Standing On Top

Chapter 10a

"What happened?" Helen asked when Jake finally hung up the phone. She, Greg, and Celia had all heard enough of his end of the conversation to gleam that Matt was in jail and in a lot of trouble.

"Pauline doesn't know very much right now," Jake said. "There was apparently some sort of car chase that led to a melee at Matt's house in San Juan Capistrano. He's in the Orange County jail, charged with assault on a peace officer, resisting arrest, possession of cocaine, DUI, and a variety of vehicular related charges like reckless driving and evading a peace officer."

"Oh my God," Helen said, shaking her head.

"Kim was arrested too," Jake said. "She's charged with assaulting a peace officer and resisting arrest. She was able to post bail so she should be out in an hour or so. They're not giving Matt bail until he goes before a judge on Monday morning. He'll have to spend the weekend locked up."

"That's awful," Celia said. "Not very surprising, but awful."

"I trust he has a lawyer working on this," Greg said.

"I'm sure that National will set him up with one of the best defense attorneys available," Jake said. "They won't want this to affect the tour."

"Imagine," Greg said with horror. "Having to spend two days in a jail... with common criminals! How demeaning."

"Are you going to have to go back to LA tonight?" Celia asked.

"We can't," Jake said. "We were both drinking on the golf course so neither one of us can fly until tomorrow morning. Besides, there's not a lot we're going to be able to do tonight anyway."

"We'll have to leave in the morning, though?" Helen asked.

"Yeah," Jake said. "At first light." He turned to Celia and Greg. "Sorry, we won't be able to play golf tomorrow."

"Understandable," Celia said.

"Though it is a pity," Greg added. "I was planning to win back my six grand."

Dinner that night was excellent, but somewhat subdued. Afterward, they had a few after-dinner drinks out on the deck. Greg produced Cuban cigars for Jake and himself. When they lit up, Celia suggested that she and Helen go back inside and drink a little more wine while the boys did their male bonding thing.

"I like the way you think, Celia," Helen agreed. She gave Jake a quick kiss on the cheek, wrinkled her nose at the cigar smell, and followed Celia into the house.

Jake and Greg talked of inconsequential things for a few minutes. They discussed Matt's troubles and the past legal scrapes that the members of the band had been involved in. Greg was particularly shocked about the incident in Texarkana, Texas on their first tour.

"They beat him with a telephone book?" he asked, eyes wide.

"They put a football helmet on him first," Jake said. "That way when they whopped the shit out of his head with the phone book, it didn't leave a mark."

"And he didn't sue for police brutality?" Greg asked.

"I think he was happy enough just to be out of there," Jake said. "I know I was."

"That's reprehensible," Greg said, shaking his head at the injustice of it all.

"That's law enforcement in Texas," Jake said. "He's lucky they didn't bury him in a landfill somewhere."

Eventually, the subject came around to the upcoming wedding.

"We're both very happy that you accepted our invitation to the wedding, Jake," Greg told him. "And your offer to write a song especially for the occasion... well, Celia explained to me just how personal of a gesture that is. I thank you for that."

"You might want to wait until after you hear the song to thank me," Jake said with a chuckle.

"It's a pity you couldn't use that Head East song you and Celia did last night. I would think it would make a perfect song for a new bride."

"Huh?" Jake said, confused. "There's Never Been Any Reason? How would that make a perfect song for a bride?"

"It contains the line, 'I'm going down for the last time', does it not?" Greg asked with a slight grin.

It took a moment for Jake to realize that Greg had made a joke. And, once analyzed, it was a pretty good one too. Jake started to laugh. "Holy shit, Greg," he said. "There is a sense of humor in there, isn't there?"

Greg was laughing too. "Once in a while," he said. "Every once in a while."

"Seriously though," Jake said. "Now that Celia and Helen aren't around, I just want to make sure that you don't mind my presence at your wedding. I don't want to damage your image. If you're just inviting me to keep Celia happy, please let me know."

"No, not at all," Greg said. "My image will survive your presence at my wedding. It might even be enhanced by it."

"Enhanced by it?"

