Inside the county jail, Bruce sat with his head buried in his hands. Six cement benches were arranged in rows across the pale cement floor. Bruce sat on one, and two college kids were passed out on two more. He overheard the officer say they’d driven their car through the front of a rival frat house. Luckily, no one was hurt. In the far corner, another man lay sprawled on the floor in the corner. Bruce didn’t know his story, but it looked like he was sleeping off a bender.
Bruce had never felt so humiliated. His fingers still bore the ink of being fingerprinted and his lip felt swollen and tender from connecting too hard with the pavement outside of Robin Platt’s home when the police officer threw him to the ground and cuffed him.
He still remembered the fury he’d felt when he’d banged on the girl’s door at two in the morning, demanding answers.
Stupid. It was stupid to try to confront her like that. He knew he must have looked like some kind of crazed stalker, showing up at her house at that hour. But he hadn’t been thinking rationally. He’d had a lot to drink. And he was feeling it now. Along with the throbbing cut on his hand from the broken window, his head was pounding with a plain old hangover.
Where was Ben?
He’d called his lawyer thirty minutes ago with the one phone call they’d given him. Before they’d confiscated his iPhone, he’d managed one text to Elizabeth. He never found out if she responded.
He looked up and rubbed the stubble on his chin.
“Hey,” said one of the college kids, who was now sitting and staring at him. “Hey…I know you.”
Bruce ignored him.
“Hey, you’re that rich dude who raped that girl.” The kid nudged his friend, but the friend just groaned and rolled over on his side. “Bruce, right? Bruce…Postman. No. Something else. I saw you on TV with all those celebrities.”
Just when Bruce thought the day couldn’t get worse, a frat guy from Sweet Valley U had managed to kick it up a notch.
“Dude, can I get my picture with you? My bros will not believe…” Distantly, Bruce heard a steel door creak open and footsteps in the hall.
“Bruce Patman.” An officer appeared at the cell door.
“Bruce Patman! That’s it!” The college kid snapped his fingers.
Wearily, Bruce glanced up at the guard, who pushed a key in the lock.
“Patman, you’ve been bailed out. Time to get up.” The guard turned the key and then swung open the door.
Finally! Bruce thought.
In the lobby of the police station, Bruce saw Ben Bookman waiting for him, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt instead of his usual suit and tie. Obviously, he’d run out of the house in a hurry. But then, it was after four in the morning and his most important client had just been arrested.
“I came as soon as I could,” Ben said, looking apologetic.
“How bad is it?” Bruce asked Ben.
Ben glanced down, as if not wanting to meet his friend’s eyes. “So far, I’ve talked them down to just drunk and disorderly conduct—a misdemeanor. They’re holding off on the other charges until they talk to the D.A. But there is an emergency restraining order in place, so you can’t go within one hundred feet of Robin Platt’s house.”
Bruce groaned.
“I don’t think I should tell you just how lucky you are. What were you thinking, driving drunk and then showing up at this girl’s house? Just what did you plan to do if you did get inside?”
The words hung in the air between the old friends.
“I know it was stupid,” Bruce said. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“You’d better start,” Ben said. “This isn’t the end of it. And intimidating the accuser sure doesn’t help you.”
“Shit.” Bruce ran a hand through his already tangled hair.
“This is serious, Bruce.”
Bruce nodded. None of this was good; he knew that much.
The police officer at the processing desk handed Bruce a plastic bag containing his wallet and cell phone and keys. Bruce dug out his phone. It had only a sliver of battery life left. He saw Elizabeth hadn’t answered his text. He decided to try again.
He needed her. He called her number. He knew she slept with her phone on the bedside table.
The phone rang only one time before going straight to voice mail.
“Damn it,” he cursed, switching off the phone without leaving a message.
“Uh-oh,” Ben said as he walked with Bruce to the front door.
Outside in the early dawn, news cameras and paparazzi lined the walkway from the jail to the parking lot.
“You’re probably going to be the lead story this morning.”
Bruce’s headache just got worse. He put a hand to his temple. “Where are you parked?”
“Not close enough,” Ben admitted.
Just then, a limited-edition white Bentley with gold trim glided through the sea of cameras. It pulled to a stop in the middle of the drive and the orange hazard lights began blinking. Bruce saw Missy LeGrange hop out, wearing solid white from head to toe, as if she’d planned to coordinate with her car.
