Breach of Promise (31 page)
Authors: James Scott Bell
Harrison Ellis was well known to LA audiences. He’d broken quite a few stories, including one that brought down the head of a major studio. Ellis had the reputation of being a straight shooter and a good reporter.
We met at a little restaurant on Argyle. It was out of the way but sort of LA tony. That meant a lot of people who pretended like they didn’t want to be seen ate there, hoping to be seen.
Ellis was about forty and didn’t have an anchorman’s good looks. That was a point in his favor. He was a guy who had to make it on his reporting skills and not on the fact that he could read a teleprompter with a straight face over a square chin.
The hostess knew him and showed him to what I took to be a regular table. It was near the kitchen out of the way. We were not among those who wished to be seen.
I told the story as quietly and objectively as I could. I didn’t want him thinking that I was what everybody else seemed to think I was—a slightly off-kilter child abuser with an ax to grind. Fifteen minutes later I ended my tale, which was only interrupted a couple of times by the waiter who wanted to do his job.
Then I handed him the cassette and told him what was on it. His eyebrows went up at that. He seemed to be smelling a story.
“You have a copy?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Don’t say of course. I’ve seen smarter guys than you make the stupidest mistakes. Like this lawyer who liked to make videotapes of his, shall we say, conferences with female clients. He digitized the tapes and put them on a CD-ROM. Then one day he was in court presenting a final argument to a jury, and using the CD-ROM on his laptop to project some graphics about the evidence—”
“Don’t tell me.”
“That’s right. Instead of a picture of the accident scene up came a nice shot from one of his private consultations. That was the end of his legal career. I hear he’s making two hundred grand a year now making adult films. America, what a country.”
He laughed.
“Personal note,” he said. “Let’s say all this is true, what you went through, which I’m judging it is, looking at you. How’re you keeping it together?”
It was strange how quickly and surely the answer came. “I’m just hanging on to God, Jesus, hope.”
Harrison Ellis smiled. “Throw in good ratings and I might just be with you on that.”
That old cliché about the quiet before a storm is true. Aren’t all clichés based on fact? In my case, it should be modified a little. Because what happened next was worse than a storm. A storm’s something you’ve been through before, so you think you can handle it. What hit next was something I could never have been prepared for.
It happened three days after I left the tape with Ellis. I had a week left on the apartment and was cleaning it up, hoping to get back the security deposit. There was even a small beam of light at the end of my tunnel. Garner Charles, my coaching friend in Arizona, said there was a spot on his staff for me. It wasn’t much money, but it was more than I was making now, which was zero.
I gave in and called Nikki. I felt like I could finally talk to her. I thanked her for all she’d done, for getting me into the Bible study, for being one of those people God uses to point someone in the right direction.
I also thanked her for reminding me what real acting was all about. “I hear there are some good regional theaters near Phoenix,” I told her. “Maybe I’ll give it a shot.”
“You should,” she said. “Because you’re really good.” That meant a lot, coming from her. I said I’d keep in touch. That evening I went down to the Cobalt to hang with Roland.
In a way, it was like a going-away party. He played some of my favorite jazz, just for me. It made me feel happier than I had in a long, long time.
It was around nine and I was still at the club when my cell phone rang. It was Ruchlis on the other end. I almost fell off my chair. “Paula’s in the hospital,” he said.
My heart froze. “What happened?”
“I’ll tell you when you get here. We’re at St. Stephen’s, Santa
Monica.”
I made it in record time. At the desk they told me she was on
the third floor.
As soon as I got out of the elevators I saw Erica Montgomery.
She was pacing in the hall, as if she were waiting for me. “Oh, Mark,” she said, without any animosity in her voice. That
in itself was strange. There was defeat about her. Every other time
I’d seen Erica, she had this air of invincibility, like she was made
of cold granite. Now there were chips and cracks, and a confusion
in her eyes. The world she had tried to control was no longer under
her influence.
She started, very slightly, to shake. Without a word I took her
arm and pulled her into the waiting room and sat her down on one
of the vinyl chairs. She did not resist me a bit.
“Where’s Maddie?” I said. “Who has Maddie?”
“She’s—” Erica cleared her throat—“with a woman, a social
worker.”
“Where? What happened?”
And then the granite shattered. Erica put her head in her hands
and quaked with sobs. There was one other person in the room, an
older gentleman on the other side. He looked at me with a sort of
weary wisdom, as if he had been through this scenario countless
times and was telling me what to do.
I did something I never thought I’d do in my life. I put my arm
around Erica’s shoulders. More amazingly, she did not pull away. “He cut her with a knife,” she said, into her hands, so it was
muffled. But I knew what she said and felt paralyzed—I don’t
know, with fear of the awful implications. Was Paula hanging on to
life by a thread?