"Absolutely," Greg said. "My official persona is that I'm a bit of an introvert, a boring yet intelligent man who rises reluctantly but efficiently to the occasion when the situation warrants it. It's a mold that keeps me locked into certain kinds of roles. It's a mold that is already well on its way to condemning me to the status of a character actor for life. I don't want to be stuck playing just one particular type of character my entire career. I want to be the villain sometime. I want to be the lady's man sometime. I want to be the natural born leader who knows how to get things done. Do you see what I mean?"

"Yeah," Jake said. "Actually I do. I'm typecast as the hard rock singer of Intemperance, the partying, ass-crack sniffing degenerate. Any music I produce right now is expected to fall into that genre. In truth, I'm getting a little tired of the hard rock. I'd like to put out some tunes that are a little mellower, a little bluesier."

"You do understand," Greg said. "So maybe this 'coming out' that we'll be doing will help enhance your career as it helps mine."

"You think that having me show up at your wedding will help with that?" Jake asked.

"Absolutely," he said. "It'll show the world that Celia and I have dangerous friends, that we're able to hang out with and gain the friendship of the infamous Jake Kingsley. For you, it'll show that you're able to relate to the more simple and refined Celia Valdez and Greg Oldfellow. I'm actually looking forward to what the tabloids will have to say once they find out you're on the guest list and will be singing at the event."

"It should be interesting," Jake agreed.

They puffed their cigars thoughtfully, watching as one of the security trucks made its nightly rounds down the cart path of the golf course. When it disappeared onto the seventh hole, Jake looked at Greg thoughtfully.

"So I take it," he said, "that you and Celia were able to come to an agreement on the wording of your prenup?"

"Yeah," Greg said. "Finally. I'm telling you, Jake, that whole issue damn near tore us apart. We almost called off the wedding a number of times. She simply would not capitulate on the basic fact that a prenuptial agreement is necessary. She wouldn't negotiate on the matter in any way. Her position was that there would be no prenup or there would be no wedding."

"Apparently she feels very strongly about it," Jake said.

"That's the understatement of the year," Greg said. "And if I thought that she was so insistent on the matter simply because she was trying to get her hands on my money, I would've just sent her down the road a long time ago, but I don't believe that's where she was coming from at all."

"No?"

"No," he said. "In a way, her views on the whole subject of prenuptial agreement are part of what makes her personality so dear to me. It's her sense of romanticism that makes her opposed to the agreement. She honestly thinks that marriage is forever and that signing an agreement on what happens if the marriage doesn't last is an affront to the honesty and integrity that should define a marriage."

Jake nodded, taking a thoughtful puff of his cigar, a sip of his cognac. "In principle, I tend to agree with her," he said. "As I said before, however, I'm a realist. If you were a firefighter, a cop, a teacher, even a doctor or a lawyer, I would simply tell you to get over yourself. But you're not any of those things and this is not a middle-class or even an upper-middle class marriage. It's a Hollywood wedding between two celebrities and such things have a pretty shitty success rate, don't they?"

"Indeed they do," Greg said. "I finally managed to get across to her that I wasn't disrespecting her by wanting the prenup, that I was simply making a logical, common sense decision to protect my assets. She finally saw things my way and agreed to sign the document."

"Did she negotiate the terms of it with you?" Jake asked, curious about the details of the agreement.

"Interestingly, no," Greg said. "The agreement I offered is quite standard and fair. All property and income that I possessed prior to the marriage remains mine and under my control. In the event of divorce, it remains mine. All of my income will be maintained separately during the marriage, although she will have access to it while we are married — with certain restrictions, of course. If we do divorce, she'll get none of my property and I'll get none of hers. She will be given two years worth of alimony based on a standard formula that is calculated on my income after the marriage and the lifestyle we live during the marriage. The disposition of any children and child support payments would be negotiated as part of the divorce settlement. All of that is pretty fair, isn't it?"

"It sounds reasonable to me," Jake admitted.

"She hardly even looked at the agreement," Greg said. "She simply picked it up and signed it. She gave me the silent treatment for two days after that and then she just reverted back to her old self and started making the wedding plans."

"I'm glad it all worked out," Jake said.

