Shooting Stars (40 page)

* * *

Jimmy calls on Sunday while I'm watching
Entourage
. “I don't want you to go into labor,” he says, “but if you're interested, I got Katy Perry's address for you. She'll probably be exclusive too.”

For a while now, Katy's been a big star in the music world, but she's up-and-coming to the pap scene and few have her address. iPIX is usually the first to get new celebrity addresses. Most of our info comes from limo companies—who iPIX pays well—and celebrities love limos.

I'm thrilled for a “new address” and arrive at Katy's bright and early at 9 a.m. Monday morning. There are no other paps, so I park, exit my car, and stroll up and down the street. Walking makes baby happy. I
alternate between sitting and pacing for the next three hours, careful not to venture too far from my car. At around noon, I see Katy pull out of her garage in the standard silver Prius. She's driving slowly and her car has no tint. My assumption is that Katy's been followed only a couple of times in her life, if that, so she doesn't check for me as I leisurely file in behind. (No doubt, in a few months when she starts dating and eventually marries Russell Brand—then divorces Russell Brand—things will be different.) Katy picks up a girlfriend and the two drive to a small outdoor shopping mall off Sunset, one where outside shots are feasible and paps don't usually loiter. Katy's wearing a typical fantastic outfit; everything's clicking along splendidly.

She parks her Prius in the underground deck. I park mine nearby and watch. The two girls head to the elevator. I should too—they'll never suspect that I'm a pap—but I hate riding elevators with celebs. Since that shameful day with Cameron, I've come to realize what appropriate elevator-pap protocol is; and while it's not completely against the rules to get in the elevator with them, it
is
the last option you want to take. If there's another way—up or down stairs, for instance—the pap should definitely go that route. If there isn't, however, and you, the pap, do end up in the elevator with the celeb (assuming the celeb knows you're a pap, which in this case, Katy wouldn't), this is what you do: First and foremost, Do Not Shoot. No mag will buy a shot if it looks as if you've cornered the celeb. (Which in fact you have.) Rather, put down your camera, stare at the ceiling or the floor, and wait until the door reopens. Once it does, and importantly, once you, the pap, are off the elevator (even if the celeb is not—she can be “getting off the elevator,” and that will make a fine shot), then and only then may you turn around and shoot. I once rode the elevator at LAX with five paps and Ben Affleck and Jennifer Garner, and that's exactly what happened. Riding up, everyone was silent; cameras and pap heads were down. Jen didn't cover (she didn't need to), and when the elevator reopened, Jen ducked behind Ben and the action restarted.

Today, I take the stairs. I know the elevator exits on one of three levels
so feel fairly confident letting Katy ride alone. Each level is a circular ring, and when I climb to the first, I stop and wait. I watch the three elevator openings…and wait…and wait…and wait.
Where did she go?
Either Katy didn't get off, or she was exceptionally quick and had already gotten off before I got to the first floor. I assume that's what it was, and begin searching. I walk in every store and restaurant on all three levels. I even buy a ticket to check the movie theater.

After twenty minutes, I've hit every location in the mall and haven't found Katy and her friend. I decide to go back to the car and wait—I've missed the shot here, but maybe they'll go somewhere else. When I get to the garage, Katy's car is gone.
Arg!
I hate screwing up easy jobs. Easy job, easy money: a year's supply of Pampers up in flames.

That night on the blogs, there's a shot of Katy and her friend eating ice cream at the Grove. They must have turned around immediately and decided to go there instead, something I would have known had I been in that damn elevator. Man, I can't believe I still wimp out.

* * *

But when I get someone in my head, I'm stubborn. I really want her picture. According to Katy's tour schedule, she's out of town for the next six weeks. I'll have the baby in four, so today is my last shot at Katy Perry.

I'm at her house by nine. Her New York–style apartment, a historic high-rise with oversized windows and city character, is where I'd love to live. Few apartments like this exist in L.A.

At around ten, Katy comes home. That's OK. I bet she leaves again.

And at around noon, she does. I follow her to Chateau Marmont.
Merde
. This is not a good place to pap. I'm extremely familiar with the little hotel—celebs always meet here—but everyone knows you can't shoot inside.