“My beautiful Paula,” Erica sobbed. “He cut her beautiful
face.”
That was more shocking, more horrible. I knew exactly what
she meant. There was an infamous case out here some years ago,
where an actress’s face was scarred by a crazy stalker. He couldn’t
have her, so he was determined to punish her. And I knew that fit
Troncatti’s profile. He considered himself a god among men, an
impression reinforced by all of the bootlickers that hang on to a
good Hollywood ride. Paula must have threatened to leave him. It fit with what I’d seen that night at Troncatti’s, when he’d hit
Paula. She was so much like Erica, not a woman to take anything
lying down. Was this the result?
I kept my arm around Erica as she fought against her tears and
lost. I just held her for a while.
“I’d like to see her, Erica,” I said. “May I?”
I did not have to ask. I could have left her and gone straight to
the room. But I asked anyway.
She stopped crying—well, stopped gushing—and looked up.
Her eyes were red and wet and tired. She opened her mouth but did
not speak. Then she nodded her head.
“Wait here for me,” I said. I went outside the waiting room and
found a water fountain with paper cups. I filled a cup and took it
back to Erica, lifting her hand to put the cup in it.
“I’ll be back,” I said.
The nurse at the station told me Paula was in room 504. I followed the wall around until I found it. I went in the open door and
saw Ruchlis.
He was standing midway in the room, which held two beds.
The one nearest me was empty. A screen obscured the second bed,
which held Paula.
Ruchlis put his finger to his lips and motioned me outside the
door.
“I want to see her,” I said.
Ruchlis put up his hand. “I know. You will. I just want to have
you talk to me later.”
“What happened up there?”
“Troncatti apparently sliced your wife’s face.”
“Apparently?”
“Well, that’s what she says.”
“Where is he? Did you get him?”
“Not yet.”
That news made me want to jump out of my skin and scream.
Troncatti was still out there. “And where’s my daughter?” “Down at the station with a very nice lady from child services.” “I want her.”
“One step at a time.”
I shook my head. “I want her, and I want her right after I talk
to Paula.”
“Don’t fight me on this, huh? I’m going to have a man come up
and keep the press away. There’s going to be a circus when the
news hits, and I’m going to try to keep it from hitting as long as I
can. You blundering around isn’t going to help.”
He was right, of course. “Can’t you get Paula to some secret
location?” I said.
“I can’t. Maybe she has friends, family. You.”
The prospect of me having anything to do with Paula’s future
hadn’t entered my brain. Ruchlis provided me an odd little jolt,
like the snapping of static electricity.
“Why would he do that?” I said. “Cut her?”
Ruchlis shrugged. “Paula says she didn’t know about the payoff to your father, that Harrison Ellis got to her by phone and asked
her about it, played the tape over the phone. She says she confronted Troncatti and they had a blowout and she said she was leaving him, and that’s when it happened. Troncatti may have been
under the influence at the time. Drugs.”
I nearly dropped to the floor. It was almost too much for my
mind and body to handle.
“Come down to the station after you talk to her,” Ruchlis said.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Thanks.”
As I walked into the hospital room, two waves of emotion hit me
simultaneously, like I was some hapless surfer in storm-tossed
waters. The first emotion was a growing elation that I was going to
get to see Maddie soon, down at the police station.
The other emotion was a burning dread in my stomach as I got
closer to the curtain and Paula’s bed. It wasn’t just what I thought
I’d see, though the pictures in my mind were bad enough. What
was I going to say to Paula? Or she to me?
What was I going to feel?
I stepped slowly around the curtain and there she was. Her
eyes were closed but they were barely exposed anyway. Her face
was wrapped in gauze. Two large bulges stuck out, one on each
cheek. I could only imagine what was underneath the bandages. For a full minute I stood there, just looking at her. I tried to
imagine her face the way it was, and saw it—not the last time, at
Troncatti’s, when it was full of dark confusion. But the first time I
saw her, at Roland’s party, when I’d been knocked over by her
beauty. The way she smiled when we ate peanut M&Ms together.
That was the face I saw.
Some low sound came out of my throat, and she opened her
eyes.
I took one step closer.
Her eyes got big and then she shut them again, turned her head
toward the pillow. Then she shook it a little, like someone saying
No with a tone of regret.
“I came as soon as I heard. The cop. I know him.” Paula didn’t say anything, but her breath came out in a slow,
labored way.
“I mean, he knows me. I won’t go into it. He says Maddie is
okay. Down at the station. Maybe you know that. I saw your mom
out there, we actually talked a little. Can you believe that?” Still not a response from Paula.
“You want me to go, I will,” I said.
She did not turn her head. She put her hand over her face, like
she wanted to hide from me.