"As am I," Greg said. "Celia's a great catch. I would've hated to let her go over an issue as trivial as the protection of my assets."

After landing at Brannigan Airport in Ventura County on Sunday morning at 11:07 AM, Jake took Helen to her house in Ventura and then drove his car directly to Pauline's House in Los Angeles. Pauline was dressed casually when she answered the door, wearing a pair of faded blue jeans and a button-up blouse. Her hair was combed but not styled. There was no make-up on her face and she wore no jewelry except a small pair of diamond earrings.

They went to Pauline's office overlooking the lake. Pauline pulled a couple of beers out of the refrigerator and gave one to Jake.

"So," Jake said. "What the hell did he do? Do you know the whole story yet?"

She nodded. "Yeah," she said. "He fucked up pretty big this time."

"Let's hear it," Jake said with a resigned sigh.

"Okay," Pauline said. "This is the sequence of events as Matt himself has explained them to me. It seems that he and Kim were in Matt's Maserati, coming back from the LA Coliseum."

"What were they doing there?" Jake asked.

"Watching a football game," she replied. "USC was playing Fresno State."

"Since when does Matt give a shit about football?" Jake asked.

"Since he started dating Kim Kowalski," Pauline said. "She's an alumna of Fresno State."

"Kim graduated from Fresno State?" Jake asked, amazed.

"Ain't that some shit?" Pauline said. "She was in the class of '83. She graduated with a Bachelor's in Performing Arts."

"Wow," Jake said. "So she actually did some of her earlier movies..."

"While she was still in school," Pauline confirmed. "The things you learn when one of your clients gets arrested. Anyway, they'd apparently consumed more then their share of twenty-four ounce beers and were quite intoxicated when they left the game."

"Nothing unusual about that," Jake said.

"Yeah," Pauline agreed with disapproval. All five of her clients, despite her repeated warnings, were in the habit of driving while intoxicated — sometimes grossly intoxicated. "So they made it safely all the way to the junction of Highway 73 and Interstate 5 just outside San Juan Capistrano. There, as Matt was merging onto I-5, at a speed of around ninety miles an hour, he shot past an Orange County Sheriff's deputy on routine patrol in a marked car. The deputy attempted to pull Matt over for excessive speed and Matt decided to make a run for it."

"Jesus Christ," Jake said. "What the hell did he do that for?"

"It was a classic Matt decision based on his basic personality and fueled by a .16 blood alcohol level. He said he wanted to see if he could get away."

Jake shook his head and gave a little eye roll. Yes, that was a classic Matt move all right.

"Matt got off the freeway at the next off-ramp and put on the speed," Pauline continued. "He began tearing through the streets of Laguna Niguel, Laguna Beach, Laguna Hills, and eventually, Mission Viejo. Soon he accumulated a following of no less than thirty patrol cars from Orange County Sheriff's department and the California Highway Patrol trying to take him down. He ran multiple stop signs and red lights. He tore through several residential neighborhoods at speeds over one hundred miles per hour. And, somewhere in Lake Forest, he lost them — or they lost him, depending on how you want to look at it."

"He lost them?" Jake said.

"Well, only in a matter of speaking," Pauline said. "He got away from the pursuit, but, at some point, they were able to get his license number. A gaggle of Orange County deputies showed up at his house within fifteen minutes. He wasn't there, of course, but they pounded on the door until Charles, his elderly butler, opened it for them. They demanded to know if Matt was in the house and when Charles said he wasn't, they asked if they could come in to look around and make sure.

"Charles let them in so they could confirm Matt was not in residence. Once inside, one of the deputies lifted up the cover on a little silver bowl on his coffee table..."

"Oh shit," Jake said. He knew what was in that little silver bowl.

"Exactly," Pauline said. "Inside was two grams of uncut cocaine. They looked inside another little silver bowl on the other side of the room and found a half an ounce of high-grade marijuana. This was enough to get the narcotics detectives involved in the case and to get them working on a search warrant for Matt's entire house."

"Jesus," Jake said. "How much shit did they find?" He knew that the supply in Matt's little silver bowls was just for convenience — his "courtesy bowls" he called them. The real stash was inside of his bedroom safe.

