Around three on Tuesday afternoon, Brandy sat on her living room couch, staring at the phone in her hand, trying to make sense of the last few days. After the conversation she’d had with Gordon on Friday night, she was more up in the air about him than ever. He’d been so kind and gentle with her when he’d finally brought her home. He apologized for losing his temper. They’d stayed up until nearly six in the morning, drinking lemonade and talking about their childhoods.
As she’d already begun to suspect, Gordon’s childhood had been loveless. His parents had died when he was a small boy and he’d been raised by an aunt, a cold woman who disliked children in general, and him in particular. As an adult, he’d had relationships with several women, but none of them had been happy, not until he’d met her. He emphasized again and again that his relationship with Joanna Kasimir had been completely consensual. He’d been her gardener when she’d seduced him. The relationship hadn’t lasted more than a few weeks. But when he cut it off, she not only fired him, she pursued him legally. He never entirely understood her reasoning, but then she had money, power, and privilege on her side, while he’d been basically penniless. And so he’d gone to jail. Sure, it wasn’t fair, but he’d put it behind him long ago. But now Joanna was back, pursuing
him again. He begged Brandy not to let Joanna destroy what they’d built together.
Brandy wanted desperately to bring peace and love into Gordon’s sad life, but she couldn’t exactly forget what that woman had told her. She couldn’t remember the woman’s name, and Gordon had taken her card, so she had no way to contact her. Even if what the woman had told her turned out to be false, it would still take time for her to completely trust Gordon again. She’d been honest with him about her feelings on their way to Minneapolis on Sunday afternoon. He insisted he understood, that he’d do everything in his power to win her trust back. When they’d stopped for lunch, they’d walked hand in hand through a little picnic area along a river. Gordon had taken her in his arms, held her tight. He told her she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known—far more beautiful than Joanna Kasimir—and also the best thing that ever happened to him. He was a hard man to resist.
But the trip to Minneapolis had left a sour taste in her mouth. He’d appeared at her door early Sunday morning soaking wet, explaining that he’d had to swim over from his cabin. It wasn’t that far—the lakes were connected—but he was out of breath, and his face was a deep red. He always bragged about being such a good swimmer, but he was in terrible shape. She couldn’t imagine why he’d done it until he told her his truck was in for repairs, so the trip was off—unless they could take the Dodge in her garage. It was a simple enough thing to her—she never used it. But the time in Minneapolis had been a bust. She thought they were driving up to have some fun, go to a movie or an art museum, but instead he’d left her in the car in a dangerous part of town, instructed her not to get out or make eye contact with anyone who walked past. Brandy had been terrified. He wasn’t gone long, but when he got back, he was in a foul mood. They had dinner at a crummy little restaurant off I-94 in St. Paul and then drove home.
Brandy had worked the day shift yesterday, hadn’t seen Gordon last night. And now, today, as she sat with the phone in her hand, the yellow pages open on the coffee table in front of her, she felt guilty, but she needed to call and talk to a police officer, find out if what that
woman told her on Friday night was true. Before she could punch in the number, she heard a knock on the door.
“Brandy?” called Gordon’s voice. “It’s me. Let me in.”
She was seized by a moment of panic. The guilt she felt about calling the police was probably written all over her face.
“Brandy?” He pounded on the door. “Come on!”
When she let him in, he gave her a quick kiss, then crossed into the living room. He looked so sweaty and tired that she glanced outside.
“Where’s your truck? I thought you were getting it back today.”
“It’s still not fixed. I walked over from my office.”
“That’s five miles!”
“I know. Look, I need to borrow the Dodge again. But I’ve got great news.” He turned around and smiled. “I want you to pack your bags. I’ve got to get out of this town for good, and I’m taking you with me. Anywhere you want. We could go on a cruise before we settle somewhere. Or maybe Paris.” His eyes dropped to the yellow pages.
Oh, Lord, she thought. She’d circled the sheriff’s number.
He sat down on the couch, pulled the yellow pages onto his lap. When he looked up at her, he saw the phone in her hand. All expression died on his face. “What are you doing, Brandy?”
