Danger in High Heels (27 page)

Cameron Dakota was the
Informer
’s only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the
Informer
’s pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood halfwits to Starbucks every day, I’d shoot myself.

Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.

“Pines in there yet?” I asked, gesturing to the large, oak doors.

Cam shook her head, long blond hair whipping at her cheeks. “He’s up next. Right now he’s in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom so I’m waiting for a walk-of-shame shot.” She gave me a wink.

“Go get ‘em, tiger.”

I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.

Contrary to the world of
L.A. Law
, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV décor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who’d likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.

Yawn.

I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his $50,000 bail downstairs.

But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.

Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney—tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn’t make legal careers.

“Mr. Pines, you’ve been charged with possession of child pornography,” the judge boomed from his bench. “How do you plead?”

The pasty attorney took his cue. “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”

I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught red-handed by police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.

“Very well. Prosecution on bail?” The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn’t any of these guys ever see the sun?

“Your Honor, the People request bail be set at ten million dollars.”

“Sonofa-” I sucked in a breath and heard a round of gasps ripple through the courtroom at the exorbitant amount.

Pines might have been a public figure and a creep, but it wasn’t like he’d killed anyone. Even murder charges rarely topped a million in bail. I leaned forward in my seat. This was about to get juicy, I could feel it.

“Your Honor, that’s outrageous,” the defense attorney argued. His cheeks actually showed some color now. “My client is an upstanding member of society, highly regarded by his peers. He has deep ties to the community, and, quite frankly, I feel the D.A.’s bail request is ludicrously out of proportion to the crime at hand.”

The judge raised his bushy eyebrows. “You think child pornography isn’t a big deal, counselor?”

“Of course it is, Your Honor,” he quickly backpedaled. “But the D.A.’s request is…severe,” he finished, this time choosing his words more carefully.

Severe. Good way of putting it. I made a mental note to use that word in my copy.

“Mr. Atwood?” the judged asked, addressing the D.A.

“Your Honor, the defendant has considerable means, dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada. He is a flight risk. And,” he said, shooting Pines a withering look, “considering the defendant is a director with access to all manner of photographic equipment, we feel it is our duty to protect the children of the community by requesting ten million in bail.”

“That’s insane, Your Honor,” defense argued. “My client is being persecuted by the D.A. because of his fame.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the judge said, holding up his hands.

The entire courtroom, myself included, went silent, holding our collective breath as the judge chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze going from one attorney to the other. No doubt wondering just how this would play out in the press.

Finally he seemed to come to some conclusion.

“Mr. Pines, if you think celebrity is an excuse for immoral behavior, you’ll be sorely disappointed in my courtroom. Bail is set at ten million dollars.”

I let out a low whistle as the judge banged his gavel. The D.A. gave a triumphant lift of his chin, almost exactly proportionate to the slump in Pines’s shoulders as the bailiff accompanied him out of the room.

I slipped my recorder back in my pocket. An interesting development indeed. Whether Pines actually had ten mil in change for bail or not, I had no idea. But a Hollywood director stuck in jail for days? This was almost as good as Paris Watch ’08. What do you want to bet he’d be claiming mental anguish in under a week?

I mentally rubbed my hands together with glee as I slipped back out the door to find Cam waiting for me. After all, one pedophile director’s mental anguish meant front-page coverage for yours truly.

God, I loved Hollywood.

CHAPTER TWO

After the arraignment, Cam and I hit the Del Taco on Santa Monica. I got my steaming hot burrito, ordering a second to go just in case, and Cam did a taco salad before we parted ways - her to camp out on Sunset for the evening club crowd and me to home.

Which, for me, was South Pasadena, a sleepy little suburb wedged between Glendale and the San Gabriel Valley. Wide streets, palms on every corner, and strip malls with Trader Joe’s and Pier One at all the intersections. Pretty typical American every-suburb, except for the fact that Nicole Richie lived just over the freeway.

I pulled my Rebel off the 2, roaring to a stop at the front entrance to the Palm Grove community, and cut the motor. I hopped off the bike, walking it silently through the wrought-iron gates into the complex. The residents didn’t exactly appreciate the sound of my twin engines as much as I did. Mostly because they were all eighty. Yep, I lived in a retirement community.

When my Great Uncle Sal finally cashed in his chips, my Aunt Sue traded in her four-bedroom in Long Beach for a cute little condo in Palm Grove. Lucky for me, that was right about the time the lease had expired on my apartment across town, and I’d needed a place to hang my hat for a few weeks.

That was three years ago.

Turns out Aunt Sue isn’t as sharp as she used to be. And having a person who doesn’t forget to turn off the oven and knows that socks don’t go in the freezer has come in handy. Which suits me fine. You can’t beat the fixed-income rent on the place, my neighbors are always quiet, and I have the entire pool to myself as soon as
Jeopardy!
comes on.

I wheeled my bike down Sanctuary Drive to Paradise Lane before turning onto my street, Oasis Terrace. I know, someone was a creative genius when it came to street names in this development. Aunt Sue and I lived in a little two-bedroom number, third on the left. White siding, blue shutters, low-maintenance square of lawn. Exactly like the other 32 units in the complex, except that ours had a pink flamingo out front.

