Crane (42 page)

September 6, my testimony date, came and went, but I wasn’t called to the stand. Weeks went by before I received a call from Strobel. That evening, Chuck and I flew to Phoenix, checking into the downtown Holiday Inn Crowne Plaza. I had not attended any of the proceedings up to that point because I was still busy boxing up Frostbacks. A few days passed as we awaited instructions from Shutts and company. But life was not without its small pleasures, as we had one of the best hamburgers ever one afternoon at the hotel. That evening, Shutts dropped by, explaining
that the next day appeared to be a choice one for me to take the stand. Shutts knew in his heart that Carpenter was guilty, but with a sixteen-year lag between crime and trial, and the lackluster performance by most of the county servants in pursuit of gathering and preserving elements at the crime scene, he also knew that this trial was definitely taking an uphill route.

The next day at noon, I put on my best suit and Chuck and I walked through downtown Phoenix past tall commercial buildings to the Central Court Building on West Jefferson. With the temperature over one hundred degrees, I was a sweaty, nervous mess when I met with Shutts during the court’s lunch break. He was not pleased with what he saw. I had to come off as cool and calm on the stand, not someone reminiscent of Peter Lorre in
M.
Wisely, he delayed my appearance.

Meanwhile, Carpenter’s long-estranged son, John Merrill, described his father as having “had a violent problem in the past and he called it tunnel vision.” Merrill told the silenced courtroom that the “tunnel vision” would occur when his father got into inflamed arguments with other men. “He told me he took karate classes to gain self-control,” said Merrill. (An earlier witness from the Winfield Apartments had testified that Carpenter had told her he was a karate expert and had even demonstrated how to deliver a lethal blow.)

Thomas Jarvis, the medical examiner who performed my dad’s autopsy, said to Shutts and the jury that my dad had died within a minute after being struck by a “rounded blunt instrument.” The electrical cord, in his opinion, didn’t play a role in the death.

Consultant Rod Englert, a homicide investigator from the Multnomah County Sheriff’s Office in Portland, Oregon, testified that the murder weapon was a camera tripod; this was consistent with bloodstains on the bedsheet that formed a V. There were also “hand smear marks” on my dad’s upper back. Englert remarked that the initial blow was dealt with “medium velocity,” and it was the subsequent, harder hit that delivered the blood splatter.

The prosecution also made good on its offer of homemade porno, shot with a video camera atop a tripod, the tripod used to kill the victim. Public defender Avilla objected to the video of buddies Crane and Carpenter having sex with a woman being shown in court because the images would “inflame the passions of the jury,” but the judge allowed it. Shutts attempted to show that the tripod that helped deliver the XXX-rated
pictures costarring Carpenter was the same tripod that accomplished the murderous assault and was then carried away in Carpenter’s rental vehicle to be disposed of.

By the time I took the stand, I could sense that the prosecution’s case had slipped away. I attempted to make eye contact with the jurors who, for the most part, declined, possibly out of either embarrassment or disgust at having just seen my dad, All-American hero Colonel Hogan, father and husband, engaged in low-grade, black-and-white, three-way sex recorded by a video camera possibly attached to the blunt instrument that ended his life. It was autoerotic decadent misbehavior, costarring a fallen television actor, his “best friend,” a woman who didn’t know any better, and presented by the New Technology at its instantaneous best. I sat in the witness chair, looked to my left at Judge Martin, who seemed preoccupied or bored, looked to my right at the middle-American jurors, who looked away, looked straight ahead at prosecutor Shutts, who knew he had a failure on his hands after sixteen years of Scottsdale Police Department fuck-ups. I looked back to my right—the collective look in the jury box was one of wanting to get the hell out of that courtroom and into a long, hot shower. I glanced at public defender Avilla, who had victory in his eyes.

Finally, I stared at video equipment salesperson John Henry Carpenter who, no matter the outcome of the trial, would no longer be Hollywood’s favorite sidekick, the guy who took the modern electric gizmos out of their cardboard boxes in upscale living rooms. We hadn’t spoken since the summer of 1978. He looked at me with dead shark eyes, not allowing himself to feel the connection between the witness and the victim. I felt like Tom Sawyer looking out into the crowded courtroom at Injun Joe. My main bit of testimony was supposed to drive home to the jurors that my dad had grown tired of his relationship with the defendant and that he was making changes in his life (“seeing orange for the first time”) that would affect Carpenter. I don’t know if it made any impression at all.

