Shooting Stars (37 page)

Although there is no way to tell if Jennifer is home—her garage door is down, no car is in the drive, and I know she often works in a studio all day—I sit on her anyway.

When you sit on Jen, you've got to sit right on her house as she can exit one of two ways. She's pap-savvy too, so there's no hiding.

Ravens circle all afternoon. Some leave right away. Some stop and wait for a bit, but not long. Jen has already been photographed post-breakup, and frankly, there isn't much to see but a bare ring finger.

Lucky for me, all the blackbirds have scattered when she does come out. I give her lots of space on the road and follow her to a Taco Bell. There, she motions with her hand out the window for me to come forward.

“You're not in the mood, are you?” I say with empathy as I pull up beside her. I decide immediately that I won't photograph her if she doesn't want it. Apparently, the pregnancy hormones are making me soft.

“Things are hard right now,” Jen says. “Would it be all right if I give you some shots over there [she points to the sidewalk], but you don't take me going into Taco Bell?”

“Of course,” I say.

Not that I have a choice. Paps are never in a position to turn down “free shots,” even if we know that the real shot is the only one that will sell, as in this case. Jennifer-standing-on-a-random-sidewalk will be lucky to fetch a hundred. But, Jennifer-carrying-Taco-Bell, now that's a nice story.
But Jen could always cover, go home, and give me nothing. Acceding to her request is really my only option.

“Thanks.” she says. “I just don't need it right now. You know what they'll say.”

I do. Jennifer and Ross had gotten engaged right around the same time some unflattering “butt” shots came out of her in a bikini on a Hawaiian beach. Since then, she's been a tabloid staple—the present size of her derrière always a fascinating topic of discussion for whatever reason. With Taco Bell pictures, the tabloids would say something like:
Jen Turns to Fast Food to Curb Breakup Woes. Soon Her Ass Will Be
Muy Grande
Again.
Or,
Jen Beefs Up after Breakup.
Or,
Devastated, Jen Cows Down.
The idea is frankly disgusting.

The tabloids would also say, “We'll take it for a grand.” Ah, well.

Jen walks up and down the sidewalk, smiling in her grey and blue sweats. It all looks so boring, I don't even get out of my car, just shoot from the window.

“Thanks, Jen,” I say after I've gotten enough of the same thing. “And hey, I was bummed to read about you and Ross. I'm sorry.”

“Thanks,” she says. Then goes in for her comfort food, and I pull out of the lot. As I'm exiting, I pass a suspicious looking car with a thug inside: a jump.

Now 'tis true, I don't want him to ruin my exclusive—pitiful as it is—but more than that, I don't want Jennifer to get screwed. Like I said, Jen's one of the nicest celebrities in Hollywood, and on the several occasions that I've photographed her, she has been
particularly
nice to me. Which has contributed to me making good money on her pretty, happy pictures. You better believe, I'm gonna jump at the chance to pay Jennifer back.

I pull back in, park, and walk into the restaurant. She's ordering at the counter.

“Jennifer,” I say, feeling a bit funny about addressing her so familiarly. Though paps always address celebrities by their first names (we do not call them Ms. Hewitt or Mr. Pitt, for example—that would be weird), it still feels awkward when I'm not holding a camera. Without
a camera, it's like we're “the same,” and why would I know her name when she doesn't know mine? “Another paparazzi just pulled up,” I say. “What should we do?”

After a quick discussion, we decide that she should walk out close behind me and I will block her. And I will carry her Taco Bell bag. She makes it clear that she's very appreciative that I told her.

I've never blocked for a celebrity before, but I've seen it done by plenty of “heroes.” As we walk to the car, I stand tall and Jen crouches behind me. The jumper just watches, not bothering to raise his camera. He can't say much anyway since it's my story he's jumped.

My shots of Jen never sell, not even for a hundred. But, no matter, for baby and me, the good energy pays off loads more than cash ever will.

* * *

Unfortunately, that good energy is short-lived. The next day, a notice from the city attorney's office comes in the mail. A complaint has been filed against me for the charge of battery against Frank Opis Epstein. It seems I should have called Detective Gonzalez back.

