A Life More Complete (10 page)

As we follow the sidewalk up to the
door, microphones, recorders, cameras are shoved into our faces. Both of us,
heads down, walk at quickened pace as questions are shouted at us like machine
gun fire.

One reporter screams above the crowd,
“Is it true that Trini Walters has been arrested on suspicion of DUI, again?”

I stop and turn to the growing crowd that
is moving with us, “We will not be answering any questions at this time. We
will be making a statement regarding Ms. Walters shortly.” The mob continues to
spout off questions as Melinda and I are buzzed into the police station. We
sign in like we do this every day and the sad thing is we’ve both been here
more often than we’d like to admit. The woman behind the window purses her lips
and slides the visitor badges through the small slot in the bulletproof glass. The
look on her face is well known, if I could read her mind it would question the
validity of my job and the stupidity of my client, something I’m currently
doing.

Trini sits, her head facedown on her
knees, her hands clasped behind her neck, in a wooden chair in an interrogation
room. She’s been kept separate from the others, given special treatment, which
will no doubt cause issues with the public and the media. She doesn’t move when
Melinda and I enter the room. The officer follows behind as we all sit around
the table. Trini’s lawyer arrives a few minutes later. It’s not the lawyer she
hired; they’ve sent someone from their firm. A young kid, he might be twenty-five
if he’s lucky and I want to ask him if he’s qualified to handle what has been
thrust upon him. He gives muddled reasons as to where Trini’s lawyer is, which
basically amounts to “he quit.” He didn’t quit the firm. He quit Trini. Her new
lawyer is nervous, he mumbles and says “um” far too often. The legal advice he
gives is basic, something in my six years as publicist I could’ve given her. I’ve
seen this show play out, each time a different character in the lead, an actor,
an athlete, a CEO. It doesn’t matter who, the outcome is still the same. He
tells her to plead guilty, pay a fine, lose her license and then move on with her
life. That fabulous use of the legal system will cost her at least five hundred
bucks. The officer proceeds with the details of her arrest and what she’s been
charged with. Trini glances at me, her eyes heavy, crusted and smeared with mascara.
        

“Trini, we have to release a
statement to the press. I think we need to keep it basic and I also think you
should consider entering rehab.” I wait for her response and her lawyer nods
his head in agreement.

“Fine,” she answers, her voice resentful.

“This is for the best. It’ll show the
judge that you’re serious about correcting the situation. It will show your
fans and the media that you’ve owned up to your mistake. I know this isn’t what
you want, but it will help you maintain your professionalism and your career.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Her words are
harsher than before as she stares at me from across the table. Trini follows me
out of the station. Stopping at the base of the parking lot, the sun is just
beginning to rise and the sky is clear and serene, yet it feels as if it should
be swirling with dark, opaque clouds. I take a deep breath and begin to speak, “At
1:04 this morning, Katrina Walters was arrested and booked on suspicion of
driving under the influence, cocaine possession and leaving the scene of an
accident. This was an error in judgment and she is taking full accountability
for her actions. At this time, Ms. Walters has decided it would be in her best
interest to enter a rehabilitation center to help rectify her issues. We ask the
media to allow her the privacy and the respect she needs to heal. Thank you.”

I quickly usher Trini into my car and
we leave the station, heading toward her house. Her father posted her bail, yet
wasn’t present. No one is with her except the people she pays to be by her
side, not Luke, not her father, not anyone from her ever-changing group of
friends.

My phone’s been ringing incessantly
since leaving the police station. Numerous requests for interviews, statements
and questions bombard my voicemail inbox. Trini agrees to do one interview with
a local news station with the rights to air clips on other media outlets.

“Are you sure you want to do this?” I
ask as we enter her house.

“Whatever.” Her replies have been one
word, clipped and angry since we left the station. She has showered, changed
her clothes and I’ve already sent her back to change a second time. I walk into
her closet and select a simple navy blue shift dress and pair of navy and white
polka dot wedges. I hand the dress to her and she retreats to the bathroom. Several
minutes pass and she doesn’t emerge as I expect. I knock quietly on the
bathroom door.

“Trini, you okay?” I hear her stifle
as sob as I open the door. She’s curled in a ball on the floor still wearing
the white mini dress. Her heavy eye makeup running down her face in thin black
rivers as her body shakes and heaves with sobs. I slide down on the floor next
to her pulling her into my arms.

“Shh,” I whisper into her hair
remembering all too late that the sound that is supposed to soothe, always made
me sob harder in the past. Trini has the same response. Her body is racked with
chest heaving cries. “You don’t have to do the interview. I can cancel it.”

“No, I...I...I’ll do it.”

I wet a washcloth and wipe her
heavily made up face until it is fresh and clear. She finally materializes from
the bathroom looking fifteen years old as opposed to her almost nineteen years.
Her hair parted to the side and swept into a low ponytail, minimal makeup and
simply dressed in the shift dress and age appropriate espadrille wedges. She knows
the drill and she does it unwaveringly well. She’s composed and a smile moves
across her face that if you didn’t know her you’d believe it to be an honest
display of happiness.

People move around us not speaking as
they ready the set for the interview. The woman set to interview Trini sits
across from us, her makeup being touched up, her hair a perfect halo of blonde,
all the while never making eye contact with us. Trini’s lawyer arrives a few
minutes later. I think his name is Jacob, but I can’t be sure. He won’t last
long. Still the same weasely young kid, his suit too big, his eyes wide with
unease. The interview begins and I can see Trini inhale deeply to ready
herself. The image reflected back at us is exactly what I hoped for. She looks
like the kid America fell in love with, innocent and sweet. I can only hope
that it’s enough to curb the negative image that she has left in everyone’s
mind.

“So, Trini, can you take me through
what happened early this morning?” the interviewer asks, her lips pressed
together firmly, waiting.

