Butterfly (12 page)

48

Kathryn Harvey

“I don’t want clothes, Danny!” she cried, tears streaming down her cheeks. “All I want

is you!”

“Well, I don’t want you, not if you’re going to be a selfish bitch!” He pushed her away

and turned his back on her.

“Danny!” she screamed. “Don’t leave me! I can’t live without you!”

“Make up your mind, honey,” Hazel said quietly. “You ain’t got but one choice. You

let your man down, and he walks outa your life.”

Rachel gaped at her. She hiccuped and choked back the sobs. Her chest heaved; she

ran her hand under her runny nose. For a moment, Rachel looked far younger than four-

teen. She looked like a little girl.

When Hazel suddenly nodded in satisfaction, as if something had pleased her, Rachel

ran to Danny, flung her arms around him and sobbed against his rigid back. “Don’t leave

me!” she cried. “I’ll do anything you say, Danny! Just don’t leave me!”

He turned around, smiling. “That’s my baby,” he said. He took her in his arms and

kissed her. Then he said, “I know it’s hard for you, in a new town and all. So I tell you

what. I’ll come back on Tuesday and take you to see the Alamo. Would you like that?”

She nodded and clung to him.

“Okay, I gotta go now. Me and Bonner have something on. Hazel here will take care

of you.”

“But Danny…” Rachel whispered. “With…with
other men?”

He touched the end of her nose. “I’ll tell you a secret. The easiest way to get through

it is to close your eyes and pretend it’s me doing it to you. Will you remember that?”

Rachel stared up into his compelling gaze, into those lazy, deceptive eyes that seemed

to have some sort of power over her, and she felt herself nod.

“I’ll see you Tuesday. We’ll make a special day of it, just you and me. We’ll go into

Little Laredo and we’ll eat the best tortillas and beans you’ve ever tasted. How’s ’at?”

He kissed her again and left.

Rachel was aware of little of what happened next. A young Mexican girl named

Carmelita appeared and took Rachel upstairs, explaining that they were to be roommates.

She showed Rachel the bathroom and showed her how to insert the sponge that Hazel

demanded all her girls wear, and then she was left alone.

The knock on the door, a few minutes later, was so discreet that it sounded ludicrously

out of place here, even to Rachel. She heard herself say, “Come in,” and stared at the man

who shyly entered.

He gave her a nervous smile and began automatically to take his clothes off. When he

was naked (years later she would still recall those spindly legs, the limp penis), he said,

“Don’t you want to get undressed?”

Rachel moved in a dreamlike way. The blouse and pedal pushers, the cotton under-

wear, torn in places. Then she remembered what Danny had told her. She lay back, stared

up at the ceiling, and opened her legs.

The customer was considerate enough to turn out the light, and then she felt the bed

dip.

She closed her eyes. A tear tumbled to her pillow.
Danny,
her heart cried.
Danny…

7

When the judge said, “I find for the defendant, Mickey Shannon,” the plaintiff shot

from his chair and shouted, “You won’t get away with this, you little shit!”

And all hell broke loose in the courtroom.

Mickey Shannon, the famous rock star, was angry and coiled to spring. But Jessica

Franklin laid a hand on his arm, keeping him seated. She kept him in his chair while the

judge banged his gavel for order in the court. Then, making sure the hotheaded young

Mickey wasn’t going to jump up and go for the guy who had just called him a shit, Jessica

rose and, in the midst of the pandemonium, called out in a voice that rang over the

crowded courtroom: “Your Honor, I request an immediate restraining order, keeping Mr.

Walker away from my client.”

The plaintiff ’s counsel stood up and shouted, “Your Honor, I object!”

The photographers and reporters jammed into the courtroom were having a field day.

This was one of those delicious celebrity trials that made for sensational headlines. But while

internal dissension seemed to be breaking up the plaintiff’s team—with lawyer and client

locked in murmured but heated argument—Jessica Franklin had her side under control.

Which was a miracle, considering what a quick temper everyone knew Mickey Shannon had.

She had learned to control him, in their seven years as attorney and client. Mickey had

been a struggling unknown actor when Jessica, fresh out of law school, had hung out her

shingle on the Sunset Strip. He had come through her door, a humble and confused

young man who had been shafted by an unscrupulous screen agent. She had succeeded in

getting Mickey’s money back from the agent, and since then she had advised him through

contracts and salary disputes, had stayed by him when he couldn’t pay her, and had ulti-

mately given him the introduction that had led him, finally, to stardom. When his songs

hit the charts and Mickey achieved almost overnight fame, he had not left Jessica for one

of the glitzy, hotshot firms over in Century City, where all the big stars had their agents

and attorneys. Mickey Shannon was steadfastly loyal to the struggling young lawyer who

had taken him on when no one else in Hollywood would give him the time of day. And

now, on this crisp January morning, he was reaping the rewards of that loyalty.

When Les Walker, notorious photographer of celebrities, had hounded Mickey just

once too often, provoking Mickey into ripping the camera out of his hands and smashing

it on the sidewalk, the film pulled out and exposed, Walker had sued the rock star for

interference with his livelihood and for damages to replace his equipment. Walker was

also asking for five million dollars in punitive damages.

