid hoax. My career was dead so I--"
Then the door burst open!
"Don't say another word!" insisted a mustached black man in his mid-fifties.
"Who are you?" stammered a confused Robby.
"I'm your attorney," he answered.
"Fuck!" was all Theresa could say.
"Theresa, you should know better than this," said the black man.
"How can you be my attorney?" asked a bewildered Robby. "Who hired you? Gloria?"
"I don't know who that is," he replied. "Now shut your mouth and keep it shut."
Theresa knew at that moment that she had lost this round, and it enraged her. This was the same ultra-rich attorney who had defended her stepfather after he raped her sister so many years ago. Theresa had come up against him in court only once before, and he had won the case on a stupid technicality that she had overlooked. She was now more determined than ever to put Robby away for the rest of his life.
Now it was personal.
*** Up Next: "Who Is This Guy?" ***
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.