Sex and Violence in Hollywood (53 page)

After months of vilification on television and in newspapers, months of counseling that had failed to end his nightmares, lessen his aching guilt, or stop the hate mail and death threats. Officer Stanley Pembroke went out to the garage while his wife and two young daughters slept in the dark early-morning hours of December 26. He put his service revolver in his mouth, and sent a bullet through his brain.

FORTY-SEVEN

"Before I begin,
I would like to thank you, the members of the jury, for your patience during this process, and for giving it your serious and undivided attention.” Raymond Lazar smiled warmly at the jury. “As you have seen, it can be slow and tedious, but you have been exemplary in your behavior and participation. Due to the celebrity of those involved, this trial has been the focus of a lot of attention in the media. For this reason, you have been sequestered. This is an added hardship that most juries do not need to undergo. You will be kept from your homes and families for the duration of this trial. This is necessary in order to retain the integrity of the trial, and once again, I would like to thank you for your understanding and patience. Now.” He turned briefly to Judge Vera Lester. “Your Honor...ladies and gentlemen of the jury...as representatives of the people of California, I and my colleagues, David Piner and Barbara Cho, will prove that Adam Julian hired Nathaniel Cunningham to kill Michael and Gwen Julian and sixteen-year-old Rain Cardell. You might ask, why would he do that? For money? Yes, that is one part of his motive. Michael Julian was a very successful screenwriter. No doubt you have seen some of his movies. In recent years, he produced as well as wrote his films. His success in the film industry made him a very wealthy man.”

Adam watched the tall deputy district attorney walk slowly along the rail. He never looked away from the jury. The four men and eight women followed him with their eyes.

Beside Adam at the defense table, Horowitz looked over notes written on a yellow legal pad, seemingly unaware of Lazar.

“But there is another factor in this case besides simple greed. We will show you that, since childhood, Adam Julian has immersed himself in an imaginary and desensitizing world of horror and violence and bloodshed. He has spent his life wallowing in blood-drenched horror movies and novels, and has even written his own stories of brutality and death. You will meet people who claim Adam was filled with hatred, and that he directed that hatred at his father. And you will come to see that Adam Julian is not the innocent victim his attorney would have you believe him to be. We will prove to you that he arranged and paid for the murder of his own father, his stepmother, and her sixteen-year-old daughter, a mere child. Blown to bits on the ocean, along with three crew members who happened to be on the wrong yacht at the wrong time. All because Adam Julian hated his father and wanted him dead. Wanted his fortune all to himself. And because, after years of living in a world of imaginary wholesale slaughter, after years of fantasizing about it, Adam Julian wanted to see for himself what it was like to kill someone.”

Peripherally, Adam saw Horowitz turn to him. He knew she was just checking to see how he was taking it. He stared at the tabletop and tried not to listen to Lazar, but it was impossible. So he tried to pretend the deputy D.A. was not talking about him, or about anything real, just telling a story. But with each mention of his name, Adam’s throat tightened. As Lazar continued, the reality of Adam’s situation began to settle over him for the first time in seven months. He had been afraid before, worried, paranoid. But Lazar’s words were like steel shackles clacking onto Adam’s wrists and ankles. The courtroom itself, brightly lit with light wood paneling, suddenly took on a hyper-reality that made Adam sick. This is happening to me, he thought.

“Are you all right?” Horowitz whispered, leaning close to his ear.

Adam nodded. Swallowed the lump in his throat created by his sudden nausea.

“You look sick.”

He nodded again.

“Do you need to step out?”

Adam took slow, deep breaths, then shook his head.

Horowitz sat up in her chair, but continued to watch him.

