Scandal Sheet aka Hollywood Scandals

my lifetime, I’m not even really sure what my natural color is anymore.

I grabbed Strawberry Shortcake and made my way inside, the cool air-conditioning a sharp contrast to the heat outside. Even in fall, the temp in So. Cal never goes much below seventy, and this week we seemed to be hitting Indian summer in spades. After sending my purse through the conveyor belt and stepping through a pair of metal detectors, I made my way up to the second floor where Pines was scheduled to be arraigned.

A towering blonde in jeans and sneakers, holding a big, black Nikon, leaned against the drinking fountain outside the room.

“Hey, Tina,” she said, raising a hand in greeting.

“I see Felix gave you late shift, too, huh?” I said, gesturing to her camera.

She nodded. “Caught me in the middle of the dinner rush at Mr. Chow. And Britney had reservations today, too.”

Cameron Dakota was the Informer’s only full-time photographer. Most of the time Felix found it cheaper to pay freelancers by the picture, but Cameron had a knack for not only capturing celebs with their pants down (literally, if she was lucky) but also providing clear, quality shots that kept readers coming back time and time again to the Informer’s pages. And, oddly enough, she actually seemed to enjoy being stuck on Brit watch. Personally, if I had to follow Hollywood half-wits to Starbucks every day, I’d shoot myself.

Lucky for me, I only had to cover them in court.

“Pines in there yet?” I asked, gesturing to the large oak doors.

Cam shook her head, long blonde hair whipping at her cheeks. “He’s up next. Right now he’s in the room next door with his lawyers. No cameras allowed in the courtroom, so I’m waiting for a walk-of-shame shot.” She gave me a wink.

“Go get ’em, tiger.”

I pushed through the doors and slipped into the back of the courtroom.

Contrary to the world of L.A. Law, there was nothing glamorous, sexy, or exciting about sitting in L.A. County Court. The rooms were squat, square boxes filled with metal-framed tables, hard wooden chairs, and depressingly beige walls. Think DMV decor. Only worse. Since this was only an arraignment, no jury was present, just a bunch of people sitting in the gallery, family members who’d likely be putting up bail for the various guys in orange jumpsuits being paraded through the room. Currently up was a guy with earrings the size of nickels stuck in his ears, apparently pleading no contest to a drug possession charge.

Yawn.

I shifted in my seat, pulling my digital recorder from my back pocket as they let Mr. Meth out the side, telling a skinny brunette with tattoos that she could post his fifty-thousand dollar bail downstairs.

But I sat up straighter as the side door opened and the next defendant shuffled in.

Edward Pines was in his fifties, though he looked about seventy-five today. Apparently jail did not agree with the man. Dark circles ringed his eyes, his jowly features softer and flabbier than the last photo Cam had snapped for our front page. He walked with his head down, as if already playing contrite despite the absence of jurors. Beside him stood his attorney-tall, pressed suit, pasty complexion. I didn’t recognize him, but that wasn’t surprising. High-profile pedophiles didn’t make legal careers.

“Mr. Pines, you’ve been charged with possession of child pornography,” the judge boomed from his bench. “How do you plead?”

The pasty attorney took his cue. “The defendant pleads not guilty, Your Honor.”

I raised an eyebrow. Pines had been caught redhanded by the police. I wondered just how his attorney planned to tap dance out of that.

“Very well. Prosecution on bail?” The judge turned to the pencil-thin district attorney, who, with the exception of his slight height, could have been a carbon copy of the pasty defense attorney. Didn’t any of these guys ever see the sun?

“Your Honor, the People request bail be set at ten million dollars.”

“Sonofa-” I sucked in a breath and heard a round of gasps ripple through the courtroom at the exorbitant amount.

Pines might have been a public figure and a creep, but it wasn’t like he’d killed anyone. Even murder charges rarely topped a million in bail. I leaned forward in my seat. This was about to get juicy-I could feel it.

“Your Honor, that’s outrageous,” the defense attorney argued. His cheeks actually showed some color now. “My client is an upstanding member of society, highly regarded by his peers. He has deep ties to the community, and, quite frankly, I feel the D.A.’s bail request is ludicrously out of proportion to the crime at hand.”

The judge raised his bushy eyebrows. “You think child pornography isn’t a big deal, counselor?”

“Of course it is, Your Honor,” he quickly backpedaled. “But the D.A.’s request is…severe,” he finished, this time choosing his words more carefully.

Severe. Good way of putting it. I made a mental note to use that word in my copy.

“Mr. Atwood?” the judge asked, addressing the D.A.

“Your Honor, the defendant has considerable means, dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada. He is a flight risk. And,” he said, shooting Pines a withering look, “considering the defendant is a director with access to all manner of photographic equipment, we feel it is our duty to protect the children of the community by requesting ten million in bail.”

“That’s insane, Your Honor,” defense argued. “My client is being persecuted by the D.A. because of his fame.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the judge said, holding up his hands.

The entire courtroom, myself included, went silent, holding our collective breath as the judge chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze going from one attorney to the other. No doubt wondering just how this would play out in the press.

Finally he seemed to come to some conclusion.

“Mr. Pines, if you think celebrity is an excuse for immoral behavior, you’ll be sorely disappointed in my courtroom. Bail is set at ten million dollars.”

I let out a low whistle as the judge banged his gavel. The D.A. gave a triumphant lift of his chin, almost exactly proportionate to the slump in Pines’s shoulders as the bailiff accompanied him out of the room.

I slipped my recorder back in my pocket. An interesting development indeed. Whether Pines actually had ten mil in change for bail or not, I had no idea. But a Hollywood director stuck in jail for days? This was almost as good as Paris Watch ‘08. What do you want to bet he’d be claiming mental anguish in under a week?

I mentally rubbed my hands together with glee as I slipped back out the door to find Cam waiting for me. After all, one pedophile director’s mental anguish meant front-page coverage for yours truly.

God, I loved Hollywood.

Chapter Two

After the arraignment, Cam and I hit the Del Taco on Santa Monica. I got my steaming hot burrito, ordering a second to go just in case, and Cam did a taco salad before we parted ways-her to camp out on Sunset for the evening club crowd and me to home.

Which, for me, was South Pasadena, a sleepy little suburb wedged between Glendale and the San Gabriel Valley. Wide streets, palms on every corner, and strip malls with Trader Joe’s and Pier One at all the intersections. Pretty typical American every-suburb, except for the fact that Nicole Richie lived just over the freeway.

I pulled my Rebel off the 2, roaring to a stop at the front entrance to the Palm Grove community, and cut the motor. I hopped off the bike, walking it silently through the wrought-iron gates into the complex. The residents didn’t exactly appreciate the sound of my twin engines as much as I did. Mostly because they were all eighty. Yep, I lived in a retirement community.

When my great-uncle Sal finally cashed in his chips, Aunt Sue traded in her four-bedroom in Long Beach for a cute little condo in Palm Grove. Lucky for me, that was right about the time the lease had expired on my apartment across town, and I’d needed a place to hang my hat for a few weeks.