Guilty Wives (14 page)

THE COURTROOM WENT
still at the call of his name, like a classroom suddenly going quiet upon the teacher’s entry. Heads turned back to see him. He walked with the smooth confidence of someone who was accustomed to such attention. He was dressed in a beautiful black suit with a thin black tie and expensive Italian loafers.

He was a fish out of water, walking through a criminal courtroom instead of down the red carpet at the Oscars. But he was an actor, after all; he could play a part and he played this one well, maintaining the appropriate sobriety for the occasion.

On just about every level, the experience of watching Damon Kodiak testify in court was about as surreal as it got. Even under the perilous circumstances in which I found myself, I couldn’t deny having a physical reaction to him. He had drawn something out of me that I’d never known existed. The memory of that time was somewhat tempered, admittedly, by being arrested hours later, dragged from the yacht, and put on trial for my life, accused of a crime I didn’t commit. But that was the thing: it was more than just some memory. It was an indelible mark he’d carved inside me.

And then, of course, there was Jeffrey, sitting only a few dozen feet away from me right now. Who would have thought that I’d find myself in the same room with my husband and my one-night stand, and that our affair would be the
least
of my problems?

Damon answered the preliminary questions easily enough. He testified to being in Monte Carlo on the night in question, during a break from a movie he was filming. He freely admitted to meeting me and the others at the nightclub and to taking a particular interest in me.

“I enjoyed talking to Abbie very much,” he said. “Did I find her attractive? Sure. I suppose you could say we flirted as well.”

Yeah, you could probably say that.

“Mr. Kodiak,” asked the presiding judge. “Were you aware that the man who referred to himself as Devo was, in fact, the president of France?”

“No, I was not,” Damon answered. “Though I joined the group late, and I confess to having enjoyed a few cocktails by that point in the evening. It’s possible that the others knew who he was. But I did not.”

No matter how Damon qualified it, this testimony was very helpful to the defense, especially after Richard Ogletree said that we all knew “Devo” was President Devereux. Damon was the first person to corroborate our position.

“I recall the Grand Casino, yes, Your Honor,” he said. Apparently he didn’t get the memo from Ogletree about calling the judge Mr. President. Then again, the presiding judge wasn’t rushing to correct the international movie star.

“I recall arriving at the casino with Abbie and her other friends after the nightclub. That much, of course, I remember. And I remember having a good time at the casino, as I always do.” Damon seemed to think that this comment merited some favorable reaction, which the spectators gave him.

“As best as I can remember,” he said, “I didn’t spend any time with Abbie, personally, at the casino. We sort of lost each other.”

That was true. I’d lost Damon at the casino. And the surveillance cameras at the Grand Casino backed this up.

“Mr. Kodiak,” said the presiding judge, “when did you next see the defendant, Ms. Elliot?”

“When did I next see Abbie?” Damon scratched the back of his head, then turned and looked in my direction briefly, though we didn’t make eye contact.

“Yes, Mr. Kodiak. After you became separated at the casino, when was the next time you saw the accused, Abbie Elliot?”

He opened his hand, gesturing toward me, before he gave his answer.

“Today,” he said. “When I walked into the courtroom.”

“You are aware that Ms. Elliot has used you as an alibi. That she has claimed that the two of you had a romantic encounter on the yacht, which could account for her whereabouts during the time of the murder. You know all this.”

“I do, Your Honor. I do.” He paused. His eyes rose to the ceiling, as if he were pondering the most delicate, diplomatic way to put it.

“She…was a very nice woman,” he said. “A very aggressive woman. I think it’s safe to say, from my perspective, that she was interested in sleeping with me.”

“But that did not happen?”

“It didn’t happen.” Damon glanced at the judges with a look that said it all:
What would a superstar like
me
be doing with a woman like
her?

Anyone who wasn’t looking at the dashing and charming Damon Kodiak was looking at me. I could only stare straight ahead and try to keep my composure. What did they threaten you with, Damon? I wondered.

“Your Honor,” said Damon, “I’m afraid what Abbie Elliot told you is either an alibi she invented, or a fantasy in her mind.”

“GOOD MORNING, MR. KODIAK.”
Jules Laurent cleared his throat and glanced at a notepad on his desk.

“Mr. Laurent.” Because Jules was speaking in English, Damon removed his headphones.

“You testified you were never on the yacht, the
Misty Blue,
on the night or early morning in question.”

“That’s correct.”

“You’re aware that one of your fingerprints was located on the doorknob of a bedroom door on that yacht.”

“I am, yes,” said Damon. “And as I told the investigators, I’ve been on Dick Ogletree’s yacht many times. Just not that night.”

“The bedroom door I reference—you are aware that this is the very bedroom that my client says was the location of your…intimate relations?”

“I wasn’t,” he said. “I am now.”

“A coincidence?”

“Apparently so.”

“So I will assume…you also are not aware that Abbie, my client, identified this particular bedroom to the authorities
before
she knew that your fingerprint was on the doorknob of that bedroom?”