“I, ah … there were some teenagers going door to door. They were demanding money. I gave them ten dollars because they frightened me. I thought I should call the police, let them know about it.”
“I didn’t see any teenagers.”
“It was a while ago.”
“You’re lying.” Something in his eyes had turned bitterly cold.
She backed up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
“Because I hate liars. Are you going to turn on me now, too? Just like Joanna and all the other women I’ve loved?”
“Gordon, please. I’d never turn on you.”
“Then why do you need to call the police?” He stood, moved toward her. “This was supposed to be my lucky day. Today would be payback for everything I’ve suffered. Now you’ve gone and ruined it.”
“I didn’t mean to,” she said, backing up several more steps.
“What am I going to do with you?”
“Gordon, don’t. Please don’t hurt me!”
He grabbed her and dragged her into the kitchen. She struggled, but it was like trying to fight off King Kong. Before she knew it, he’d found some duct tape in one of the drawers and bound her hands behind her back. He forced her down on a chair, then wound the tape around her again and again, finishing with her ankles.
“While I’m gone, think about what I should do to you for betraying me.” He stood over her, sweat beading on his forehead.
“When are you coming back?”
“You don’t deserve an answer. You don’t deserve me.”
The last thing he did before he left was to tape her mouth. She heard the car start up and drive away, heard the clock ticking on the wall, measuring the last moments of her life.
Bel Air, California
Spring–Summer 1989
Over the next few weeks, wherever Joanna went, Gordon was there. Sometimes he was watching from a balcony, sometimes from a seat at the same restaurant or theater. When she was at the studio, he sat in his truck across the street and waited for her. He never tried to approach her, but his presence was pressure enough.
One month to the day after Joanna had thrown him out, the phone calls began. They came at all hours of the day or night, entreaties to take him back, to give him another chance, to see for herself that he’d changed. He promised that if she’d just talk to him, have lunch or coffee, she’d realize they were meant to be together. The fact was, what Joanna could see was that Gordon was coming apart mentally.
As the months dragged on, Joanna no longer answered her phone. But that didn’t stop Gordon. He’d leave long rambling messages for her, talking about his childhood, his wrestling championships, his ex-girlfriends. Or he’d talk about the future, how he was planning to landscape her place, how they could then sell it for big bucks and move to Texas together. He’d always wanted to live in Texas, on the gulf, and knew Joanna would love it there, too. He begged her to call him back, or have coffee with him. And he continued to send roses every week like clockwork.
Gordon was like a piece of gum Joanna couldn’t shake off her shoe. In mid-July,
she talked to a friend of hers, a cop, and made him listen to some of the messages, but he said there was nothing he could do. He suggested that she get a restraining order against Gordon, just in case things turned nasty. So that’s what she did. The day he was served, he called and left a message. The words were still beseeching, but the tone was slightly different. She could tell his frustration was at an all-time high. He was growing angry, and that anger made him seem ten times more dangerous. She began to wonder if the restraining order had been a mistake.
Joanna didn’t understand it at first, but the restraining order did mark a sea change. Gordon’s messages grew more testy, more demanding. When he followed her, he’d move up as close to the back of her car as he could without actually bumping into her. He’d honk his horn, scream at her, make obscene gestures. She could see it all in her rearview mirror. One day, on her way home from a hair appointment in Beverly Hills, he tried to run her off the road.
That was it. She called her cop friend again, but when she explained that there hadn’t been any witnesses to Gordon’s attempt to kill her—and that’s what it was in Joanna’s mind—he said there was nothing he could do. He was sorry. She wasn’t the first celebrity to have this kind of problem, nor would she be the last. He suggested a bodyguard. She suggested something sexual and highly unpleasant. That was the end of her friendship with the cop.
The phone calls continued, but now they were harassing. Gordon called her filthy, vile names. He blamed her for ruining his life, said she was a closeted lesbian and that’s why she could never love him. He said he planned to give an interview to The Pasadena Star, let everyone know what the real Joanna Kasimir was like. But Gordon wasn’t stupid. He might slander her on a taped phone message, but he knew enough not to do it in print.