"I'll get to that," Pauline said. "For now, let's return to the present. While the police are waiting for their warrant so they can begin tearing his house apart in earnest, Matt returns home. He sees all the patrol cars parked in front of his house but he pulls into the driveway anyway, intending to give himself up and take the consequences for his drunken driving and running from the cops. It sounds like he thought they'd just shake his hand, congratulate him for beating them during the chase, and then take him down to the station where he would be booked and then released."

"He's deluded," Jake said.

"Yeah," Pauline agreed. "He is dangerously naïve about certain things. I think it comes from growing up in the upper class. Anyway, the moment he steps out of the car, the cops are all pointing guns at him and ordering him to get down. He doesn't get down. He starts yelling at them, telling them that he kicked their fucking asses out there, that he was the best goddamn driver in the free motherfuckin' world. Kim gets in on the insults as well, saying that she'd tried to fuck a cop once but he couldn't get his dick hard so she had to use his nightstick."

"God," Jake said, rubbing his temples now.

"The cops moved in to handcuff both of them," Pauline said. "They elected to go the hard way. Matt broke one deputy's nose, blackened the eyes of two others, and gave another a concussion with a left cross to the temple. Kim kicked one cop in the balls and scratched another across the face bad enough that he needed stitches. Both of them were tackled down, kicked, punched, pepper sprayed, and struck numerous times with nightsticks before, during, and after handcuffing. Kim was taken directly to jail. Matt had to spend a little time in the Santa Ana Medical Center first. They also impounded his car.

"Shortly after the two of them were taken away, the cops' warrant came through. They went in and basically tore his house apart, looking in everything. They had a safecracker come in to blow torch his safe open. Inside, they found almost an ounce of cocaine and nearly a pound of marijuana. Now you and I know that this is just his stash. The sheer amount, however, is enough to qualify him for a possession for sale charge. That carries a significantly stiffer penalty than mere possession."

Jake sighed. "So what's he looking at?"

"He's looking at prison time for the drug charges," Pauline said. "Possession for sale of cocaine is pretty damn serious. Even on a first offense he could get five years for that, which translates into maybe two years before he's eligible for parole."

"Good God," Jake said. "Does he have a lawyer?"

She nodded. "I'm not qualified for criminal law and I told him that as soon as he called me. National set him up with Perceville Maywood, who is one of the most prominent defense attorneys in southern California."

"I've heard of him," Jake said. "Isn't he the one who defended Darlene Jacoby when she killed that chick?" Darlene Jacoby was a well-known television actress who had starred in numerous sitcoms and family oriented shows from the time she was eight years old until just two years before (she had, in fact, been the younger sister on The Slow Lane, the series Mindy Snow had starred in as a child and young adult). Shortly after her twenty-first birthday, Darlene was involved in a drunken driving accident on the Pacific Coast Highway in which her passenger, a member of her entourage, had been killed when she'd been ejected from the vehicle and slammed into a light pole. Darlene had ended up being convicted of simple drunk driving causing injury instead of the more serious charge of vehicular manslaughter because her lawyer had made a big deal of the fact that the fire department and the other emergency medical workers on the scene of the accident had not found the body of the young woman for nearly forty-five minutes after arrival because it was concealed by bushes. The argument had been that if the EMS workers had not been so incompetent at their jobs, they might've found her in time to save her life. The fact that Darlene Jacoby had not mentioned the fact that she'd had a passenger to said EMS workers, and that therefore they didn't even know to look for her, had been ruled irrelevant to the issue.

"That's him," Pauline confirmed. "I met with him earlier today. He's a very unlikable man, very arrogant, very self-centered, but he seems competent at this criminal defense thing. Hopefully he'll be able to get some of the charges dropped."

"Hopefully," Jake said. "How's National taking all of this?"

She shrugged. "Not as badly as you might think. I talked to Doolittle earlier and was almost flippant about Matt's arrest. He came across like this was all just routine annoyance."

"To him, it probably is," Jake said.

"He told me to tell you that when Matt gets out on bail he wants you all to keep rehearsing the tour. He has every intention of leaving on schedule."

