Sweetie's Diamonds (6 page)

“Anyway, Steve agrees with me.
 
He always felt that you were kind of distant and guarded.”

“I don't give a damn what Steve thinks.
 
He doesn't know me.”

“That's precisely the point, Diane!
 
He
didn't
know you, and yet he knew you for six years!
 
The same is true for me, Diane.
 
I don't think I ever
knew
you.”

“I'm hanging up now, Greg.
 
I'm really tired.”

Greg paused for a second and then replied, “Fine.
 
I'll pick David up around noon.”

“See you then.”

“Get some rest.
 
Good night.”

“Bye.”

She hung up and finished the glass of wine.
 
It was doing the trick, but the phone call had unnerved her some more.
 

Diane glanced at the box of clippings on the floor.
 
It was too late to do anything with them now.
 
She told herself that she would destroy them the next day while David was at the ballgame.

T
onight is the first night in our new apartment.
 
It's pretty weird being here.
 
I grew up in the old house.
 
I'll miss it.
 
My room here isn't complete yet.
 
I still have to put away all my stuff and put my posters on the walls.
 
It won't feel like home until I do.
 
I guess this is normal when someone moves to a new place.
 

I've been reading “The Catcher in the Rye” and I identify with the main character.
 
I don't think I'm as angry as he is, but I think he's lonely and I am too a lot of the time.
 
My English teacher thought the book might be too adult for me but I told her it wasn't.
 
I've read lots of books that are “adult.”
 
I don't see what the big deal is.

Sometimes I feel very alone.
 
I have no brothers or sisters (which might be a good thing!) but I have no cousins to speak of either.
 
I
have
cousins, but they're a lot older than I am.
  
My aunt and uncle (my Dad's older sister) had two kids but they're in college.
 
I never see them.
 
I think I wrote before that my best friend is Billy Davis.
 
There's no one else, really.
 
I'm too much of a geek to have many friends.
 
Mom says that will pass as I get older.
 
If I live long enough.

It's weird to think that my grandfather had Marfan syndrome and that he died from it.
 
Things are different today, though.
 
My doctor is confident that I won't die as long as I take it easy until I can have that heart operation.
 
He figures by the time I'm out of high school I'll be able to have it.
 

Mom seems pretty distracted lately.
 
Tonight I was asking her about her life before she got married to Dad, like I sometimes do, and she went all zombie-like again on me.
 
I mean she sort of stares ahead with this blank look.
 
I think memories are painful to her and she doesn't like to think about them.
 
I wonder what it was that happened to her.
 
Maybe someday she'll tell me.

I found a box full of newspaper clippings tonight when we were unpacking.
 
I'd never seen them before.
 
Mom acted real strange when I found them.
 
She looked like she was afraid of them or something.
 
She says she's going to throw them away.
 
I sure would like to find out what's on them before she does.
 

Tomorrow I'm going to see the Cubs with my Dad.
 
That'll be fun.
 

Time for bed.

T
he judge had told the jurors that they were to remain sequestered throughout the weekend and then asked if they thought a verdict might be reached if they continued deliberations through Saturday.
 
The jurors unanimously voted to keep working with the hope that they could go home before midnight and still have half the weekend to be with their families.
 
It had been a long trial and they had been deliberating for three full days.
 

When the news got out at nine o'clock that the jury had reached a verdict, nearly all of the major television and newspaper journalists in Los Angeles swarmed the courthouse.
 
The case had been well publicized, even though the man accused of the numerous crimes had hardly been a household name before the trial.
 
Now the name of Aaron Valentine had joined the ranks of LA's notorious and infamous.
 

Darren Marshall paid for a cup of coffee and ran out of the Starbucks to join the throng of other reporters filing up the steps and into the building.
 
He had gone through the metal detectors many times over the past few weeks and now knew the security guards by name.

“Howzit goin', Sam?” he asked the sergeant in charge of the detail.
 

Sam grunted and wiped the sweat off his thick, black brow.
 
“I'm hopin' this is it, Mister Marshall.
 
Maybe we can all go home in an hour.”

“Yeah, go home is right.
 
Then I'll have to stay up all night writing my story.”

“You best hurry.
 
The courtroom's almost full.”

“Thanks, Sam.”

Clear of security, Marshall walked briskly down the hall and decided to forego the elevator and take the stairs.
 
The courtroom was not a standing-room-only venue.
 
If you were late, you were late.
 
Tough luck.
 
Marshall reflected that his boss at the
Weekly
would not take too kindly to that.
 
If it were up to Brandon Mertz, City News Editor, then yellow journalists like Darren Marshall would
sleep
outside the courtroom in order to get a seat.

The ironic thing about it was that Marshall knew that he probably
would
sleep outside the courtroom if he had to.
 