Prosecutor Shutts made his closing arguments to the jury on October 26. He reinforced that there had been no break-in to the apartment and that Carpenter had easy access to the crime scene. He reiterated that my dad wanted to end their friendship and that Carpenter retaliated with two blows to his friend’s head with a camera tripod that was now missing but that had left a blood trail to Carpenter’s rental car. “John Carpenter needs
to be told that you don’t kill your friends even if you’re told that they don’t want you hanging around,” said Shutts.

Public defender Avilla faced the jury and said that the state of Arizona had “failed to prove its case,” berating the prosecution’s lack of hard evidence—like a murder weapon, for example (“the tripod theory is absurd,” said Avilla, citing the opinion of a forensics expert who favored a tire iron or crowbar)— and accusing the prosecution of hiding behind “sex, sex, sex,” referring to the videotape shown in the courtroom. “There are two things sex can’t replace,” explained Avilla. “One is chocolate, the other is hard evidence.”

So ended the eight-week trial. The jury spent two and a half days deliberating and returned to the courtroom on October 31. The jury foreman, Marine sergeant Michael Lake, referring to the “speck,” the dark mass on the Department of Public Safety’s lost and found photographs, later explained to the media, “Nobody knows what it was, not even the doctors. … There wasn’t any proof. You can’t prove someone guilty on speculation.” The verdict was “not guilty.” Happy Halloween.

John Carpenter was, naturally, elated. As his wife, Diana, sobbed, “It’s over, it’s over” to the press, he proclaimed, “My life is back together again after sixteen years.”

That’s more than I could say for my dad. Carpenter outlived him by twenty years, dying of a heart attack on September 4, 1998.

41

Much to my surprise, Rose Candy kept me on through 1994, breaking down the Frostbacks offices, packing up and sorting the paperwork. The bar went to a restaurant on Navy Pier in Chicago, and the sound studio was donated to UCLA’s communication department. I sent out eight-by-ten photographs of John without autographs to fans whose requests arrived too late for a signature, and I hosted several of John’s friends and colleagues on a final walkabout through his workspace. The hours, days, months, and years of John’s life and creative output were reflected in the photographs, movie posters, jukebox, bank of chairs from the demolished Comiskey Park in Chicago, boxes of hats, jackets, T-shirts, “Valkenvania” (
N othing but Trouble
) police badges,
Uncle Buck
and
Only the Lonely
duffel bags, theater lobby displays, videocassettes, and laser discs, now lined up in neat rows for transfer and storage in a cool, dark, quiet, unfriendly location. John’s road trip was over—from ninety miles an hour to zero in an instant.

My relatively brief tour of duty as a publicist for John Candy came to an unceremonious end. I had come to disdain publicists. The film and television industries were changing rapidly, and I couldn’t care less about playing the role of protector of and buffer for most working actors and actresses. Dealing with Jim Belushi? No thanks. Watching over Bonnie Hunt? Who cares? My heroes were spoken for: Jack Nicholson had had the same publicist for years; Marlon Brando didn’t want one. I would have derived more pleasure taking care of writers, directors, and producers, but for the most part, their needs didn’t include handholders. Besides, Stanley Kubrick wasn’t looking for help.

After conducting several interviews with Candy cronies for an A&E
Biography
on John for executive producers Andrew Alexander and Rose Candy, I was out of work. Although I never thought I would say this, I missed freelancing. I missed mining information from the
interview subject. I missed editing. I missed John Rezek and
Playboy
magazine.

I hadn’t spoken with Rezek in a few years, and phoning him I felt as if I were making that cold call to him back in 1976 when he was an editor at
Oui
magazine. This time around, though, was a lot less stressful. I brought him up to speed on what was happening in my life. He updated me on his second wife and kids. We shared a few laughs. I pitched names. He gave me an assignment. Ex–studio head, now independent producer, Hollywood legend in her own time: Dawn Steel. I was back in Rezek’s club.