I call Georgia first. She wants to help but doesn't think she has the expertise. “You're gonna have to get a criminal defense attorney,” she says apologetically. “But I'm gonna do research for you.”

She assures me that I'll get off, but it will cost me. She refers to Frank as “The Asshole” during the whole conversation. “I can't believe The Asshole's doing this to you,” she says. “The Asshole's a mean, mean person.”

Georgia may hate The Asshole even more than I do. I love her for that.

Next I call Mom, who is notably more excited than sympathetic or worried for her daughter: “Jenny, it's just like Barbara Walters. [Mom's reading Walters's eighty-year-long autobiography.] Legal problems are great for autobiographies.”

Fantastic, I'll publish my book and Frank will get all the profits. That's just great, Mom.

I get several attorney recommendations. I settle on Beverly Hills's Josiah Seaborn and leave a message with his office.

Josiah calls me back promptly (at $500 an hour, no surprise) and listens in silence to my story in which I insert the word “self-defense” at least twelve times. When I'm done, he says with grim condolence, “This is very serious [huff, sigh, five-second J.R.-long pause here], but I think we can win.”

He tells me that the complaint notice means that charges haven't been filed but that the courts are investigating whether or not they will file. Josiah says (several times) that it is very important not to have a misdemeanor or felony charged against you in the state of California. Although he doesn't say why.

But I know why. I know a lot about the California justice system. Remember, this “justice” system put Paris Hilton, of all people, behind bars. Maybe you thought that was funny, but note this blond felon was jailed for
twenty-three days
for nothing more than driving with a suspended license—something, in all likelihood, one of your friends has done. Also, remember Officer Cregg of the LAPD? “I asked [Ms. Buhl] three times to please move along or I would have to ticket her. I did not want to ticket her, Your Honor, but she refused to move.” Yeah, not how I remember it.

No, Josiah is right, the State of California is
not
where I want a charge filed against me. This state would relish using
La Paparazza
as an example for others. They'd slap me with one of my California “three strikes” and chuck me into a cold, hard cell.

* * *

Five days later, Josiah and I meet for our first $500-an-hour session. He asks me to put together some character references from fellow paparazzi: letters that will explain how I've never assaulted anyone, talk about how scary the business is, and how I might feel threatened working in it.

You find out who your friends are when you need them to do something
uncomfortable. Only Aaron will do it. Simon, Claudia, and even Bartlet sympathize with my plight—they can't stand Frank Opis either—but they don't want to get involved.

Claudia defends her decision with this: “I've heard you get quite mad, Jen.”

I try to reason with her: “Do you really think I'd chomp down on Frank just because he blocked my shot? Yelling at paps in the field is wholly different from going after someone physically.”

“Of course it is,” she confirms. “I'd just rather not write a letter.”

Maybe Simon's been right all along: I've got no friends in this business—or at least none that will go to bat for me in a serious pinch.
It's past time I got the hell out of here.

* * *

Frank Opis boasted to Simon that money isn't a problem because his family attorney is kept on retainer. He also told him, “Jennifer needs to learn a lesson.”

Dressed in a suit for the first time in years, I arrive in the lobby of the Biltmore hotel down the street from the L.A. courthouse. Josiah and I have arranged to meet here an hour in advance of the hearing to review the details.

He is twenty minutes late, and when he does arrive, he stays on his cell phone for another twenty minutes. When he finally gets off, he begins to text.
Really, dude?

I interrupt, “Do you think we could go over the case again? I'd really like to come up with a game plan.” I'm sure this is old-hat for Josiah, but this is my first time facing criminal courts and I'm
petrified
!

“Oh, yeah. Just a sec.” He continues to text.

Five minutes later, still pecking at his phone, he mumbles, “I don't think you should go in. I'll speak on your behalf.”

“Don't you think it'd be good if they heard from me? I was kinda hoping to speak.”

“I think it's better if I speak for you.”