“We don’t have to say anything,” I said. There was a chair near
the bed. I sat in it and stayed there for a long time.
Sometime in there Paula fell asleep. She was peaceful finally,
and I imagined it was the most peace she’d had since, well, since
getting involved with Troncatti.
How could she have known all this awaited her? She’d gone to
Rome for a big break, the thing that all actors hope for. You get into
that whole whirlwind and don’t think about much else. Don’t think
about a director who gets high on power and manipulation, and
what he might do if you don’t let him have power over
you.
That he might go nuts and scar you.
In a way that made me sick, I thought about my own bouts of
craziness. Throwing glass bottles. Losing control. Not caring what
other people said.
Was I that different from Antonio Troncatti? Only by a miracle
of grace was I going to be better than I was. And I wanted to be
better. For Maddie. And for Paula.
I leaned over her and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
A nurse swept in, all business.
“The police,” she said. “They’re not here?”
“Not right now.”
That seemed to disturb her. “And you are?”
I didn’t hesitate, the answer flowing out of my mouth without
doubt or question.
“I’m her husband,” I said.
1
Arizona is everything they say. The Grand Canyon State. Landscapes to take your breath away—mountain ranges, winding rivers, grasslands, sand dunes, and sunsets that stick to your heart.
The nights are what I love best about the place. Sometimes the moon is so big you can poke lunar dust with a stick. And the stars—well, let’s just say the same sky doesn’t flicker over LA.
Nights here are what give me hope, and what I hang on to with a grip that would make a bear trap weep with envy.
I hope a lot of things. I hope they’ll catch up with Troncatti someday, hiding out in Europe, get him back here to stand trial. At least I won’t be. The D.A. had to drop the criminal charge, their chief witness being a slasher on the run.
And I hope they nail Bryce Jennings as an accessory to fraud on the court. Ruchlis keeps me posted on this. The tape I made of Ron Reid was played on a TV news report and a legal firestorm broke loose in town. Alex called me a week ago to say that Ron had been located and might even be willing to cooperate.
In a strange way, I hope that Ron will do the right thing and that I’ll actually talk to him again. That part of my life has yet to be written up.
There’s also the chance that Paula and I will do some theater work together, if she ever gets the desire again. She’ll always have two jagged white scars on her cheeks, but makeup will suffice for a theater performance. There are a couple good regional theaters here and one that does a lot of Shakespeare. With Paula’s name recognition, she’d be a shoe-in to be cast as Rosalind in
As You Like It
. I’d be happy to be a spear carrier, so long as I got to be in the show with her.
We’ll see. The fact that she’s here with me is miracle enough for now. Even Erica seems to be for us. I guess we’ve all been through enough to see that none of us are made of granite.
But what I pray for constantly is that I get Maddie back.
Oh, Maddie is with us here, physically, in the new apartment just outside Phoenix. Getting her out of protective custody, even with Paula’s consent, was a two-week nightmare. We did it, though the system wanted to keep putting the screws to us. Alex was a big help. It took an emergency court appearance and sworn testimony from an unexpected source—Renard J. Harper testified on my behalf.
The LA part of the nightmare was finally over.
But Maddie is not the same little girl I knew.
A very nice psychotherapist in Phoenix, someone we now go to church with as a matter of fact, is giving us a reasonable deal on therapy for Maddie. She was definitely messed with by Troncatti and Paula. Dr. Nelson deals with Paula’s guilt, which is almost as bad as Maddie’s distrust. But both of them are tough. They got that from Erica.
As for me, when we were alone, Dr. Nelson told me what I can do, and it’s what I’ve already done a hundred times over—forgive and seek God’s healing in all things. When I do, I can’t help thinking of that thing Tom Starkey said one night, about how the most important thing we may need, before anything else, is to be shaped by God’s rough hands. I still don’t quite get it. I’m not a saint in the forgiving part. But then I’m beginning to realize you don’t have to get everything before you trust.
Which helps with the guilt I sometimes feel. If I hadn’t given the tape to Harrison Ellis, if he hadn’t played it for Paula over the phone before he ran with the story, maybe Paula wouldn’t have been cut up.
Paula told me what happened. When she heard the tape she confronted Troncatti. She said she’d tell everything to the police about what they’d done to Maddie unless he left her and Maddie alone and didn’t do anything else to hurt my career. Troncatti had been drinking heavily that night, and the threat of exposure, coupled with the threat of a woman leaving
him
, made him snap. That’s when he grabbed a knife and did it.
All I know now is that Paula and I are somehow finding our way back to each other, both of us broken, both of us helping each other glue pieces back together. Maddie does not trust me fully yet. But I think time will overcome that. I pray hard to God every day. And look for signs.