Though I've never actually tried. I park on the street, set my camera for inside shooting, and slide it into an obscure bag, a long H&M purse with lots of handy pockets. Then I walk in.

It's not hard to locate someone inside the Chateau (assuming they're not in a guest room, of course). When you enter the hotel through the garage, you climb one flight of stairs and basically you're there. A small lobby and check-in area is connected to a cozy den filled with antique furniture and oversized sofas, a room like you might find in a Cotswold inn or
un château en France
. The den area is where many celebrities have drinks and meetings, and from there, you can look through an old square-paned window-wall onto an outside patio, another spot where dining and deals are done.

Immediately, the hostess greets me: “You're here for the baby shower?”

“Ah…no, I'm meeting a friend. I'm a little early, though.”
But thanks for the info.

“No problem. Would you like a drink while you wait?”

I order a coffee, which gives me something to do versus just lurk, and sit down on one of the sofas. When the coffee comes, I pay immediately; I'll likely drink and run.

Katy's easy to spot through the window-wall. She's outside on the patio and is wearing a marvelous blue hat with a white bow on it. She's put a “Katy” name tag on too, and altogether looks like she should be at an English baby shower versus an American one.

As many times as I've been to the Chateau—checking for people inside, then waiting outside to pick up the follow—I'm at a loss of how to shoot inside. I ponder options.
What if I go to the patio to shoot?
The patio is small, and I'm not sure I'd even manage a full-length with my 70–200mm. Besides, there's nothing to hide behind. I'd be as obvious as a hunter in a burned down forest staring at Katy, hand-cocked, waiting for the right moment. Even if I could pull off a shot before I was escorted out, an unintentional body might easily ruin it. No, shooting on the patio doesn't seem like the way to go.

I'll just wait,
I tell myself,
for opportunity to cross my path.
I stand up, sit down, pace, pee, fidget, try to figure out a plan, sit back down, and just watch.

Directly outside the multi-paned windows, the staff sets a long wooden
table and eventually the women sit down. Katy sits near the center, looking into the Chateau. I wonder if there is a glare, or if she can see me as clearly as I can see her.

I drink my coffee while keeping an eye on her hat. I determine that I must shoot from the inside out, so I discretely reach into my purse and adjust my settings. I pull down the ISO to 800—although the picnic table is under an awning, there's a healthy amount of light outside and with a wide open aperture at f2.8, I think I can get a clean shot at the corresponding shutter speed.

Aaron gave me advice the first week on the job: “Be an actor,” he said. “Pretend you're someone else. That's the only way to do what we do.” And it comes to me: Angelina Jolie in any one of her movies: badass, sexy bank robber/CIA operative-type. Perfect!
I'm well trained and stocked with the tools to pull off a multimillion-dollar diamond heist. My cover—eight months preggo—couldn't be more brilliant. The audience is on my side.

Besides the staff circling about, my current audience at the Chateau includes two groups of people. There is one table of four. I'll be shooting directly over their heads if I photograph Katy through the window. The other is a group of six who are standing in the back of the den. Two of the women from that company keep looking at me.
See, they're rootin' for ya, Jen.

For about twenty minutes more, I pace, change seats, pee again, and envision myself as Angelina. I play out the scene in my head, dressed in a skin-tight black leather outfit and tall boots. (I'm really wearing maternity jeans and a tank top. At least I'm not wearing sweats.) Mostly, I'm worried about the staff; the guests can't really do anything. I figure I'll burn it in one chance, so I must take the picture at exactly the right moment. I watch the way the staff moves in and out. I notice that about once every three or four minutes, there is a ten-second break when no staff is in the den.

Katy is facing the window, but as she talks she looks from side to side. Though it's not a full-length, with the
beau chapeau
, the “Katy” name tag, and the setting, it will make an admirable shot
—if
I can get Katy face-on, or nearly. But to avoid the heads at the table of four and the panes around
the glass window-wall, there is only one square foot from where I can get a face shot. I'll need to shoot from a random spot in the room—just kind of “out there” in the middle.