“Don’t touch the car. None of you can afford to fix it,” she proclaimed to the news crews as she shoved her way past them. She pushed open the door to the police station and instantly fell upon Bruce.
“Oh, Bruce, I am so sorry. I came as soon as Daddy told me the news.”
Bruce glanced at Ben, confused, and Ben shrugged. “I called Thomas LeGrange right after I got your message. I figured since he’s executor of the Patman Estate…”
Bruce waved a hand to show it was fine. Actually, more than fine. Bruce felt happy to see another supportive face. For a brief second, he wished it were Elizabeth’s. He glanced down at his phone and wondered where she was.
“I know this will all get cleared up just as soon as we get the right attorney on this case,” Missy said. “Honestly, when nobodies try to mess with somebodies the nobodies never win.” Missy thought anybody who didn’t have substantial wealth was a nobody. Normally Bruce was amused by Missy’s snobbery. Elizabeth was not, but right now, snob or not, Missy had shown up when he needed her. She was a good friend. Which made him ask himself, Where was Elizabeth?
As if Missy had heard his thoughts, she asked, “Where’s Elizabeth?”
“Um…I wish I knew,” Bruce grumbled.
“Don’t tell me she’s abandoned you,” Missy said, shaking her head in happy disapproval.
“Where is her loyalty? A little bit of trouble and she runs and hides? Honestly.”
Missy’s assessment felt a bit too close to the truth for Bruce’s comfort.
“No, no, it’s not that,” he said quickly. He felt the need to defend Elizabeth. “She’s probably just got her phone off.”
“Well, isn’t she a reporter?” Missy said the word as if it tasted bitter on her tongue. “She should know already, and she should be here. I mean aren’t those her people out there?” Missy waved her hand at the gathering reporters outside.
“And why wasn’t she with you last night? If she’d been there to drive you home from that bar, none of this would’ve happened.”
The truth of Missy’s words hit Bruce like a slap. She was one hundred percent right. Bruce never would’ve showed up drunk at Robin’s house if Elizabeth had been there. Not that Bruce would blame Elizabeth for his mistakes, but facts were facts.
Bruce couldn’t help feeling that Elizabeth had managed to abandon him when he needed her most—again.
“Oh, Bruce, I am so sorry.” Missy put her hand on Bruce’s forearm. “And those animals out there just have no right to be badgering you like this. Whatever happened to innocent until proven guilty? Not on TMZ, anyway.”
“Maybe I should try to get my car and bring it closer?” Ben offered.
“Nonsense,” Missy said, waving her hand. “I can drive Bruce. My car’s right here.”
Her Bentley was as close to the door as a car could get, but there were still half a dozen cameras between it and Bruce.
“Okay, remember, we have no comment,” Ben said. “Just move as quickly as you can to the car.”
Ben swung open the door and almost immediately Bruce felt blinded by the white-hot lights of the cameras as reporters shouted questions.
“Is it true you attacked the same Jane Doe who accused you of attempted rape?”
“What do you have to say to the allegation you broke her window and tried to force your way in?”
“Are you a rapist, Bruce?”
Missy shoved one camera out of Bruce’s face. “Would you animals leave him alone?” she yelled as they moved quickly past.
Bruce sent her a grateful glance.
“No comment,” Ben said. “My client has no comment!”
The questions kept flying at him, each new one more awful than the last. Bruce forged ahead with Missy holding his arm, helping to clear the way. Even with only a few feet separating him from the Bentley, the trip seemed to take forever. By the time he’d slid safely into the front passenger seat, Missy had the car in drive and roared out, whipping one of the cameras into the air with her side-view mirror.
“Reporters are animals—all of them,” Missy exclaimed with disgust. “I honestly don’t know how Elizabeth does what she does.”
On any other day, Bruce would have felt the need to point out that Elizabeth was a print journalist and not one of the opportunistic paparazzi like the TMZ photographers they’d just run past, but he didn’t have the energy to defend her or her chosen profession at the moment.
Not when she wasn’t there to defend him.
Missy glanced over at Bruce and laid a sympathetic hand on his arm. “Why don’t you let me drive you to my family’s vineyard? It’s only about two hours away. The paparazzi will never find you there.”