Sex and Violence in Hollywood (63 page)

By the time Lazar took over, Adam and Horowitz had established that Adam’s relationship with his dad, while not hostile, had been very shallow. Most of their conversations, Adam said, had consisted of Adam talking about one thing and Michael another. Lazar was brutal in his attack. How could Adam expect anyone to believe that such a story got no reaction from Michael Julian? Had he insisted to his father he was telling the truth? Adam said he had tried, but his father was too enthused about the script and how much it could make at the box office to listen. But why didn’t he go to the police? Adam said he was too afraid—they probably would not believe him, either, and he was afraid of what Gwen and Rain would do if they found out. He was still trying to figure the whole thing out when Money Shot blew up on the water.

Lazar went on, grilling Adam like an all-beef patty. He asked about the influence of movies, television, and horror novels on Adam’s life, about Adam’s story, “Father’s Day,” about everything. He changed subjects suddenly, threw dates and times into the air like confetti to confuse Adam, to catch him off-guard. But having been through Rona Horowitz’s witness stand boot camp, Adam stood up well to the attack. He remained calm, sometimes paused to think, even when he knew exactly what he was going to say. Secretly, he was afraid of making a mistake, of using the wrong word at the wrong time. But he kept thinking about Alyssa watching him on television at home, and when he did, his performance went smoothly.

Adam was surprised by the startling similarity between Lazar’s questions and the questions with which Horowitz and her staff had prepared him in the months before the trial. It was almost like following a script.

* * *

In his closing statement, Raymond Lazar appealed to the intelligence of the jury. He asked that they not be fooled by the nonrelated elements that had been brought into the trial by the defense to misdirect and confuse.

“A woman who assumes one identity after another as she murders rich husbands?” he asked. “What has that got to do with this case? A liquor store robbery? What has that got to do with this case? Think about it, ladies and gentlemen. If you are guilty and you have no defense, what is your best course of action? Your only course of action, short of confessing? It would be to confuse you, the jury. To muddy the waters enough so that you might not be able to see that tiny gold nugget of truth on the bottom of the stream. It’s up to you, ladies and gentlemen, to make sure the defense does not succeed in doing that. You are the only twelve people in the world who can clear that water and find that precious nugget of truth.”

Lazar stood before the jury, his face taut, intense. He paused a moment. Took a deep breath.

“This is a murder trial,” he continued. “The defendant is accused of arranging the murder of his father, which ended up killing six people. Gwen Julian is not on trial here. She is a victim!” he shouted. “One of six who are not here today to tell their stories because Adam Julian hired Nathaniel Cunningham to blow up Michael Julian’s yacht. And if you doubt that, consider this.” He pointed at the empty witness stand. “The oath taken by those who sit in that chair is not a guarantee that they will tell the truth. They give their word of honor to tell the truth. But you must carefully consider their honor before deciding to believe them. Nathaniel Cunningham, who just happened to show up the night before the defense presented its case, was a last-minute surprise witness because he was a fugitive! He was running from the law! And he was put on the stand to muddy the waters more. And to defend Adam Julian. That should tell you something right there!”

After the trial, media wags would ridicule Lazar’s closing statement for giving the jurors all the reason they needed to dismiss the testimony of Waldo Cunningham, his key witness.

* * *

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Horowitz said, “this case never should have come to trial. The charges were based entirely on the claims of a child molester. A child pornographer. A drug dealer. A seller of illegal weapons. The prosecution’s case has only one leg to stand on—Waldo Cunningham. And that is a bum leg.”

She stood with her hands on the rail of the jury box, no notes on the lectern, her attention focused completely on the faces of the jurors, as if no one else were in the room. “At the beginning of this trial,” she went on, “I said I would prove that the explosion that killed those six people could have been an accident. Only you know if I have succeeded in doing that. But I remind you again that the defense is not obligated to prove anything. The burden of proof is on the prosecution. It is the duty of the prosecution to prove—beyond all doubt, beyond all question, beyond all further discussion whatsoever—that the defendant is guilty. Once again, only you know if the prosecution has succeeded in doing that.”

Her voice was soothing as she went over the case again, speaking with them, not just to them. Discussing something they had just gone through together, solidifying a shared experience.

Adam was as mesmerized as the jurors and spectators, could not take his eyes off her. He listened to her words as if she were telling a riveting story he had never heard before. But it did not last. His eyelids lowered slowly and he turned away as he realized with disgust, Jeez, she sounds just like Oprah!

What Horowitz had taught Adam over a period of months came naturally to her. Everything she did, everything about her, was meticulously calculated. From her posture to the modulation of her voice, to her hairstyle. She knew how to talk to them as if they were all friends, had known one another well for months, years. She knew exactly what they wanted and gave it to them. And no matter how far from the truth, they lapped it up like thirsty dogs.

Adam thought again. Just like Oprah.

“If you think the prosecution has met its obligation,” Horowitz said, “then you must turn in a verdict of guilty. But before you do that, I must ask you...are you sure? Do you have it all worked out in your head? Have you considered motive? Why would he do it for money? Adam has never been needy. His parents were very successful and wealthy. They worked hard to provide a life for their son in which money would never be a concern. Can you imagine that? Not living from paycheck to paycheck? Having the kind of life in which you never had to worry about juggling the bills, or getting the rent in on time, or going broke at the holidays? It would be wonderful, wouldn’t it?”

Adam had no doubt that, for that moment, those jurors thought Horowitz was one of them, that she too had to worry about money and keeping groceries in the refrigerator. He suspected Rona Horowitz had forgotten long ago what dollar bills looked like.

