Nancy Grace - Death on the D-List

“Oh, that was famous… I remember that,” her mother chimed in from the kitchen phone.

“Well, that was what it was all about, really. I think Jacobs just wanted to get famous and have his face plastered all over TV walking her in and out of the courthouse. I’ve never seen a lawyer so disappointed as when the trial judge refused to let Court TV cover the trial live.”

“Oh yeah, I’m starting to remember him now. Always out in front of courthouses giving press conferences. Right?”

“Right.”

“But why’d they put him on? Seems like he loses all his cases.” Her dad was pretty observant.

“I know, Daddy. He’s some close friend of the executive producer, Sookie Downs, I think. I really don’t know why they’d use him. I guess he got famous and the show wanted a celebrity lawyer for the ratings. Makes me wonder why they picked me. I guess either because of Will’s murder or because of the press after I killed Leonard.”

“No! No, baby! It’s because of your perfect record in court!”

“Mother, I wish that were so, but TV’s not like that. Anyway, somebody’s beeping in and I have a patient in a few minutes.”

“Did you put that extra bolt on your office door?”

“I sure did. And I got those thick drapes for the windows like you wanted for when I’m working here alone, Mother.”

“I know I don’t need to remind you, Clint Burrell Cruise is still out there.” Cruise was the serial killer Hailey had prosecuted in her last jury trial. He’d gotten a conviction at trial, but the Georgia Supreme Court had engineered a reversal. Cruise jumped parole and hadn’t been seen since Hailey stabbed his lawyer.

“Í know, believe me, I want him found and monitored, too. But I can’t hide in my apartment under my bed just because Pardons and Paroles can’t find Cruise. If he wants to stay out of trouble, he’s probably gotten as far away from me as he can!”

Hailey laughed into the receiver, acting for all she was worth as if she wasn’t worried at all about the released killer who’d come looking for her.

“Let me see who this call is. I love you!”

“Bye, honey.”

“Bye, Mother. Bye-Bye, Daddy. Talk to you later.”

“Promise?” her mom asked as if she really wanted an answer.

“Promise.”

Hailey clicked off and considered Cruise… still on the run.

FALLON MALONE DIDN’T THINK SHE COULD LIFT HER LEG ONE MORE TIME. This damn elliptical. She hated it. But what else could she do? She had to feel the burn. Or else.

Or else go down the path of all the other aging stars. Flabby, jowly, and unemployed. They either became bag ladies, accepted scraps in movies for parts as grandmothers, witches, or otherwise… crones … or they got elected to some position at the Screen Actors Guild.

Not for Fallon Malone. She loved the attention her body got her. She only felt alive when she was admired, loved, desired. Which is exactly why she’d already scheduled her third lesson with the golf pro… What was his name?

His name didn’t matter. Nor did golf. She just needed a few lessons to convince some eccentric producer she was good for a part in yet another big-screen production centering around the game. The adoration of the golf pro just made it all that much easier.

Fallon understood her assets and what they could do for her. She’d have never gotten her breakthrough role if it weren’t for her body. Those who mocked her for it were simply jealous.

But there was so much more to Fallon Malone than her physique. She needed the idiots in Hollywood and the tight little clique that ran Broadway, so damn pleased with themselves and looking down their noses at her, to see that.

But in addition to the compliments and the adoration, Fallon loved the high life. Without a rich husband anymore, she actually had to pay for it herself. She’d downsized as much as was presentable. She got rid of two of her cars and moved from a five- to a three-bedroom apartment here in Manhattan, and to top it all off, leased her penthouse in Beverly Hills.

She even did a commercial. A TV commercial, at that. In Japan. She prayed like hell nobody in the States saw the thing. It would ruin her reputation as a serious screen actress.

W hat more could she do?

Obviously, her agent wasn’t doing her justice. Stu had so many clients in his stable, she should really think of dumping him, but every time she called him, he acted like he was on the verge of securing a part for her.

They just had a way of falling through.

Her legs were feeling the burn, all right. At least having the elliptical here in her apartment, she didn’t have to go to some horrible gym where she’d definitely be spotted. And photographed.

Fallon switched channels to QVC. She adored the shopping network and had memorized her American Express card number by heart, expiration date and secret code number included. That way she could order straight from the elliptical, speaking into her BlackBerry, which she of course had on speaker phone setting so as to have her hands free. Her arms must also be in continuous pumping motion along with her legs. It wasn’t just butt and legs and boobs anymore.

Triceps mattered. No one wanted to look at flabby arms. And she certainly didn’t want to end up in one of those horrible Snoop exposés with a shot of her coming out of a plastic surgeon’s office following a brachioplasty. She’d never heard that word… brachioplasty … until her plastic surgeon put it in her head. Translation… an arm lift.

It was the industry’s dirty little secret. Face-lifts, nose-jobs, and of course, boob-jobs, were all givens. But arm lifts were still considered a little taboo.

As if Fallon cared.

If she’d just go ahead, bite the bullet, and get the arm lift, she could drag this damn elliptical onto the elevator and dump it out on the street. In New York City, it would be gone in three minutes. Some Dumpster-diver would take it away and put in his own cramped little apartment. Speaking of New York, Fallon couldn’t wait to get back to Beverly Hills, it was so dark and cold here. If it weren’t for work, she wouldn’t even visit, much less keep this dreary little downsized apartment.

But back to the elliptical: If she got the arm lift, the torture of two-hour workouts every other day would be over. But there was always her butt. What about it ? Wait… maybe she could get those butt-enhancement things, like the silicone balloons they insert in your rear end…

Fallon heard the maid coming in the side door to the apartment, through the kitchen. She turned her head and yelled out, “Don’t forget to clean between the tiles in the sauna this time! Use something… a toothbrush… I don’t care what! That’s not my job! But I do not want to sit my bare butt down on mold! That’s why I pay you… So I don’t have to sit on mold! ”

These people. They come to America. Then they don’t clean your sauna. Ridiculous.

Her BlackBerry tinkled. One glance and she exhaled, even more irritated. It was that horrible, horrible high school boy again. Jonathon. Why wouldn’t he leave her alone? He’d mentioned he wrote for his school paper and wanted more facts about her for a profile on her he was doing. When would he finish? He’d been writing about her for six months, it seemed. Ugh!

The questions never ended with this kid. It wasn’t a newspaper profile… It was a book . What’s your favorite color? Do you like animals? What does your bedroom look like? And why did some kid want to know what her bedroom looked like, anyway? Little perv.

Fallon pointed the remote toward one of the two flat-screen TVs positioned on the wall at angles so she could watch both at the same time without turning her head. She hated it though, because by flicking one remote, more often than not she’d change channels on both screens.