This is not looking good. I wonder if Josiah remembers anything about my case. It's been a month since we met. I pull out my notes and rattle the paper in the useless hope of getting his attention.

Ten minutes before the hearing, he finally puts down his phone. I quickly re-explain the details and review my defense, which I've been forming over the last few weeks. It feels like I'm the lawyer briefing the witness.

“I've learned more about Frank,” I say. “A few months ago, he gave Hilary Duff a $1,000 gift certificate to a hair salon to try to bribe her into being his ‘personal celebrity.'”

Josiah raises his eyebrows.

“Do you know who Hilary Duff is?” I say. Josiah's about sixty. I feel sure he doesn't know who Hilary Duff is.

“Yeah. Of course.”

“This business doesn't work like that. That's creepy,” I tell Josiah. “Hilary's bodyguard was so worked up about it that he came out to the street the next day to question other paps about Frank, to figure out how concerned he needed to be.”

“Hmmm. That's good,” Josiah says, scribbling some notes.

I remind him that Frank will probably have a very different version of events than I do. “Maybe he'll say that I ran up to him, grabbed his hand, and bit him. What else can he say, after all? He can't say that he threatened me and pushed my camera into my face.”

“So, your camera did hit you? You weren't sure of that last time.”

“Oh, I'm quite sure of it now. It definitely hit me.”

“Yes. Good. I don't doubt it.”

“I was in a crowd. I couldn't run,” I continue. “My camera was attached to me with a strap around my neck. Here.” I present my “evidence” and show Josiah how entangling a camera strap can be.

Josiah recaps. “So Mr. Epstein was using a weapon which hit you, which was attached to your neck, which you couldn't release.”

“Yes. I couldn't run. I was trapped in my camera.”

“And, where would you go anyway? You were in a crowd.”

“Yes. And even if I had been able to undo myself from the camera, it would have fallen to the ground or Frank might have dropped it. Thousands of dollars crushed on the cement.”

“That's your livelihood!” he says a bit loudly.

“Yes! How would I work?”

OK, so it seems my lawyer is pretty awesome after all.

* * *

We don't have to wait long before we're called. A short, soft-spoken court officer whose job it is to make recommendations to the court greets us. The officer smiles and smiles as if he's welcoming us to his dinner party and asks me if it's all right that he speak with my lawyer in the other room. He finds the softest chair for me to sit my very pregnant self in while I wait.

After fifteen minutes of active prayer on my end, the two men return and the court officer addresses me again. “Your lawyer has spoken on your behalf, and he doesn't want you to speak because of your Fifth Amendment right, and that's OK.” He speaks as a gentle third-grade teacher would to the class. He offers another big smile. Then he shakes my hand heartily before we depart.

Josiah walks me to
his
car and tells me what happened. Frank didn't show, nor did his lawyer, which is in my favor because he was requested to show (however, he wasn't
required
to show because he'd already made a statement in the police report). Frank's statement, according to Josiah, is that I came up and hit him in the back, then grabbed his hand and bit it. To me, this statement sounds positive for us because it sounds so ludicrous to me versus my recollection of what happened.

Josiah also discovered that Frank has three witnesses. A bit worrisome that he has so many, but I'm skeptical they'll actually help. One of them is probably Crutch, the nighttime pap who was with Frank at CNN. Crutch's broken leg, I found out, was due to a fight he got in with “B-list-Hollywood,” another nighttime pap. That can't be good for credibility,
can it? Anyhow, if I can't get my best pap friends to write a simple letter on my behalf, I'm not confident Frank's gonna get his acquaintances to show up in court.

Josiah tells me, further, that the court officer will call Frank to get a follow-up statement before deciding what he will recommend to the courts, i.e., whether he will recommend pressing charges against me, or not. Overall, my lawyer is “hopeful”—
Hopefully not hopeful that I will continue to have to pay him $500 an hour
—and says he'll follow up with the court in a week.

* * *

I am meeting the girls at the Alcove for our habitual Sunday morning girl's breakfast. JoDeane arrives first and hustles back outside to wait for me.