“That’s the kind of life Adam Julian has always had,” she continued. “If you really believe that, with that kind of life, he would need money so badly he would kill his father and stepmother and four other people for it...well, I’d be interested to hear the reasoning behind that. Or perhaps you believe he hated his father. Was there any evidence to support that? I saw none. This is a young man who had the kind of relationship with his father that millions of other Americans have had, and continue to have, with their fathers. Maybe they didn’t always get along, but what father and son do? Or father and daughter, for that matter? Maybe communication between them wasn’t crystal clear. I remember trying to talk to my parents, even as an adult. I sometimes wished they had subtitles so I could figure out what they were talking about. Am I the only one? Is that such a rare thing? I don’t think so.”

It went on for a long time, but did not feel long at all. Adam was astonished once again by the transformation in Horowitz as she faced the jury. She was softer, gentler. She was warm and feminine and human for the jury. He had thought television softened her, but she did it herself, at will. Adam liked to think it was the real Rona Horowitz shining through. But he knew better.

“What about Gwen Julian?” Horowitz asked the jury. “Mr. Lazar would like you to believe I brought her up simply to confuse you. The truth is, had the police and the FBI been doing their jobs, I would not have had to bring her up. They would have investigated the possibility that the explosion of Money Shot was a botched murder attempt by her, not by Adam Julian. I am not saying that is what happened, but it is a very real possibility. There are many possibilities in this case. Too many to point the finger of guilt at my client without further investigation. As I said, this trial never should have taken place.”

Adam became restless. Glanced at the clock.

“And there’s the other question,” she said. “What if it was just an accident? Until that question is answered, until that doubt is ruled out completely, my client is not guilty. The prosecution did not even approach the possibility that it was an accident. I had to bring it up. As defense counsel, that is not my job. But that is the kind of trial this is, ladies and gentlemen. A quick rush to judgment. Let’s turn a vague, unsubstantiated possibility into a case of murder. Of course, the prosecution doesn’t have to worry about money or paying the tab, either, because you get the bill for this. This is one of the reasons your taxes are so high. This is one of the reasons the courts are so backed up. So we can have trials that get the attorneys on television, and set them up with fat paychecks for lecture tours and books they don’t even write themselves, they have someone ghostwrite them. Riding around in a limousine from talk show to talk show, staying in all the best hotels. I know what it’s like because I do those things. But I am a private attorney. I work for myself, and all those things are part of my profession. I do not represent the people of the state of California. I do not decide how to spend their tax dollars. Whether Mr. Lazar gets the verdict he wants or not, he will get all those things, because he has been involved in a very high-profile trial. He is now a celebrity. He’s not just an attorney anymore. He is now and always will be the attorney who prosecuted the Money Shot Trial. If he wanted to, he could quit his job the day after this trial ends and be assured of a very comfortable life. For that, all he had to do was show up. He did not even have to do a good job! And as far as I’m concerned, ladies and gentlemen, he did not do a good job. I have provided you with far more doubt than he has provided you with evidence that my client, Adam Julian, paid for murder. He could not even prove a murder had taken place, never mind who did it. The prosecution has given you something, however. He has given you no choice but to find my client not guilty. I have faith in you, in your reason, in your wisdom. And I feel in my heart that is the verdict you will deliver. Thank you.”

There was not a sound in the courtroom except Horowitz’s heels against the tile floor. They sounded like firecrackers going off in the silence. She took her seat, put a comforting hand on Adam’s shoulder and whispered into his ear: “It’s all over but the verdict.”

FIFTY-FOUR

That morning, dark clouds
rolled in over Los Angeles. By the time Adam left the courthouse, a cool rain was falling. As Horowitz had instructed, they offered no comment to the reporters as they got into the car.

The backseat of the Lincoln seemed to shrink as Leo drove them away. The ceiling seemed to lower on Adam, the door to shove him up against Horowitz.

She asked, “Are you going to be sick?”

Adam took a few deep breaths. Shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Is that a no?”

“Jesus, I’m off the stand, gimme a break,” Adam said. His lungs began to shrink and he started panting. He sucked in a breath every couple of words as he said, “I-I’m getting dizzy. I think I may be having a stroke.”

“You are hyperventilating, Adam,” Horowitz said, holding her left hand, palm up, out to Lamont, who sat on the other side of her.

Lamont fished around in the inside pocket of his suit coat, removed three small pill bottles. He squinted at the labels from beneath a head of shaggy, mussed hair. His beard, which had to be trimmed two or three times a day, had grown in around splotches of hairless skin. “I’ve got one for depression, one for anxiety, and...and I can’t read this third one. Fuck it.” He stuffed the third one back into his pocket.

“Anxiety,” Horowitz said.

Adam pressed a hand to his frantic chest, tried to calm himself. None of the relaxation exercises Dr. Remini had taught him worked. His lungs only got smaller.

Horowitz pressed a pill into his hand and said, “This is the anti-anxiety drug Dr. Locket prescribed for you. There is a bottle of water attached to the door by your leg.” As Adam took the pill, Horowitz poked and prodded in her purse. Removed a small paper bag with the Tiffany’s logo on it and handed it to Adam. “After you take the pill, put this over your nose and mouth and breathe regularly. I am sure you have seen it done on I Love Lucy.”

Adam breathed into the bag as he replaced the bottle of water on its hook.

“Does everybody who uses the car drink out of the same bottle?” he huffed into the bag.

Lamont rolled his weary eyes. “I can’t believe you could be getting the death penalty today and you’re worried about germs!”

“That will be enough, Lamont,” Horowitz said impatiently. “No one is going to get the death penalty today.”

“I’m not?” Adam asked, pulling his face out of the bag.

“If that happened, we would appeal and you would probably do no more than life.”

“No more than that? Y’think?” He put his face back in the bag.