Matt had a bail hearing at ten o'clock, Monday morning before a Superior Court judge in Santa Ana. Every seat in the courtroom was filled with reporters, Intemperance fans, and general celebrity watchers. Matt was brought in by two uniformed Orange County sheriff's deputies. He was dressed in a black jumpsuit with ORANGE COUNTY PRISONER printed in white in several places. He had shackles on his hands and feet. His entire face was a kaleidoscope of black and blue bruises. His left eye was swollen shut and there were several places where stitches had closed up open wounds. The deputies directed him to a table where his lawyer was already seated.

Perceville Maywood was short and of very slight build. He was dressed impeccably in a three thousand dollar power suit. His hair was perfectly styled, his fingernails were professionally manicured, and even his eyebrows had been neatly waxed. A Louis Vuitton briefcase was open on the table before him.

At the other table was the prosecutor from the Orange County District Attorney's office. His name was Jonathan Sparks and he was a member of the office's high profile crimes section. Since the job of this particular section was to deal with celebrity prosecutions and infamous, high media attention cases, his rugged good looks had been an unofficial requirement for selection. He was in his early forties, had a head of neat salt and pepper hair, and dressed as impeccably, if not as expensively, as his adversary.

The judge assigned to the case was Margaret Waters, a former deputy DA who had been appointed to the bench six years before. She was in her early fifties but carried it well. Her face was without a wrinkle and her brown hair was without a strand of grey in it. She looked quite resplendent in her black robe as she called the hearing to order.

Matt did not say so much as a single word during the entire proceeding. Jonathan Sparks read the crimes that Matt was accused of and outlined the sheer amounts of cocaine and marijuana that had been found in Matt's house. He held up CSI pictures of the Orange County deputies that Matt had injured during the fight to take him into custody. He outlined the residential streets that Matt had sped through during the pursuit, making sure Her Honor understood that this reckless behavior had taken place in broad daylight on a weekend afternoon.

"Quite frankly, Your Honor," Sparks said, "I find it quite miraculous that no children were killed by Mr. Tisdale during this chase. He certainly showed no consideration for the fact that there might be children present."

Sparks concluded his presentation by theorizing that Matt Tisdale was a threat to public safety, a hopeless alcoholic and cocaine addict, and, because he was a man of means who owned a house in Mexico, a considerable flight risk. He asked that bail be denied and that Mr. Tisdale be held in the Orange County jail facility until trial.

Perceville Maywood (who would furiously correct anyone who dared call him Percy) then presented Matt's side of the debate over bail. He spoke with a high, reedy, arrogant voice and explained that Mr. Tisdale was an established member of the San Juan Capistrano community who owned a house there. He was an established musician whose very livelihood was centered in Hollywood. He explained how regretful Mr. Tisdale was about his ill-advised actions and that Mr. Tisdale was strongly considering rehab to help him with his addictions. In short, he requested that Mr. Tisdale be released on his own recognizance without restrictions while awaiting trial.

Judge Waters weighed these arguments for a few minutes and then announced her decision. "Mr. Tisdale is accused of some very serious crimes against the State of California," she said. "However, I do not see him as a significant flight risk. Bail will be set at one hundred thousand dollars with the following restrictions. Mr. Tisdale, you are not to consume alcohol or use illegal drugs while out on bail. You are not to drive any motorized vehicle. You are not to leave the State of California and you are most assuredly not to leave the United States. I cannot order you into rehabilitation at this particular phase of your criminal proceedings, but I would strongly suggest you voluntarily commit yourself to treatment."

"Your Honor, I must object," said Sparks indignantly. "Mr. Tisdale is a multi-millionaire. One hundred thousand dollars is pocket change to him."

"That is the standard bail amount for crimes of this magnitude," Waters replied. "I cannot adjust the amount based on the net worth of the accused. My ruling stands." She pounded her gavel.

