Reckless Disregard (37 page)

The second witness is a Parapet Studios employee who works as a techie in the post-production department. Though he’s actually in his late-twenties, he looks like he just got out of high school. As soon as he takes the stand he begins exhibiting symptoms that I know well—quivering hands, halting speech, flop sweat. He testifies that he’s an inveterate gamer, a fan of Poniard—he corrects himself to say a
former
fan—who began playing
Abduction!
when the game first appeared online. He says—actually stammers—that when he saw the opening cutscene depicting Felicity’s kidnapping, he played the clip for his coworkers. Before each answer, he shifts his eyes and looks sidelong at Bishop, who with arms crossed gazes at the back wall. Bishop has clearly ordered this man to atone for his sins by coming to court and testifying under oath that he believed—but only for a moment—that his boss of bosses was a murderer. I don’t bother to cross-examine the poor guy.

Then Frantz stands, buttons his coat, tugs at his sleeves, half-turns and winks at the gallery, and announces in his divine baritone, “The plaintiff calls William Maxfield Bishop.”

Bishop stands with that elegant posture, all the more impressive because most men his age hunch over from the weight of the years. He springs up to the witness stand, where he faces the clerk and raises his right hand before she asks him to. In reply to whether he swears to tell the truth, his “I do” is loud and unequivocal. Without being asked a question, he’s taken ownership of the room, just like he takes ownership of everything else. Anita Grass smiles a respectful, nonjudicial smile. Why not? Bishop has unlimited wealth and controls much of the media and so could advance her career.

Over the next two hours, William the Conqueror, with Frantz as his de Beaumont, makes the courtroom his Hastings, using lies as his arrows and charisma as his sword. He gives a long and detailed account of his life, leaving out the fact that his father, Howard Bishop, was an LA crime boss. He lists his charitable works, describes his enchanted family life and his forty-year marriage in the face of Hollywood temptation. And then to the merits:

“Did you know Paula Felicity McGrath personally?” Frantz asks.

“Absolutely not.”

“What about the letters that Felicity wrote to ‘Scotty’ mentioning you?”

Bishop shrugs his broad, square shoulders. “I didn’t know those people and don’t have a clue why they would mention me, unless it was because I was a successful producer whom they hoped to meet. In this town, people turn pipe dreams into close personal relationships.”

“What about Luther Frederickson’s testimony that he saw you and McGrath together?”

“Sadly, the man’s mind must have suffered from the alcohol and substance abuse. Never heard of the Tell Tale Bar, never hung out in Venice.”

Frantz even asks about a topic I thought he’d avoid at all costs. “Did you work with Ms. McGrath on a movie called
The Boatman
?”

Bishop gives a disdainful chuckle perhaps gleaned from those old acting classes. “Of course not. But when Mr. Stern asked me about that movie at my deposition, it sounded familiar. Since then, I remembered that it’s some silly Hollywood movie myth, a film that never existed.”

“What about the document that purports to be a cast list for
The Boatman
?”

“Documents can be fabricated very easily these days.”

And the final act of this staged fairy tale: “Mr. Bishop did you have anything to do with Paula Felicity McGrath’s disappearance?”

He leans forward, keeping his upper body straight, his face earnest and sad. “Absolutely not. That’s a fantasy made up by a madman for his own political reasons. This Poniard fellow is nothing but a terrorist who’s spread the basest of lies to the world. And he’s injured me, Mr. Frantz. Despite my assets and my past successes and whatever good works I might have done, he’s damaged my reputation with my friends and family and coworkers and the public. It’s an assault, but unlike a physical assault, I couldn’t hire security or build fences to shut out the danger. I could heal from a physical assault, but I’ll never get over this. It hurts, Mr. Frantz. It hurts.”

After this last answer, Bishop removes his horn-rimmed glasses and dabs at his eyes with a cloth handkerchief that he pulls from his pocket. The Conqueror is a far better actor than Clifton Stanley Gold gives him credit for. I glance over at Lovely Diamond, whose own eyes have misted over. Is she part of the show, too? Judge Grass is nodding her head in sympathy.