One night she came home and found the word “lesbian” spray-painted in red on her garage door. She quickly had it repainted. Two days later, while she was eating dinner, a brick was hurled through her front window. She moved to a hotel until it was repaired. The phone calls kept coming, as did the roses with pleading messages of love and forgiveness. She felt as if she were living inside a fun house mirror. Everything felt off-kilter, stretched, or compressed. She was starting to limit everything she did, evaluating if the event was worth the risk. Shadows in the house terrified her.
One night she lost electric power. She ran to the front window and looked
out at the house across the street to try to determine if the grid in her area had gone down. When she realized it was just her house, she called an ex-boyfriend—a professional stuntman—and told him what had happened, asked him to come over right away. And then she sat in her bed, holding a kitchen knife in both hands, waiting for Gordon to break down the door. He never did. When the stuntman arrived, he found the spot where the lines had been yanked and called to have them repaired. He spent the night. The next day, Gordon’s message went on and on about what a slut she was. Feeling unhinged and at her wit’s end, she called her security company and asked if they could install an electrified fence around her property.
They couldn’t.
Joanna was growing increasingly desperate. She hired a bodyguard to live in her house, but after he walked in on her in the bathroom while she was taking a shower, she fired him. She didn’t trust anyone anymore. Her one prayer was that Gordon would eventually grow tired of his game and leave her alone, but if anything, the harassment seemed to be growing worse.
By September, she didn’t even want to leave her house for fear of what he might do. Not that she felt safe at home. As far as she could tell, he was watching her almost all the time. In the last few days, he’d started commenting on her clothing, down to the last detail. She assumed he must have bought himself some high-powered binoculars. She pulled her shades and drew her curtains and lived in the dark.
And then the worst phone call came. It was the middle of the night. She listened to the message as he spoke it into the machine. He talked about the gun he’d bought, how he’d been practicing with it at various shooting ranges around L.A. That he was a surprisingly good shot. And he said he’d found a new bookstore that carried some fascinating books. He mentioned a couple of the titles by name, telling her that she might like them, too. She had a girlfriend run down and pick them up the next day. They were all about bondage, about sexual torture. Again, he hadn’t threatened her, but the message was clear.
The following night he called and said he planned to see her soon, that she should put a light on in the window for him, that he missed her and still loved her—and that he intended to show her how much the next time they were together.
Joanna freaked. She packed a bag and left the house. It was already dark, so
it was easy to tell if someone was following her just by watching for headlights. Nobody was. She made it all the way to West Sunset before she even saw a truck, and this one was red and much smaller than Gordon’s white Ford. She checked herself into a bungalow suite at the Beverly Hallmark, exhausted and nauseous with fear. She had no intention of telling anyone except her agent, Marybeth Flagg, where she was until she’d talked to her lawyer. The police could go to hell as far as she was concerned. But there had to be some way to stop this harassment.
She slept until ten the next morning, then took a swim in the pool outside the bungalow. Feeling safe for the first time in months, she ordered lunch from room service, then spent the afternoon on the phone. Her lawyer was out of town, so she was passed along to one of his partners, a man named Stan Hilliker. She had a long conversation with him during which he told her to start documenting Gordon’s attempts to harass her. And he insisted that she hire another bodyguard, said he would vouch for the agency he recommended. He offered to arrange it and said he’d call her back later in the day with more specific information.
After hanging up, Joanna felt resigned to the fact that she would have to do the bodyguard thing again. Gordon had left her no other choice. Hilliker echoed her own thoughts that Gordon would eventually get tired of harassing her. But who knew how long that would take? Hilliker said that a bodyguard would ensure that it was sooner rather than later. When Luberman saw she was being protected, he would realize that contact with her was impossible.
From your mouth to God’s ears, she thought, closing her eyes and hoping like hell it would happen just that way.
Joanna napped until four, when a phone call from Hilliker woke her. He gave her the name of the agency and the agent to ask for, explained the fees, how the service worked, and said that if she gave him the go-ahead, he could have the man stop by the bungalow in the morning. She agreed to everything he suggested.