Damon, of course, didn’t know that. Jules referenced the various pages of the dossier, establishing the date of my statement to the police and the later report of the fingerprint results.

“So of the five bedrooms on this yacht, Abbie just happened to pick the one where a fingerprint of yours would later be found? She just got lucky in her guess?” Jules asked, wagging a pencil in his hand.

Damon bowed his head ever so slightly. “Mr. Laurent, I doubt she would consider herself lucky at this moment.”

A murmur of laughter rippled through the courtroom. Jules acknowledged the moment.

“A poor question,” he said. “A better one: Mr. Kodiak, knowing that you are alive and well, and perfectly able to…rebut what she said…knowing all of this, yes?…can you think of a reason why Abbie would make up this story about you? Knowing that you would immediately deny it and…expose her as a liar?”

Damon, who had been wearing the trace of a smug smile, lost a bit of color.

“This woman,” Jules went on, waving an arm with a flourish, “whom the prosecution claims to be a criminal mastermind—she would have to be quite…oh, stupid, yes? To make up such a silly alibi?”

The prosecutor rose, presumably to object, but the presiding judge was already admonishing Jules to avoid speeches at this point. Jules bowed slightly to the presiding judge and moved on.

“The murders occurred on nineteen June, Mr. Kodiak. Yet you were not questioned until twenty-four June. Five days later. Do you recall this, as I do?”

Damon’s eyes danced a bit before he nodded. “I think that’s right.”

“They came to you,” he said. “Not you to them?”

“That’s also correct.”

“You hadn’t heard this news of President Devereux’s death before twenty-four June?”

“Of course I had. I believe I heard about it when everyone else did.”

“And you knew it had taken place in Monte Carlo.”

“Yes,” Damon said, the answer coming more slowly, as he grew more wary of his adversary.

“And the news of the arrests.” Jules gestured to the four of us in the defense cage. “These four women. Their names and faces were splashed everywhere. Almost immediately. Were you not immediately aware that they had been arrested?”

Damon coughed. Stalling for time, I thought. “Mr. Laurent, the sequence of events is not something I remember particularly well. At some point, yes, I heard their names. And yes, to answer your next question—yes, I recognized them as the women I’d met at the nightclub.”

“But you did not initiate contact with the French authorities, did you, sir?”

“I did not. I didn’t think the fact that I had met them at the nightclub made any difference. What could I tell the French authorities? These women were fun to party with?”

More laughter in the courtroom, but subdued this time. This wasn’t the time for levity.

Jules was moving in on Damon, and everyone sensed it.

“MR. KODIAK, THE
dossier indicates that the authorities first tried to reach you on twenty-one June.” Jules referenced the dossier for the record. “Is that date…consistent with your memory?”

Damon scratched at his cheek. “I couldn’t be specific.”

“Do you have a reason to doubt the accuracy of the police record in the dossier?”

Damon shook his head. “No. I do know that I was filming some water scenes in the Mediterranean and it would have been difficult to speak with them.”

Jules dropped his hand and stared at Damon for a long, pregnant moment. “It would have been difficult to take a boat or helicopter to shore and speak with authorities about the murder of the French president?”

“No, I suppose it wouldn’t have, if they’d asked, but they didn’t,” Damon snapped, the first break in his cool demeanor. “We were spending entire days out there on the water and if they had told me it was an urgent matter, I would have—of course I would have come ashore.” He took a breath and calmed down. “They said it could wait.”

Jules nodded aimlessly. He was probably thinking to himself that he’d pushed this too far. What Damon was saying sounded somewhat reasonable.

“It wouldn’t be the case,” Jules said, “that you were trying to…get your story straight?”

“No, it most certainly wouldn’t, Mr. Laurent.” Damon pointed a finger at Jules. “After the nightclub and the casino, I left and went to my friend’s place in Cannes. I stayed there until the morning and got up and took a helicopter to our film site on the Mediterranean. What story is there to get straight?”

“Your friend’s place in Cannes. That friend is…Oliver Kurtz?”

“Yes.” Damon nodded emphatically. “Ollie told the authorities the same thing.”

“Ollie is a personal assistant, is he not? He was…renting a house in Cannes?”

“That’s right.”

“So you call him a friend. But he is your employee, yes?”

Damon sighed. “He is both an employee and a friend.”

“I see.” Jules smiled to the spectators. “And he’d like to remain both of those things, yes? Especially your employee. He would like to please his boss, correct?”

“He wouldn’t lie for me, if that’s what you’re saying, Mr. Laurent.”

“Of course not.” Jules pondered a moment. Finally, he flipped a page in his notepad. Moving on to another topic. “The name of this film you were shooting was?”

“Overboard.”

“Ah.
Overboard.
And the film company was Mirastar, I believe?”

“Mirastar Entertainment, yes.”

“You had a…ten-movie contract with Mirastar.”

“Yes.”

“And
Overboard
was your last of the ten.”

“Correct.”

