Limits of Justice, The (2 page)

“I’m still waiting for the depravity part, Charlotte.”

Her eyes shifted away again, and when they came back, they were moist, while the other features of her face seemed twisted by darker emotions. I’d been going through some gargantuan mood swings myself in recent months, and I wondered if she felt as weak and uneasy inside as I did, as if something monstrous and unspeakable lurked just beyond the next thought, just around the next cerebral corner, where things were the darkest.

“In his book, Randall Capri—my God, it’s so hard for me to say this.”

I sat back, sipping my coffee, waiting her out. Through the window, I saw my landlords’ dog, Maggie, in the yard below, squatting on her haunches, taking care of business. She was an old golden retriever who limped a little and slept a lot, left to Fred and Maurice by a nice kid who’d died too young. They’d known a lot of those. We all had, any of us who’d spent much time in and around West Hollywood.

I rested my cup in the crook of my finger and my eyes on Charlotte Preston, while she found the courage to spit out her next words like tiny pieces of poison.

“Capri claims that my father was a pedophile, a practicing pederast.”

“Ouch.”

She threw up her hands, her voice winding tight.

“Can you imagine? To sell some books, he needs a gimmick—a ‘hook,’ I think they call it. So he makes the sensational charge that Rod Preston spent the latter half of his life preying sexually on underage boys.”

“I suppose it gets you on the talk shows.”

Her mood took another swing, softening her voice, pushing her tears to the brink.

“How can he get away with that, Mr. Justice? What right does he have to make up any garbage he pleases and put it between the covers of a book?”

“First amendment?”

I said it matter-of-factly and she burst into tears, which didn’t make me feel wonderful. On the other hand, I was dealing with some troubling personal issues of my own, and I didn’t have a surplus of sympathy for doling out. Charlotte rose and made her way to the other room, where she sat on the edge of the sagging bed, burying her face in her nicely manicured hands, sobbing like there was no tomorrow. I continued to sip from my cup, staring out at the gray sky, thinking about things. After a minute, she asked if she could use the bathroom. I said she could, if she promised not to expect
House Beautiful.
I listened to her blow her nose behind the closed door, and when she came back out she was more composed. She apologized for breaking down and I said I was sorry for speaking so coldly. We took our seats again in the tiny kitchen and I tried hard to look sympathetic and kind.

“What is it you want from me, Charlotte?”

“I’d like you to ghostwrite a book for me.”

“What kind of book would that be?”

“A celebrity biography.”

“About your father, setting the record straight?”

“I want you to write a biography of Randall Capri.”

I sat forward on my chair.

“Capri?”

She smiled, and it wasn’t pretty.

“Yes. I want you to write a sleazy, sordid, shocking celeb bio, with Capri as the subject—and not one bit of filth left out.”

“You want to hoist him on his own petard.”

“Exactly.”

“Discredit him, thus discrediting his claims about your father.”

Her hands flew up again, and what sounded like sincerity replaced the edge in her voice.

“I simply want the public to know the truth about Capri—the way he works, what kind of man he is. At the same time, I want to tell the truth about my father, reveal the real Rod Preston.”

“What makes you think there’s something sordid and sensational in Randall Capri’s past?”

“I’m sure anyone who writes books like that lives in the gutter.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

“I’ve done some asking around. I’ve heard a few things.”

“Feel like sharing?”

“He frequents gay bathhouses, for starters.”

“That’s not against the law.”

“Uses cocaine, other illicit drugs.”

“More promising.”

“There were supposedly some bad checks, before his books started selling.”

“Helpful, if we can verify it.”

“I suspect that he cheated my father out of some money years ago, by filling out signed blank checks my father had given him for more than he was actually owed.”

“Why would Rod Preston entrust blank checks to a guy like Capri?”

“My father was a trusting man, too trusting. Capri apparently was doing some public relations work for him, with open-ended expenses. I have the canceled checks right here, along with some other papers and documents that might prove helpful to you.”

“If I decide to become involved in all this.”

She gave me a quick glance, then leaned down, reached into her tote bag, and pulled out a bulging accordion file. When it was on the table, facing me, I saw Randall Capri’s name printed in sturdy block letters.

“Your file or your father’s?”

“Father’s—I found it in the study of his Beverly Hills house, where he stayed when he wasn’t up in Montecito. I’m not quite sure what’s in it, besides the checks I mentioned.”

“Your father pressed charges over the inflated checks?”

She shook her head, making her short curls bounce.

“My father made quite a bit of money, Mr. Justice. I doubt these sums were worth the trouble it would have taken to prosecute, or the negative publicity it would have generated. There is an exchange of letters between them, which I glanced over. They seem to indicate Capri’s guilt in the matter.”

“That could be useful.”

“It seems rather conclusive to me—Capri’s totally disreputable.”

“There’s an old saying in journalism, Charlotte: Assume nothing, check everything.”

“You’ll work with me then?”

“Let me get this straight: I do the research and ghostwrite your book, your name goes on it, and that ends my participation in the deal.”

She nodded with enthusiasm.

“I’ll do some editing, of course, a few changes here and there.”

“For fifty grand, you can change every word if you want.”