Mickey, frantic, had gone to Jessica, and she had calmly told him there was nothing to

worry about. They were going to countersue. She had then gone on to defend her client

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Kathryn Harvey

successfully in a crowded courtroom, using for his defense a dramatic rendition of the

excesses to which the photographer had gone—following Mickey Shannon dangerously

close on the freeway, blocking his parked car, maliciously hounding him every minute of

the day—so that Mickey was now demanding restitution for the mental anguish caused

by the hazardous situations the photographer had placed him in.

And the judge had found in
his
favor.

When the commotion died down and the courtroom was quiet, the judge issued a

temporary restraining order against Mr. Walker and set a calendar date for a hearing to

determine why it should not, in fact, be a
permanent
restraining order. Mickey Shannon,

handsome rock idol of millions of girls, threw his arms around his attorney and planted a

kiss right on her mouth.

They had won.

Out on the courtroom steps, Jessica and her client were immediately surrounded by

reporters and TV cameras and crews. She made a rather flamboyant statement, her face

glowing with victory, her voice strong and triumphant, while the people from the press

made note of the fact that Jessica Franklin, Mickey Shannon’s “powerhouse attorney, a

dynamo in the courtroom, petite and feminine, was conservatively dressed in a tailored

suit with a briefcase that matched her handbag and shoes…”

Jessica would have liked to join the celebration luncheon at Spago, but her schedule

was too full. Picking up her husband at the airport was top priority, and after that, back

to the office to do some dictation, then a much needed visit with her best friend, Trudie.

It was upon this last that Jessica now settled her thoughts as she sped along the San

Diego Freeway in her commodore-blue Fleetwood Cadillac. Trudie, who had something

mysterious to tell her. Something about a butterfly. “You absolutely
must
work me into

your schedule somehow!” Trudie had said on the phone last night. She had spoken

breathlessly, with barely contained excitement. “I want to tell you about Butterfly. You

just won’t believe it!”

And that was all. Typical of Trudie, to be so theatrical and secretive. To lend drama to

what was probably going to turn out to be a very mundane item. But that was one of the

things Jessica loved about Trudie—the way she exaggerated, the way she injected so much

life
into things. Trudie’s passion for living had been responsible for saving Jessica’s life

years ago. It was part of what bound the two women so closely together.

To Jessica’s dismay, she arrived late at the airport. John was already at the baggage

carousel, claiming his suitcases. He greeted her with “Hello, darling” and a kiss on the

cheek.

John Franklin was a good-looking man. Appearing to be older than forty because of

his salt-and-pepper hair, he kept himself in shape by running five miles a day and play-

ing handball three times a week. Brooks Brothers dressed him in three-piece executive

suits, and his natural arrogant bearing made people take notice of him. On the flight

from Rome, Jessica had no doubt he had received special attention from the first-class

stewardesses.

When they stepped out of the terminal, he paused to squint and say, “Smoggy again as

usual, I see.”

BUTTERFLY

51

Jessica had thought it was a lovely day, but she didn’t say anything.

“Why are you late? I told you last night what time my flight was coming in.”

“I was in court. The Mickey Shannon case…” Her voice trailed off.

John Franklin didn’t look at his wife. When the crosswalk light turned green, he strode

across without looking right or left. She hurried along at his side. He had that frown on

his face, a deep etching of his features that he had perfected over years of sitting at the

head of a conference table. Today the look indicated his disapproval of her career. Mickey

Shannon, according to John Franklin, was a snot-nosed, drug-using punk who was

beneath people like the Franklins. And certainly not worthy client material for Jessica.

When they reached the car in the parking structure, he said, “Why did you come in

the Cadillac?”

Jessica didn’t know what to say. She should have thought of it that morning before she

left the house. But she had had the trial on her mind. John hated her car. While to her it

was grand and a symbol of her years of struggle and achievement to make it as a lawyer in

the entertainment industry, John thought it merely gaudy. “You know I prefer to ride in

the BMW,” he said.

“I didn’t have time to go home. I came straight from the courthouse.”

He got in the passenger seat and turned on the air conditioner, even though the day

was wintry-cool.

“How was the trip?” Jessica asked, feeling nervous as she maneuvered the huge car out

of a too-narrow space. When she drove alone or with Trudie, it seemed to Jessica that she

could run the Cadillac through slalom courses. But with her husband’s silent judgment

hanging in the air, Jessica was suddenly incapable of driving. “Was it a success?”

He sighed and undid the buttons of his vest. “I kicked Frederickson out and put a new

man in charge of operations. We’ll see results almost instantly.” He smiled dryly. “The

man I replaced him with I stole from Telecomm.”

Jessica drove for a while in silence, trying for but missing the on-ramp onto the San

Diego Freeway North, and having to go around again, while her husband sat at her side

saying nothing.

Once they were underway and in the flow of traffic, John finally said, “So what hap-

pened with the Shannon case?”

Jessica gripped the steering wheel. She was still feeling the effects of that morning’s

heady excitement. The thrill of
victory.
“We won.”

“Good. Let’s hope the little bastard pays the fee he owes you. And speaking of which,

did you do what I asked about the gardener?”

Jessica bit her lip. She had forgotten. She had been too busy with the trial to remem-

ber to withhold paying the gardener’s bill until he paid for the repair of the sprinkler he

insisted he had not broken.

“John,” she said tentatively. She had something to tell him. She hated to do it, but it

was better that he was forewarned. “About the Shannon trial.”