“That you, Tina?” A woman in a pink housecoat and fuzzy slippers shuffled onto the porch of the house next door, fifty years of a pack-a-day habit grinding her voice into a gravelly baritone.

“’Evening, Mrs. Carmichael,” I said, waving.

She put her hands on her bony hips and narrowed a pair of eyes beneath her cap of white curls. Though her eyes were always kind of narrow. Mrs. Carmichael had had one too many facelifts in her fifties, and her seventies weren’t being kind to her. “I can always tell it’s you,” she said, clacking her dentures. “That motorbike of yours is so noisy.”

“It’s off,” I said. “See?” I paused, putting my ear to the bike. “No sound.”

“Hmm.” She clicked her upper teeth again. “Well, it’s still noisy. Can’t hardly hear Pat Sajack over the thing.” Mrs. Carmichael was the only person in the complex who didn’t wear a hearing aid, a fact that had not only earned her the title of Neighborhood Watch Captain, but also tickled her vanity to no end. Mrs. Carmichael never turned her TV volume up past three.

“Sorry. I’ll try to be quieter.”

“And tell your aunt to turn down her music,” she shouted after me. “It’s been blasting all day!”

I waved in agreement as I tucked my bike around the corner of the house and let myself in.

Aunt Sue was waiting for me at the kitchen table, wearing a powder blue, polyester track suit. Her snow white hair was curled into tight ringlets against her scalp and her watery blue eyes shone behind a pair of thick, wire-rimmed glasses. A plate full of steaming brown stuff sat in front of her.

“Hi, peanut, how was your day?” she asked

“Fab. Mrs. Carmichael said you should turn down your music.” I crossed to an old ‘80s boom box playing Frank Sinatra. At top volume. Unlike Mrs. Carmichael, Aunt Sue had industrial-strength hearing aids. Which would have worked wonders if she ever wore them.

“Hattie Carmichael is on old fuddy duddy,” Aunt Sue protested.

“Amen. What’s that?” I gestured to her dinner.

“Meatloaf.”

I sniffed. It smelled like meatloaf. But it looked like dog crap. “It looks a little, um, runny.”

Aunt Sue glanced down at her plate as if seeing it for the first time. “Well, now, it does a bit, doesn’t it?”

“What did you put in it?” I crossed the galley kitchen to make sure the oven was, indeed, off.

She pursed her lips, pronounced wrinkles forming between her thin wisps of eyebrows. “Same things I always do.” She paused. “I think. It’s hard to remember. Maybe I forgot the bread crumbs.” She shrugged.

I pulled my “just in case” burrito out of my bag and set it on a plate for her.

“What’s this?” she asked, her eyes shining like I’d placed a Christmas present in front of her.

“Beefy bean and cheese.”

“Hot sauce?”

I dropped a couple packets of Del Scorcho on the table next to her.

“You are the best niece I ever had,” Aunt Sue said, digging in.

“I’m your only niece.” I grabbed her plate of runny meatloaf and gave it a proper burial in the garbage disposal.

“That’s beside the point.”

“Thanks. You’re my favorite, too.” I dropped a kiss on the top of her head.

“Mmm,” she said, making little yummy sounds. “Why is it that the worse a food is for you, the better it tastes?”

“Burritos aren’t that bad,” I countered.

“Come on now, all that fast-food stuff is terrible. Full of preservatives and cholesterol. That stuff will kill you. Clogs your arteries, you know. Millie Sanders said her cousin ate that McDonald’s stuff every morning, and he dropped dead of a heart attack just last week. He was only seventy-three!”

“Well, then it looks like I’ve got a few good years of drive-thrus ahead of me before I have to start worrying about it.” I gave her a wink.

“Got any more hot sauce?” Aunt Sue asked around a huge bite.

I dropped a couple more packets on the table.

“You eat already?” she asked.

I nodded.

Her shoulders sagged. “Darn. Because I made meatloaf.”

I bit my lip. “I know, Aunt Sue.”

“Oh.” She paused a moment, as if her brain was struggling really hard to make those connections. Finally she shrugged. “Well, maybe I’ll make lasagna tomorrow.”

I put the pan of meatloaf mush in the sink. “Well, I’ve been warned.”

Aunt Sue gave me a playful swat on the arm as I brushed past, stopping to deposit another quick kiss on her little old forehead, before scooting off to my room.

Once there, I kicked off my shoes, sat cross-legged on my patchwork bedspread and booted up my laptop, going through my nightly ritual of checking various email accounts, Twitter posts, and celebrity watcher blogs for any hot leads to pad tomorrow’s column. Thanks to a carefully cultivated network of informants, I had eyes all over Hollywood.

A couple baby-bump sightings on Melrose, a fender bender in Malibu involving a judge from
American Idol
, and one from a guy who worked at Dunkin’ Donuts in Santa Monica who swore a certain bulimic actress was in buying glazed old fashions like they were going out of style.

Envisioning tomorrow’s headline, GOLDEN GLOBE WINNER GORGES ON GLAZED GOODIES, I opened a Word doc and started snarking away.