“—and doctors who can explain to you how this young man has become so desensitized and numbed that human life holds no value for him. When you have all the information our witnesses will provide, you will see that Adam Julian put a great deal of thought and planning into these six deaths. He went to Nathaniel Cunningham and paid him to plant explosives on Money Shot, Michael Julian’s yacht, and then...and then...he went out on the town with his friends. He celebrated, knowing that his family would soon be dismembered and scattered over the ocean by those explosives. You will see that fifty-six-year-old Michael Julian, forty-three-year-old Gwen Julian, sixteen-year-old Rain Cardell, thirty-three-year-old Jack Craney, twenty-seven-year-old Charles Riley, and forty-nine-year-old Joseph McCullers all lost their lives on the cold, emotionless, desensitized whim of Adam Julian. Now, you have been instructed—”

“Feeling better?” Horowitz whispered.

She was so calm, so relaxed, Adam wondered if they were in the same room together. Could she hear what that man was saying about him? What those twelve people were hearing?

“No, but don’t worry, I won’t embarrass you by throwing up.”

“I would rather you throw up during his opening statement than mine.”

“—that this trial is only about the murder of these six people and nothing else. Don’t let anything shift your focus from that,” Lazar said. He went to the center of the rail, put his hands on it, arms spread. “Your duty as jurors is to push aside anything that obstructs your view of the truth. The truth is what you are here to find. And we will show you that the truth is this.” Lazar pointed in Adam’s direction. “The truth is that Adam Julian is a murderer.” He added quietly, “Thank you.” His shoes clocked on the floor as he returned to the prosecution table.

“Ms. Horowitz?” Judge Lester said. “Your opening statement?”

Judge Vera Lester’s shoulders seemed to grow from the sides of her large head, just above her ears. Her steel-colored hair was short and wavy, and the thick glasses she wore made her eyes look twice their size. Horowitz had said she was old, but the wrinkles on her face made her look much older than Adam had expected. Her hands were large and liver-spotted, with knobby knuckles. She looked like an aged Muppet being operated by someone behind the bench.

Horowitz glanced at Adam. One corner of her mouth turned up as she stood. She walked to the jury box unhurried, smiled at the jury. Spoke in a level, friendly voice. “I would like to echo Mr. Lazar’s appreciation of your dedication to this process. I know this is a hardship for you, and for your families. I wish there were some way we could speed up the trial, or avoid keeping you all sequestered. It is an unwieldy process at times, but it is still the best in the world. I have great faith in all of you.” She smiled again, then became serious. “Your Honor, members of the jury. During the course of this trial, I am going to reveal facts that are in direct opposition to everything you have just heard from Mr. Lazar. It is the duty of the prosecution to prove Adam Julian’s guilt beyond a shadow of a doubt. As the attorney for the defense, I need only to point out the weaknesses in the prosecution’s case. But I will be doing more than that. I will prove a great deal in this case. Much more than the prosecution. I will prove to you that the six people whose lives ended tragically on that yacht were not the only victims in this situation. And I will prove that two of those people were not who they claimed to be. Gwen Julian had at least four other separate identities. Under those aliases, she is wanted in four states for killing four men, right now, as I speak to you. Each man murdered was Gwen Julian’s husband at the time of his death. And each man, like Michael Julian, was very wealthy.”

A ripple of voices moved through the courtroom, which was filled to capacity, and quickly grew louder. Adam turned his head just enough to see Lazar and the other attorneys at the prosecution table—David Piner, a rusty-haired man in his thirties, and Barbara Cho, an attractive, twenty-something Korean woman. They were huddled together, whispering frantically. Didn’t see that coming, did you? Adam thought, trying not to smile. Suddenly, he felt a little better. But only a little.

The voices grew so loud, Horowitz had to raise her voice to continue. Judge Lester interrupted her with a single slam of the gavel. The voices fell silent immediately.

“Any more of that, and you can all go home and watch this on television like everybody else,” she said in her loud, cigarette-gravelled voice. She scanned the crowd, gavel poised in her right hand to strike again should anyone make a sound. She lowered her hand slowly, turned to Horowitz. “Go on, Ms. Horowitz,” she said. “The suspense is killing me.”