“You can have all the money, even any royalties that might ensue. I’ll promote the book, go on all the talk shows, just the way the parasites like Randall Capri do. I’ll give a thousand interviews if that’s what it takes. All I want is for the truth to be told.”

“What if the truth isn’t what you think it is?”

She thrust out her chin defiantly.

“I knew my father, Mr. Justice. He was a good, decent man. If he’d been the way Randall Capri claims he was, my mother would have told me. They went through a bitter divorce. I’m sure she would have said something to me.”

“Not if she’s discreet. They’re both of another generation.”

“I suppose that’s possible. But not the sexual behavior Capri alleges. Not young boys. I’ll bet everything I own that Capri was just working from his own sick fantasies.”

“You’ve questioned your mother about it?”

She hesitated, while the eyes took a dip.

“Mother and I haven’t spoken in some time.”

“Why is that?”

Charlotte shrugged, a little too conveniently.

“I was always closer to my father. He raised me, after the divorce.”

“He was awarded custody?”

“Yes, although I spent a lot of time away, in private schools. Still, Father was very good to me. He made sure I had the best of everything, that I felt loved.”

“It’s unusual, isn’t it, the father getting custody?”

She picked up her cup, sipped at her lukewarm coffee, buying a little time.

“Mother had some personal problems.”

“Specificity, Charlotte, if you don’t mind.”

She turned to stare out the window, her face becoming softer, almost lovely, in the overcast light.

“I suppose I can tell you, since Randall Capri has already told the entire world in that damned book of his. Mother was an actress when she married father. Just beyond the starlet stage, starting to get better roles. Her name was Vivian Grant then; at least, that was the screen name the studio chose for her.”

“This was back in the days before actors and directors started exerting their independence, before the studio system fell apart.”

She nodded, looking my way again.

“Mother and Father were under contract to the same studio. They met on the lot, when father was making
Last Battalion.
The marriage continued for several years but apparently never went that well. Mother wasn’t a very stable person. When it ended, she had what they call a nervous breakdown—quite a serious one.”

“She was institutionalized?”

Charlotte nodded, tight little motions up and down.

“They kept her for nearly a year. She recovered, but she never worked in the business again. She didn’t really have to—my father was quite generous in the settlement.”

“You said earlier that the divorce was bitter.”

“I guess there were other issues involved besides money. I suppose she loved him and didn’t want to let go.”

“There was another woman?”

“Not that I’m aware of. Father had women friends, always quite attractive. But neither Father nor Mother remarried. He plunged back into his career, and she disappeared from public view. She’s led a very private life the past thirty years.”

“Without much room in it for you?”

“She tried, but I don’t think she was ever the maternal type. I saw less and less of her as I got older, and finally broke it off last year.”

“What caused that?”

“That’s really between Mother and me.” Charlotte smiled tightly. “It was just one of those mother-daughter spats that get out of hand, when pride gets in the way of reconciliation.”

“It sounds like you still have feelings for her.”

“Of course. That bond is always there.”

“When your father died, did your mother attend the service?”

“She stayed away, which made me quite angry.”

“And now you’re angry with Randall Capri.”

She tilted her head to one side, pleading with her eyes.

“Will you please help me? It would mean so much.”

“Why me, Charlotte? There are plenty of writers in this town who’d be happy to take on an assignment like this for fifty big ones.”

“Those I checked out had either inflated or lied outright about their credits. One or two even tried to put the make on me, as if my body came with the deal.”

“Flakes and cads.”

“This town seems to have its share, doesn’t it?”

“In spades.”

“Then I thought of you, Mr. Justice.”

“Because I fit the same category?”

She laughed a little, shaking her head.

“Because of your background as a reporter.”

“Before my little Pulitzer problem, you mean.”

“You made a mistake. I imagine you’ve paid for it.”

“I won a Pulitzer for writing a front-page newspaper series that was fabricated, Charlotte. I disgraced myself and my trade. You never stop paying for that.”

“I suppose not.”

“I’m a pariah in the publishing business, with zero credibility.”

“Your name won’t be on the book.”

“To be printed, any dirt on Randall Capri will have to be fully documented, every charge nailed down tight. Capri’s not deceased, like your father. He can sue. To win a libel judgment, the plaintiff has to prove two things: inaccuracy and malicious intent. Considering your feelings toward Capri, malice would be a given.”

“I trust you to get the facts right, Mr. Justice, or I wouldn’t be here.”

“How did you get here, anyway?”

“I remembered Alexandra Templeton’s profile on you last year in
Gentlemen’s Quarterly.
”

“Oh, yes, Templeton’s famous
GQ
piece.”

“I found an old copy and read it again. Once I understood more about you, about what was behind the Pulitzer scandal, you seemed like the ideal candidate.”

“I know the gay world, from which Randall Capri presumably springs.”

“That was part of it, along with your journalistic experience.”

“And the other part?”

“I figured you’d be in need of work and thus affordable. I can’t exactly get Woodward and Bernstein for fifty thousand dollars, can I?”

“So you contacted Alexandra at the
Times,
hoping she’d put you in touch with me, which I’m sure she was delighted to do.”

“She was very helpful. She said you’d be perfect for the job.”

“And you don’t have to worry that I might molest you.”

Charlotte smiled again, looking almost childlike for a moment. I’d started liking her, even though her naïveté scared me a little.