The two sheriff's deputies helped Matt to his feet. He conferred in whispered tones with Perceville for a few minutes and then they led him out the door. He was taken back to the Orange County jail facility where he made a single phone call to his accounting firm, ordering them to wire one hundred thousand dollars into a certain Orange County escrow account. Ten minutes later, it was done. After forty-five minutes of paperwork, Matt turned in his black jumpsuit and was given back his belongings. He changed into the fresh pair of jeans and the Black Sabbath t-shirt his limo driver had brought Perceville to bring to him. As soon as he was dressed, he and Perceville walked out the door and into a crowd of reporters and photographers.

"Don't say anything to them," Perceville said. "In all matters related to this case, let me do the talking."

"Right," Matt said.

"Matt," a reporter screamed. "Tell us what happened! Did the deputies really beat you?"

"Matt," another screamed, "Why did you run from them? Were you really transporting drugs from Mexico?"

Other questions followed, most even more ridiculous in nature. Perceville held up his hand and then, once everyone quieted down, gave a brief statement.

"Mr. Tisdale was not transporting or selling drugs at the time of his arrest, nor has he ever been involved in the sale of drugs. The police pursuit itself was a result of a simple misunderstanding combined with some overzealous law enforcement officers. The entire situation is something that ended up being blown completely out of proportion. Mr. Tisdale has admitted to having a problem with alcohol and will be looking into rehab facilities as soon as he gets home. As for the sheriff's deputies at Mr. Tisdale's house, their behavior was..."

"Whoa," Matt suddenly spoke up. "What the fuck do you mean I got a problem with alcohol? I never admitted no shit like that!"

"Matt," Perceville whispered, "I told you to..."

"Are you saying you don't have a drinking problem, Matt?" a reporter asked.

"Hell no!" Matt said. "I ain't never had no problem drinking."

The crowd laughed at his joke.

"What about the altercation with the sheriff's deputies?" someone asked. "Did you resist arrest?"

"They were just pissed off because I got away from their asses when they were chasing me," Matt said.

"Matt!" Perceville hissed. "Shut up, right now!"

"So you admit running from them?" the reporter asked hungrily.

"Fuck yeah, I admit it!" he said gleefully. "They must've had thirty of them motherfuckers chasing me at one point. I outdrove their asses and lost them. Lost them! How many people you know can say they got away from the cops? That's why they were so pissed off and started beating my ass when I got home. They're fuckin' sore losers!"

"Let's get in the car," Perceville said, grabbing Matt by the arm and pulling him forcefully toward the waiting limousine.

"What about the cocaine they found in your house?"

"How did they treat you in the jail?

"Is it true that you had a gun in your car and that you fired a couple of shots at them?"

They made it onto the limousine and the driver shut the door, sealing them off from the ravenous horde of media types. The driver got in and sped away, heading for Matt's home in San Juan Capistrano.

Perceville was furious. "What in the name of God did you think you were doing out there?" he asked, his voice particularly high and particularly reedy. "I told you not to say anything! You just admitted on camera that you ran from the police deliberately!"

Matt looked at him carefully with the one eye that wasn't swollen shut. "So," he said, "Are you a dick smoker, or what?" he asked.

"What?" Perceville yelled, his face turning red now.

"It's cool if you are," Matt said. "I don't care if you like to suck on some dude's hairy balls or take a schlong up your ass. That's your business. I just want you to know that I ain't into that shit, so don't be thinkin' you're gonna get a piece off of my ass."

"Although my sexual orientation is none of your business," Perceville said, "I assure you that I am heterosexual and I probably get more action than you do."

"I seriously doubt that," Matt scoffed.

"In any case," Perceville said. "We're talking about your mouth. You need to keep it shut. Let me do the talking for you."

"I will until you start spouting a bunch of shit about how I'm going into rehab or that them cops chasing me was a misunderstanding. There wasn't no fuckin' misunderstanding about it. They tried to catch me and they fuckin' lost! I'm proud of that shit, dude. You down with it?"

"You don't admit things like that on camera!" Perceville said. "Are you trying to get thrown in prison?"

"I'd rather go to prison then have people thinking I'm some kind of pussy," Matt said. "And that's the motherfuckin' truth."

Perceville rubbed his temples, trying to massage away a sudden headache. "God help me," he pleaded. "What was I thinking when I took this case?"