Saw Michaela for three more sessions. She spent most of the time driftingback to a childhood tainted by neglect and loneliness. Her mother’s promiscuityand various pathologies enlarged with each appointment. She recalled year afteryear of academic failure, adolescent slights, chronic isolation brought on by“looking like a giraffe with zits.”
Psychometric testing revealed her to be of average intelligence with poorimpulse control and a tendency to manipulate. No sign of learning disability orattention deficit, and her MMPI Lie Scale was elevated, meaning that she’dnever stopped acting.
Despite that, she seemed a sad, scared, vulnerable young woman. That didn’tstop me from asking what needed to be asked.
“Michaela, the doctor found some bruising around your vagina.”
“If you say so.”
“The doctor who examined you said so.”
“Maybe he bruised me when he was checking me out.”
“Was he rough?”
“He had rough fingers. This Asian guy. I could tell he didn’t like me.”
“Why wouldn’t he like you?”
“You’d have to ask him.” She glanced at her watch.
I said, “Is that the story you want to stick with?”
She stretched. Blue jeans, today, riding low on her hips, midriff-baringwhite lace V-top. Her nipples were faint gray dots.
“Do I need a story?”
“It could come up.”
“It could if you mention it.”
“It has nothing to do with me, Michaela. It’s in the case file.”
“Case file,” she said. “Like I did some big crime.”
I didn’t answer.
She plucked at lace. “Who cares about any of that? Why do you care?”
“I’d like to understand what happened up in Latigo Canyon.”
“What happened was Dylan getting crazy,” she said.
“Crazy physically?”
“He got all passionate and bruised me.”
“What happened?” I said.
“What usually happened.”
“Meaning…”
“It’s what we did. ” She wiggled the fingers of one hand. “Touching eachother. The few times.”
“The few times you were intimate.”
“We were never intimate. Once in a while we got horny and touched eachother. Of course he wanted more, but I never let him.” She stuck out hertongue. “A few times I let him go down on me but mostly it was finger timebecause I didn’t want to get close to him.”
“What happened in Latigo Canyon?”
“I don’t see what that has to do with…what happened.”
“Your relationship with Dylan is bound to—”
“Fine, fine,” she said. “In the canyon it was all fingers and he got toorough. When I complained he said he was doing it on purpose. For realism.”
“For when you were discovered.”
“I guess,” she said.
She looked away.
I waited.
She said, “It was the first night. What else was there to do? It was soboring, just sitting up there, getting talked out.”
“How soon did you get talked out?” I said.
“Real soon. ’Cause he was into this whole Zen silence thing. Preparing forthe second night. He said we needed to cook images in our heads. Heat up ouremotions by not crowding our heads with words.”
Her laughter was harsh. “Big Zen silence thing. Until he got horny. Then hehad no trouble telling me what he wanted. He thought being up there would makethings different. Like I’d do him. As if.”
Her eyes got hard. “I pretty much hate him now.”
 
I took a day before writing an outline of my report.
Her story boiled down to diminished capacity combined with that time-honoredtactic, the TODDI Defense: The Other Dude Did It.
Wondering if Lauritz Montez was her new acting coach, I phoned his office atthe Beverly Hillscourt building. “I’m not going to make you happy.”
“Actually, it doesn’t matter,” he said.
“The case settled?”
“Better. Sixty-day continuance, thanks to my colleague who’s representingMeserve. Marjani Coolidge—know her?”
“Nope.”
“She’s scheduled on a roots trip to Africa,asked to put everything off. Once the sixty days are up, we’ll get anothercontinuance. And another. The media scrutiny’s faded and the docket’s jammedwith serious felonies, no problem keeping trivial crap at bay. By the time weget to trial no one will give a shit. It’s all pressure from the sheriffs, andthose guys have the attention span of gnats on smack. I’m figuring the worstthe two of them will get is teaching Shakespeare to inner-city kids.”
“Shakespeare’s not her thing.”
“What is?”
“Improvisation.”
“Yeah, well, I’m sure she’ll figure it out. Thanks for your time.”
“No report necessary?”
“You can send one but I can’t tell you it’ll ever get read. Which shouldn’tbother you because turns out all I can get you paid for is straight sessiontime at forty bucks per full hour, no portal-to-portal, no write-up fees.”
I kept silent.
“Hey,” he said, “budget cuts and all that. Sorry, man.”
“Don’t be.”
“You’re okay with it?”
“I’m not much for showbiz.”