42

A year had passed, but my house still radiated Kari. Her spirit imbued the interior and exterior design, creating an aura unwelcoming to the few female visitors who dared cross her threshold. Kari’s essence, her scent, permeated, intimidated, and spooked them all. Diane Haas, rock manager Lori Otelsberg, and actress Christopher Templeton never came over more than once. I had visions of having to tear down the structure and install Astroturf in the yard before I could go on with the rest of my life. That all changed one morning when I was anchored in my dentist’s chair.

I had known Dr. Jeri Munn for many years. Kari had designed a landscape plan for her and her husband, Tom, also a dentist. Together they shared their kids, laughter, good times, love, and their dental practice. When my longtime dentist retired, Kari had sent me to Jeri. I trusted Dr. Munn with my mouth and my life. The Munns had watched helplessly as their friend Kari went through the ravages of cancer.

Now, Jeri was working on a nasty cavity in my molar. “How is the world at large? Working?” she asked.

My mouth was numb, a suction tube in one corner and a high-powered drill at the other. This was not a Q&A moment. I touched my thumb and two fingers together and raised the other two on my right hand.

“Animal?”

I wiggled the two raised fingers.

“Bird? Bunny! You’re writing for
Playboy
again,” deduced Jeri. “Are you dating?”

I held up two fingers.

“You’ve gone out on two dates? Anyone promising?”

I carefully shook my head minimally. I didn’t want any accidents.

“I may have someone for you to go out with if you’re up to it.”

I gave Dr. Jeri a thumbs-up.

“Let me talk to this person, and I will call you back and let you know what it looks like,” said Jeri.

I smiled, looking like Jaws, the villain from the James Bond movie.

Dr. Munn stopped drilling for a moment and stared at my well-worn Nikes. “In the meantime, you have to get some new shoes and try to look a little better.”

I could feel my face flush with embarrassment. Jeri was right. I had to get my act together and face the real world. If I hadn’t had a dozen implements in my mouth I would have asked when she branched out into fashion advice.

When Jeri called a few days later, I sensed her excitement over the phone. I could imagine the matchmaker song from
Fiddler on the Roof
playing somewhere in the background. I was secretly hoping Jeri was going to tell me that she and Tom had broken up and announce her own availability. Every man who met Jeri fell in love with her. But no. “Her name is Leslie Bertram and she works in television and is interested in talking to you,” said Jeri, her smile beaming through the landline. She gave me Leslie’s telephone number. I thanked her and promised to call back with the play-by-play.

The cold phone call. I had made so many of these frosty outreaches over the years it was becoming second nature, but I still thought of Dave Fryer, Chris, Chuck, my dad—all doing their spiel. Like my dad, I was going to be selling myself. I worked up the nerve and made the call. What was there to lose? Besides my trusty old Nikes, nothing at all.

Leslie picked up the phone after a few rings. I heard a barking dog and a young girl’s voice in the background. Leslie seemed a little distracted by the raucous Jack, her German shepherd, and five-year-old Meagan, her daughter. Leslie mentioned she was working two jobs as, for lack of a better title, a switcher, on the popular television series
Murphy Brown
and
The Drew Carey Show.
Both shows were filmed in front of audiences with multiple cameras, and Leslie selected the shots that were shown on the overhead monitors in the studio. She was basically editing the episode for the editor. I was impressed.

When I called, Leslie was in the middle of prepping dinner for herself and Meagan, so we decided to continue the conversation the following day during her break on stage. I smiled as I hung up the phone. Dogs, children, a sweet voice—no cancer, no death. These were new lives and there was hope for a future.

I waited for Leslie’s phone call with great anticipation. I was hoping that Leslie might be the one to take me by the hand and pull this wooly mammoth from the tar pit I had allowed myself to be mired in since the deaths of Kari and John and the reliving of my dad’s death through the John Carpenter trial. Where were the fields of poppies? Maybe Leslie knew.

I allowed the phone to ring a few times before I picked up. It was Leslie, on a dinner break from the
Murphy Brown
stage at Warner Brothers. She explained that she worked the Candice Bergen series on Mondays and Tuesdays and Drew Carey on Thursdays and Fridays. Wednesday was her day off. “I hear you’re in the business,” Leslie said innocently.