Trini glances briefly at me and then
her lawyer, “I’ve had a rough couple of months. Sometimes it’s hard to cope. Being
in the public eye for so long and the lack of privacy that goes along with it
can be overbearing. I turned to methods that were probably not the best.” As I
listen to her speak, I can’t believe how professional and composed she sounds. “I
have decided that after the events that occurred I need some time to regroup
and reorganize my personal and my professional life.”

The interview is going well and Trini
continues to respond appropriately. I begin to relax taking a few deep breaths
as I unclench my fists.

“Do you feel like this could possibly
ruin your career?”

“No, absolutely not. It was a mistake
and I fully intend to repair any damage I may have caused. And in turn, never
once has my personal life affected my career. I have always remained
professional. Anyone who has ever worked with me can vouch for that.”

“You’re a role model for young girls
all over the country, how do you think their families feel about your most
recent actions?”

My breathing begins to quicken and I
can see the anger building in Trini’s eyes as she composes herself to answer
the next question.

“Well, Rita, is it? I guess I didn’t
catch your name.” Oh God, she’s turning snotty and now there’s no going back. My
fingers find their rhythm and tap as she speaks. “I never went into this career
to be a role model. Parents are role models; teachers and coaches are role
models. People who make a difference in someone’s life are role models. I’m
paid a ridiculous amount of money to entertain people. My job has no value
other than for entertainment purposes and for you to accuse me of not being a
positive role model, well I think you need to review your definition of a role
model.” Trini slouches in her chair and exhales hard. I can see she hasn’t even
begun and everything in me says call the interview but I don’t.

“Oh really, Ms. Walters? I’m sure
there are plenty of people who would disagree with your statement. There are
girls who have your poster on their bedroom walls, watch your television show,
buy your music, yet you feel you have no impact on them whatsoever?”

“That’s not what I said. I just
stated that I never intended to be someone’s role model and if parents are
doing their job they wouldn’t allow their children to view me as role model.”

“Are you saying that your behavior is
directly related to you not wanting to be seen as role model?”

Fire is beginning to burn in Trini’s
eyes. It’s becoming a train wreck and I can’t stop it or look away. She leans
forward in her chair and stares down the interviewer. She pauses momentarily, “Well,
Rita, if you must know, I’m a fucked up mess and the last thing I want is
anyone to look up to me. If the public only knew the half of it,” she says
shaking her head. “I wouldn’t be sitting here with you right now if I hadn’t
gotten knocked up and...”
Boom! There’s
my cue.
I should’ve pulled the plug a long time ago and I know I’ll hear it
from Ellie. I clamp my hand down on Trini’s wrist hard and she turns and
narrows her eyes at me.

“We’re done. Interview over. Thank
you.” I glare at the interviewer and back at Trini. Yanking her up from the
chair with too much force, she follows me as I drag her behind. She’s laughing
as she stalks through the studio. It’s the kind of laugh that screams unstable
and crazy. Her eyes are wild and everyone near us disperses as I pull her toward
the parking lot; only a select few remain to gawk or take pictures. All the
while Trini is flipping off the cameras and swearing and I’m pretty sure she
tried to take her shoe off and throw it at someone. The pictures will splatter
the pages of every tabloid and newspaper from here to New York, the interview
broadcast on repeat to be over analyzed and there is nothing anyone can do to
stop it.

As soon as we hit the parking lot I
drop her wrist and turn to face her. “I don’t know what is going on, but you
need to get it together. Now!” She stops laughing and looks right through me. I
grab her shoulders and shake her. “Seriously, what the hell is going on? Are
you trying to ruin your career? Is this what you want? The world to think you’re
crazy because you did a kick-ass job if that’s what you’re going for?”

She says nothing, just stares aimlessly
and listlessly as her face takes on a gray cast. She turns away from me, vomits
spectacularly on the asphalt and then climbs into the passenger side of my car.
I run my hands over my face and sigh.

We pull up to the rehab center in
Malibu after what feels like an eternity. The entire time the car is silent. I
can’t bring myself to speak. I can only hope that this mess is over and she
will receive the help she needs to overcome whatever it is she’s battling. I
grab her bag from the trunk and walk with her to the entrance of the facility. She
looks like the walking dead, her eyes are sunken in, her face is ashen, loose
strands of her hair are stuck to her cheeks with vomit. I almost can’t look at
her. A woman greets us at the door and takes Trini’s bag. This is as far as I
can go.

“Trini?” She turns and looks at me as
tears fall down her cheeks. Her eyelids are heavy and sagging. “Please know I
love you. This will get better.” I hug her quickly and retreat to my car before
my emotions can get involved.

For the first time in months I feel
relief, it’s like a weight has been lifted off my shoulders and I can finally
relax. There isn’t that constant worry, the wait that something awful has yet
to come. It’s over and I pray it has ended for good.

I don’t even bother to go home. I
know Ellie will be all over me for this. I’ll be lucky if I still have a job
after what happened. I should’ve stopped the interview; really I should’ve
never allowed her to do the interview. I knew she was unstable, but I had no
idea how truly messed up she was. I feel personally responsible for what went
down. It’s my job to protect her from media scrutiny and public meltdowns and I
failed.

Ellie is on the phone when I reach
the doorway to her office. She cranes her long polished index finger at me and
silently calls me into her office. Without speaking she points to the red armless
leather chair placed in front of her glass top desk. I do as I am told and sit.
My mind races as I watch her twirl her hair around her finger and swivel back
and forth in her high back black leather desk chair. I try to read her
expression. I obsessively tap my fingers and watch her face turn from harsh to
smiling and back to harsh again.
Oh God,
she’s going to fire me.
When she finally hangs up the phone, I take a deep
breath and prepare myself.