“Incredible,” Brenda says under her breath.

Behind me, a child’s voice says in a loud whisper, “She’s winning again, right, Ed?”

Frantz says he has no further questions.

As soon as I’m on my feet, I ask, “Mr. Bishop, are you now or have you ever been a member of the Church of the Sanctified Assembly?”

“Objection,” Frantz says. “Violates Mr. Bishop’s right of privacy. It’s offensive to ask a man about his religion.”

“Sustained,” the judge says.

“Are you aware, sir, that the penalty for perjury in the state of California is a felony punishable by a maximum of four years in the county jail?” I ask.

Bishop keeps his body still, doesn’t even blink. Only his mouth moves. “Whatever it is, it’s not relevant to me, Mr. Stern, because I’ve told the truth.”

“Last question, Mr. Bishop,” I say. “Where’s your wife?”

“Pardon me, sir?” he says, twisting his shoulders as if trying to loosen a kink in his back muscles. For the first time this morning, he’s nonplussed.

“I asked you, Mr. Bishop, where your wife is. Because if you have this wonderful marriage, wonderful family, if you’ve suffered such grave harm at the hands of my client, why isn’t your wife of forty years here to support you? I’d think she’d be in the first row right behind you. Where are your children and grandchildren?”

It doesn’t bother me that the judge sustains Frantz’s shouted objection. All I care about is that the reporters are still pounding on their electronic devices.

“Nothing further, Your Honor,” I say.

When Bishop steps down, Frantz announces in a grandiose tone that the defense rests.

“All right, Mr. Stern,” the judge says. “Be prepared to put on your case after the lunch break.”

I turn and look out at the gallery. My key witness—my only witness—isn’t here in court. My imploring eyes fall on Ed Diamond, who’s still sitting in his chair. He knows what I’m asking, because he shakes his head and mouths the words, “No fucking way, Parky.”

I labor in the empty juror’s room while Brenda runs to the courthouse cafeteria to bring us some lunch. As she did yesterday, she returns with an assortment of inedible fare—an overripe banana that’s more black than yellow, a cold roast beef sandwich with wilted lettuce on desiccated whole-wheat bread, a carton of low-fat blueberry yoghurt that’s a month past the expiration date, and an extra-large cup of bitter drip coffee. The anti-anxiety meds have destroyed my appetite, so I take only the coffee, but Brenda insists that I eat something, virtually force-feeding me some of the sandwich. She swallows a few spoonsful of yoghurt without enthusiasm. Neither of us dares touch the banana. We don’t talk about this morning’s testimony. Especially in this age of glitz and celebrity and meaningless sound bites, image can trump the truth, and that’s what happened when Bishop usurped control of the courtroom and through his kinetic personality single-handedly undid the damage that Boardwalk Freddy did to his case. So we go over our direct examination of Clifton Gold and hope that his wife Marina really will get him to court in the next few minutes.

Outside in the courtroom, there are footsteps and the creaking of folding chairs and voices that multiply and rise and fall and comingle so that individual conversations are indiscernible. It’s the sound of a matinee audience returning after intermission, formal and awkward before the show started but now relaxed and confident. I open the door slightly and peer into the courtroom. He’s here—Clifton Stanley Gold, dressed in an elegant gray silk suit and white turtleneck. He’s supported on one side by an elegant black beech-wood cane, and on the other by his wife Marina, who in her vanilla silk blouse and black slacks would look very nice but for the vicious scowl on her collagen-enhanced lips. I go over and take Gold’s hand, a soft touch rather than a handshake, because he seems so brittle I worry that even the slightest squeeze will break his bones.

“Thanks for coming,” I say.

He bows slightly. “In the words of Aristotle, ‘At his best, man is the noblest of all animals; separated from law and justice he is the worst.’ I have a duty to tell what I know.”

“Thanks for bringing him,” I say to Marina.

Her indelible scowl deepens. Without a word, she crosses her arms and, diva-like, turns her back on me.