“It was with Mirastar that you made these ‘Charm’ movies, yes?
Three’s a Charm, Four’s a Charm, Five’s a Charm.
”

“Yes.”

“And also…let me see.” Jules checked his notes. “
Renegade, Beat of an Eye, Last Man Standing
?”

“Yes.”

“Action movies, yes?”

Damon inclined his head. “I suppose you could call them that, yes.”

“Mr. Laurent,” the presiding judge chimed in. “Is this necessary?”

“I will…get to my point, Mr. President. Many thanks.”

Jules focused again on Damon. “Mr. Kodiak, you were…in negotiations for another contract at the time of the murders?”

He nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“You are forty-seven, Mr. Kodiak?”

“Thank you for reminding me, Mr. Laurent.” More chuckles from the gallery. I didn’t know he was that old. He was sure holding up well. I would swear to
that
under oath.

“I mean no disrespect, sir. But is it fair to say that…that a man of your age will find it more difficult to…star in action movies?”

“I don’t know about that.”

“Well, then could we agree that your more recent movies have been less popular at the box office?” Jules picked up a piece of paper. “Or should I read you some figures?”

“The answer to your first question is yes,” Damon said with some ice.

“All right, then. You were in the midst of negotiations with Mirastar. And others as well, yes?”

“Yes.”

“And would I be correct in saying that the money that was being offered was…less than the money in your previous contract?”

Damon was no longer deriving any enjoyment from this conversation. “You would be correct.”

Jules waited a moment. He wanted to be sure he had everyone’s attention. He certainly had Damon’s.

“And in the midst of this negotiation, Mr. Kodiak, did you think it would help your negotiating position, or hurt it, if the moviegoing public knew that you’d been on a yacht with the president of France at or near the time he was murdered?”

“I must object.” Maryse Ballamont shot to her feet.

“I wasn’t on that yacht,” said Damon. “I wasn’t!”

“Of course you weren’t.” Jules was done. He thanked the witness and took his seat. I caught Damon’s eye as he looked about the courtroom. He held my stare for a split second before he shook his head and looked away.

ANOTHER CRAPPY JAIL
cell, another restless night of sleep. Despite what I thought was an effective cross-examination by Jules, the online media coverage was brutal after Damon’s testimony. Joseph Morro’s
New York Times
blog said that “Ms. Elliot’s alibi, which had always felt like quite a stretch, was obliterated today by Mr. Kodiak, who seemed almost amused at the idea.” (This from the reporter who told me the night before that he thought I was innocent.) The Paris paper
Le Monde
said that my alibi sounded like “the fantasies of a frustrated, deranged housewife.” A daily online poll in
Le Monde
now had 82 percent of respondents believing we were guilty. A similar poll in
USA Today,
which I had hoped would be a bit more favorable, had 71 percent believing us guilty.

The next morning, following a “shower” that consisted of running water through my hair at a sink and scrubbing my armpits with hand soap, it was time for court. I was once more put into the back compartment of the oversized gendarmerie vehicle, the restraints placed again on my wrists and ankles. The gendarmerie assigned to my security treated me, as always, with some reverence given my celebrity, but even they had grown chillier toward me as the evidence had come in, blow by blow. At least we didn’t have to obey the stoplights, so our cavalcade of three vehicles—one in front and one behind—made good time on the narrow Paris streets.

I heard them as soon as we crossed over the Seine, the hostile chants of the protesters waiting to greet us.
“La mort aux meurtrières!”
they cried. Death to the murderers. I peered through the window at the swollen throngs lining the streets, straining against the police barricades, shaking their fists in the air and holding signs that did not exactly speak well of the four of us on trial.

“Anyone ever hear of the presumption of innocence?” I mumbled.

Before the words were out of my mouth, everything began to unravel.

The sounds came in quick succession, two thumps against the side of the rear cabin, where we sat. Someone had thrown something at the car. Then the unmistakable crash of glass shattering on the hood of the vehicle, and then the explosion. Through the slit in the plastic between us and the front cabin I saw a cascade of orange-red flame snake across the windshield.

Our vehicle veered sharply to the right and abruptly stopped. I was pitched forward on the left-side bench, thrown as far as the momentum of the sudden stop had carried me against my wrist and ankle restraints. The guards fell into each other and started shouting to one another and to the front cabin.

One of the guards pushed me back up to a seated position, where I sat, helpless, as the guards frantically readied their weapons. One of them was on his radio, urgently trying to get direction from his superiors. Through the narrow back window I saw several fireballs on the street topped with thick black smoke. I saw people spilling over the barricades. I saw French troops in riot gear, late in reacting, advancing on the crowd with shields up, batons raised, and in some cases rifles poised at the shoulder.

But there weren’t enough of them, and they hadn’t been prepared for this. Protesters scattered like cockroaches in all directions.

Some of them ran directly toward our vehicle.

“Nous devons sortir d’ici!”
one of the guards shouted.

He was right. We were sitting ducks. Our vehicle was on fire and the protesters were headed for us.

We had to get out of here.