His colleagues described him as overly ambitious and something of an asshole.
 
That he would do anything to get ahead.
 
At twenty-eight years old, Darren Marshall was already the
Weekly
's star reporter, but he wanted more.
 
He figured that if he conquered the
Weekly
, then he could move to the
Times
with ease.
 
Unfortunately, the
Times
didn't publish the types of stories Marshall was best at writing.
 
He went for the scandals, the sleaze, the controversial, and the weird.
 
He hadn't cut his teeth at the
National Enquirer
for nothing.
 
Tabloid journalism was ingrained in him and he couldn't help it.
 
Besides, it was
fun
.
 
Writing about addicted celebrities or mass murderers sure beat the hell out of writing about stocks and bonds or the latest traffic snarl.

For years Marshall thought he wanted to be a psychiatrist.
 
The human mind fascinated him and he loved reading about the cases of Freud and other pioneers in the field.
 
He especially enjoyed studying criminal psychology and learning everything he could about what made psychopaths tick.
 
He liked to annoy his friends, and sometimes girlfriends, by performing amateur psychoanalysis on them.
 
He had actually gone to college to study the field but dropped out after two years, mainly because he was too lazy to go the distance.
 
He ended up relegating the practice to a harmless hobby.
 
Falling into tabloid journalism seemed to Marshall to be the next logical step and he loved it.

The only rotten thing about being a journalist was the hours that he had to keep.
 
This was a constant bone of contention between him and Ellie, his girlfriend for three months.
 
She worked as a waitress at Mel's Diner on Sunset, so she had predictable hours.
 
Ellie often complained that Marshall was always out chasing a story.
 
She figured that at the rate their relationship was going she might as well become a nun.

Marshall laughed to himself at the thought of that image.
 
Ellie had pink hair, several tattoos, and a pierced nose.
 
She'd look
wonderful
in a habit.

He made it to the courtroom just in time and was able to claim a seat in the back.
 
Valentine and his lawyer were already seated, as were the DA and his various assistants.
 
Within minutes, the doors were closed and two court officers stood guard.
 

A large reporter whom Marshall recognized as being from one of the LA tabloids was sitting next to him.
 
“I can't understand why Valentine attracted this much attention,” he said to Marshall.
 
“It's not a sensational case.”

“We made it sensational,” Marshall whispered.
 
“Tell the public that something is sensational, and it's sensational.
 
Besides, he's one of those rich pornographers.”

“I guess.”

The bailiff called the court to order and told those present to rise.
 
Judge Goodner walked in and took his place on the bench.
 
He acknowledged that everyone was present and then asked the bailiff to bring in the jury.

The twelve men and women filed in and took their places.
 
Marshall always tried to read the expressions on their faces and second-guess what the verdict was going to be.
 
He was never right.
 
This time, though, he figured that Valentine would get off.
 
The prosecution had a weak case and Valentine had mob connections.
 
He
was
the mob, as far as Marshall was concerned.

Aaron Valentine sat calmly and eyed the jurors.
 
He didn't appear nervous at all.
 
In fact, at one point he leaned over to his lawyer, whispered something, and snickered.
 
At sixty-three, Valentine cut a large and imposing figure.
 
His white, bushy moptop made him look as if he were the world's oldest Beatles fan and he continually dressed in out-of-fashion 70s gear.
 
The gold chains and silk shirts the man wore were blatantly kitsch symbols of sexual power.
 
The man had money, he had a lucrative but controversial business, he threw extravagant Hollywood parties, and he had charisma.
 
Those things went a long way, even in the American justice system.

“Has the jury reached a verdict?” the judge asked.

“We have, your honor.”

The sacred piece of paper was passed to the judge, who glanced at it without expression, and handed it over.
 
The bailiff took it and read the charges and looked to the foreman for the corresponding verdicts.
 
Marshall scribbled them quickly into his notebook as they were called out.

On the charge of racketeering… not guilty.
 

Pandering… not guilty.

Drug trafficking…not guilty.

Contributing to the delinquency of a minor (which really meant “employing underage girls in pornographic films”)… not guilty.

Distributing obscene materials… not guilty.

When the last one was called out, Valentine raised both fists in victory.
 
His lawyer audibly expressed his joy, while the folks at the other table sighed and glared at the defendant.
 

“I'd like to poll the jury, your honor,” the DA said.

Standard operating procedure.
 
Marshall listened as each juror repeated the verdicts for the benefit of the prosecution.
 
There was no indication that Valentine's organization had tampered with the jury, although Marshall would have bet on it.
 
The prosecution's case was not the best, but someone like Valentine would have made sure that he wouldn't be spending the remaining years of his life in prison.
 
He had an empire to run.