Brenda takes Gold to the assistant’s bench immediately behind us so that he doesn’t have to walk far to get to the witness stand. Ten minutes before we’re supposed to start, Bishop and Frantz come into the courtroom, smiling as if they’d just topped off nine holes of golf with a country-club lunch. Bishop doesn’t look our way, so I don’t know if he notices Gold, much less recognizes him. Lovely follows thirty seconds later, but she’s not smiling. Right behind her are a sheepish Brighton and a recalcitrant Ed Diamond. Ed and Brighton take the same seats on my side of the courtroom.

At one twenty-nine, the courtroom doors open, and a tall man walks in. It takes me a moment to recognize him as Nate Ettinger. He’s again dressed like the professor he is, in a camel-hair coat, navy-blue slacks, powder-blue cotton shirt, and a red bow tie.

I nudge Brenda. “What’s he doing here?”

“No idea. But now you can call him as a witness. Didn’t you once say that you don’t have to subpoena a witness who shows up in court?”

She’s right on the law but not on strategy. “It’s never going to happen. He’s so scared he’ll testify to anything just to please Bishop.”

“I disagree.”

“Fine, but I’m the one with the law degree.”

She shrugs, but from the blasé pirouette that follows, I can tell that it was a dismissive, not a contrite, shrug.

Millie the clerk walks in, followed by the judge, who nods at me as soon as she takes the bench.

I go to lectern, but instead of addressing the judge, I look at Bishop. “The defense calls Clifton Stanley Gold.”

Because the ceiling lights are reflecting off Bishop’s lenses, I don’t actually see his eyes widen, but I know they have because the black frames move visibly up and back and stay there until his jaw slackens. As Brenda helps Gold circumnavigate the boxes and tables and desks that pose hazardous obstacles on his way to the witness stand, Bishop whispers to Frantz, his mouth moving like a manic auctioneer’s.

“I object to this witness,” Frantz said. “We received no notice at all that he was going to be called.”

“Is this true, Mr. Stern?” the judge asks.

“Yes, Your Honor, but we found him about the time plaintiff found Luther Frederickson, who wasn’t disclosed to us and yet who was allowed to testify.”

She shakes her head. “Mr. Stern, I don’t think—”

A lawyer should never interrupt the judge, but our case turns on this moment. “The timing doesn’t matter anyway,” I say. “This witness is being called to impeach Mr. Bishop’s testimony this morning, and under the rules I had no obligation to disclose him.”

She takes a breath to speak but thinks better of it. She shuts her eyes for a moment. “Very well, counsel. But the testimony better be solely for impeachment.” She glances over at Frantz apologetically.

Meanwhile, Gold has completed his arduous journey to the stand. He was a slight man in his prime, and with the shrinkage from age, his head barely clears the railing. I can see only his nose, his thick bifocals, the ugly growth on his brow, and his mottled bald skull with its dried-dandelion fringe. But when he swears to tell the truth, his voice fills the room.

The gallery is silent at first. Most people don’t recognize Gold’s face or even his name—he hasn’t had an acting role in twelve years and isn’t wearing the light-brown toupee that covered his head in a mini-pompadour when he performed in sitcoms and on game shows. But there are whispers of recognition from the older spectators when I elicit testimony about his Tony Award in the early sixties for playing the lead role in a modern version of
Timon of Athens
, and a second Tony as a featured performer in a revival of
South Pacific
, and finally oohs of surprise when he mentions his TV roles and his stint on the
Hollywood Squares
. And then I spend time focusing on his career as an acting instructor. The list of well-known stars that he’s taught is massive; four of his students have won Oscars, sixteen have won Emmys, and another eight have won Tonys. After every third question, I look at Bishop, who obsessively stretches his neck and pulls his shoulders back and down, elongating his spine, as if he’s in the midst of a Pilates workout. His jaw is clenched, and his fists balled up in rage. I can’t let myself forget how dangerous this man is.

“Do you know William Bishop?” I ask.

“Once upon a time I did. Billy Bishop was one of my acting students.”