I have my plan. I know how I am going to execute. So now I wait. I sit and sip my lukewarm coffee. I breathe. I relax.
Je suis
Angelina.
Je suis jolie.
There will be a lull in the staff, I know. If Katy is looking up at that time, I will stand and shoot. If not, I will wait for the lull to happen again.

My camera is in my bag and both my hands are on it. My right hand is on the shutter button, and my left is wrapped around the lens in the shooting position. I am a crouched tigress waiting to pounce. I am strong and warm and powerful and beautiful, like Angelina. No one around me knows what's about to happen.

It is five minutes before no staff is in the den again. When I look outside, Katy is gazing up not talking to anyone. It's now. I stand, move to my mark, let the bag fall to the ground, bring my camera to my face, and with my arms pulled tightly to my chest for steadiness, take one precise shot. I can hear how slowly my shutter moves—the “open” and “close” both audible. I hold my breath to become even more still, refocus, and take two more shots. My adrenaline makes that easy; my control is complete.

After the three shots, Katy looks away. Just as calmly as I began, I finish. I pick up my bag and reinsert my camera. When I look around to see who's seen me, to see if I'm about to be escorted out, the maître d' is suddenly there, facing me.

“Would you like more coffee?”

“No, thanks. I'm good.”

I notice one of the well-dressed women from the far side of the den is staring at me. She looks to be about fifty. I raise my eyebrows slightly in acknowledgment, and at that, her awed expression breaks and the words “Oh my God” form on her lips. I nod, crisply and confidently.

Katy stares at me through the window, and I see her motion to a waiter. I should hurry. I gulp down the rest of my coffee and walk out before anyone has a chance to close in.

As I make my way to my Prius, I can't stop smiling. I rocked it. Nobody shoots in the Chateau.

When I check my shots, I discover that the first has Katy's eyes shut, the second has camera shake, and the third…is perfect.

I only need one.

* * *

The ensuing follow will be tricky since I'm pretty sure Katy is onto me. A professional perk with iPIX is that the agency offers me “free” staff backup, i.e., they'll loan me a staff guy for an hour or two and my percentage doesn't get cut. Rarely do I need it, but today I'll take it. I call Jimmy.

Meanwhile, I move my car from the street and park across from the Chateau in the lot of a Mexican restaurant. Though it's difficult to watch from this spot, I need to do everything possible to prevent being jumped. Too many paps drive down Sunset every hour and check for their compatriots outside the Chateau. Katy may go somewhere else when she leaves; I don't need stragglers.

Malheureusement
…before my backup arrives, a blacked-out SUV pulls up to the curb directly outside the Chateau. This pap position is a dead giveaway to any celeb, and it's possible for a pap to get an exit shot. But today it's not a shot I'm worried about—it's too far away and too dark of a shot to scoop mine—as far as I'm concerned, the jumper can stay there. The follow, however, is another matter. As much as I don't like to block, preserving both my exclusive and Katy's address is hugely important. I want today's picture to sell for as long as possible, so it's in my best interest that she has few current shots on the market. As well, it's iPIX's address, and the agency deserves to use it alone. The jumper probably got an inside tip, so according to pap protocol, he's legitimately there (versus if he had just seen me, and jumped). In this case, blocking is a bit “rude”; regardless, I worked hard for this shot, and I'm not giving it up easily.

My backup arrives. It's Fitz, a Filipino-American guy in his mid-thirties.
We coordinate positions over the Nextel and I explain to him that I have shots, so my chief concern is “protecting” them and Katy's address. “It's OK if we lose her,” I say. “Just don't let the jumper stay with her.”

I sense right away that Fitz doesn't like being told what to do by a woman. Besides, I'm sure he's annoyed that he's just been
pulled off
his cushy Michael Jackson sit only to block. Fitz is assigned to Michael most days, which usually involves two to four weeks of sitting for every two hours of action.

As a bit of an aside: Fitz is the guy who, in three months, will see an ambulance come to Michael's Beverly Hills home. He will call Jimmy, and Jimmy will commandeer his five staffers from various posts around town to meet at Michael's within the half hour. When the ambulance leaves the estate—and because Jimmy has worked as “Michael's pap” for over ten years and has been a pap for even longer, he has prepared for this moment with thousands of celebrity photos—“opportunity” will cross his path,
and he will be ready.