“Thank you, Your Honor.” Horowitz turned back to the jury. “I will prove that Adam Julian not only did not plan and pay for the murder of his father, or any of the other people on that yacht, but was in fear for his own life while living under the same roof with Gwen Julian and her daughter.”

Another stir of whispers rose in the courtroom, not as loud as the first outburst. With a glare from Judge Lester, it quieted down, but heads turned and bowed in the crowd as spectators whispered to one another.

“I will prove also that Michael Julian was in far more danger from his wife and her daughter than from his son.” A pause as Horowitz passed her eyes slowly over the jury. “I will prove as well that the explosion that killed those six people very well could have been an accident. By the end of this trial, ladies and gentlemen, I will have proven to you that Adam Julian is innocent of the crime of murder. And even though it is not my job to do so, I will have proven it beyond the shadow of a doubt. Thank you.”

As Horowitz returned to the table, an explosion of voices came from the crowd. The sound of everyone trying to absorb the shocking information Horowitz had seemingly plucked from thin air. It had not been discussed on any of the talk shows or reported in newspapers or on the Internet. Horowitz had dropped a bomb, and it had landed squarely on the prosecution.

Several thunderous blows from Judge Lester’s gavel quieted the voices, but did not quite silence them. She waved the gavel at the spectators as she said, “This is the last time I will warn you! It’s a little early to be trying my patience like this. I will close this trial for the duration if it happens again. I’ve already told you I will tolerate no disruptions of any kind. If you can turn off your cellphones and beepers, you can turn off your mouths, too.”

As the judge reprimanded the room, Lazar was still exchanging sibilant whispers with his colleagues. They seemed to have heard nothing since Horowitz’s completely unanticipated claims about Gwen.

“Is the prosecution ready to call its first witness?” Judge Lester asked.

Lazar pulled away from the others and stood. “If I could have just a moment, Your Honor, to—”

“You’ve had months, Mr. Lazar. Are you ready to call your first witness, or not?” The noisy spectators had darkened Judge Lester’s mood.

Lazar quickly whispered something to his two colleagues, then stood again. “Yes, Your Honor. I would like to call as my first witness Mrs. Dorothy Boam.”

Adam closed his eyes and sighed. Lazar was calling one of the witnesses Adam dreaded most. His eighth grade English teacher.

* * *

The past month had been the most boring and tiresome of Adam’s life. Perry Mason and Matlock never had to attend the interminable preliminary hearings and jury selection. Those things received little more than casual mention on Law and Order and The Practice. None of the classic big-screen courtroom dramas had covered the days of monotonous perusal of evidence or prospective jurors being interviewed by the judge, the prosecution, and the defense. Adam was sure that after a few minutes of that, television remotes would start clicking, movie theaters would be vacated. Like most of reality, it was simply too tedious for television and the movies.

Horowitz had stepped up her coaching of Adam after the holidays. She and her staff put Adam through every conceivable attack that might come from the prosecution. They would continue to do so in their spare hours until it was time for Adam to testify. By then, he would be ready for anything.

“You do not seem to be enjoying the legal process, Adam,” Horowitz had said one evening in the car on their way to dinner after a long day of interviewing prospective jurors. They rode in a black Lincoln rather than a limousine, which Horowitz had said would look too extravagant.

“Enjoying it?” Adam asked. “There’s not a lot of action. Does the plot pick up soon?”

“I am disappointed. Being an aspiring writer, I thought you would be fascinated by the voir dire.”

“Gezundheit. What do you mean, fascinated?”

“Each prospective juror is a mystery that must be solved. Is this person likely to side with the prosecution or the defense? Does this person have something against young people? Rich people? White people? Will I be able to persuade this person to think the way I want her to? It requires an ability to read people, to spot their signals. I expected you to find that interesting.”

“You don’t need me to find that interesting,” Adam said. “You’ve got that blonde to be interested for you.”

“That blonde happens to be the very best jury and trial consultant in the country,” Horowitz said, defensive for a moment.