After a swim in her private pool, she watched some TV and dozed. As it was getting dark, she flipped through the hotel menu again and ordered dinner. Her agent, Marybeth, called while she was eating, just to make sure everything was okay. Joanna said she felt more confident now that she’d talked to a lawyer. Marybeth said to call her in the morning, and Joanna promised she would.
Around ten, she went out by the pool to have a cigarette. She thought about fixing a drink but didn’t feel like going back inside. She was too comfortable. It was such a beautiful fall evening. She realized it had been months since she’d had the guts to sit by her own pool. She watched the light play on the water, let her mind drift.
A click next to her ear startled her. Ducking away, she looked back and saw Gordon standing over her. He was holding a gun. Her world slid sideways.
“Scream and I’ll kill you. Get up.”
“How … how did you find me?”
“Why, Joanna, I never lost you.”
“But … I never saw your truck.”
“I sold it. Move.”
She did what he asked. He pushed her back in through the patio doors, told her to sit down on the edge of the bed.
“What are you going to do?” she asked, her voice weak and trembling.
“What would you like?” He pulled a roll of duct tape from behind his back, making quick work of tying her hands and feet. And then he forced her to lie back.
She sucked in her breath when he knelt on the bed next to her and touched her hair.
“Don’t, Gordon. Please!”
“Christ, woman, it’s been so long. I told you when we were first together that I was nobody’s one-night stand.”
“I know. I believed you. You were never that.”
“No?” He slapped her hard across the face. “That’s exactly what you made me. You never understood me. I told you I wanted to be with you forever—for eternity.”
“Yes,” she said quickly, hoping he wouldn’t hit her again.
“Yes what?”
“Yes, I remember you saying that.”
“I told you I loved you.” He straddled her, put his hands around her waist, and lifted her up. “And what did you do? You spit in my face.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You are?”
“Yes. Absolutely.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true! But you scare me.”
His grip eased. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
“I know you don’t.”
He brought his face close to hers, searched her eyes. She could smell the beer on his breath. The fact that he’d been drinking scared her because he never drank.
“Are you worth loving, Jo? Are you?”
“Yes!”
His face softened. “I thought so once.”
“Gordon, you have to understand—”
He slapped her again. “Shut up! God,” he said, rubbing a hand through his hair, “I’m so tired.”
“I know you are.”
“You can tell?”
“Sure.”
He looked around, saw the minibar. Climbing off her, he yanked the door open and stared at the contents. “Lots of booze. Some peanuts. Chocolate chip cookies. A feast.”
She didn’t respond. She had to lift her head to see him now.
“You’ve made me into a drunk, Jo. Are you happy?” He removed several of the small bottles. Dropping down on a chair, he opened them one by one and drank them. “I’m on my last three hundred bucks thanks to you. Had to sell my truck. Bought a junker, which I’ve been living in for the past few weeks.” He looked around at the suite. “This place is much nicer. I told myself when I left home that I’d never live in a dump. I like it here.”
“Then you should stay,” said Joanna.
“Yeah, think I will, Jo, whether you like it or not.” He reached over and removed a bunch more bottles, then eased back in his chair, let his legs fall wide apart. “I’m still thinking we should go to Texas.”
“Sure, I’d like that.”
“No, you wouldn’t.”
“I would. It’s just … like I said … you scare me sometimes, Gordon.”
He grunted, downed the liquor in a couple more of the tiny bottles.
“That’s why I don’t want to be around you.”
“That’s all?”
She couldn’t tell if he was drunk, but if he kept removing bottles from the minibar, he would be soon. Maybe she could wait it out. If he drank enough, maybe she could get away.
He sat for a while in silence, drinking and eating peanuts. When he got up to retrieve a few more bottles, he stumbled, nearly fell. “Crap,” he said, opening the minibar door and staring inside. He filled his arms this time, looked a second more, and grabbed a package of Ritz crackers.
“Let’s talk,” he said, dumping it all on the bed next to her. Sitting cross-legged, he ripped open the crackers. “You miss me?”
“I missed you a lot.”
He snorted, cracked a bottle of Dewar’s. “You can blow shit with the best of them, Jo.” As he continued to drink, he talked about his girlfriend in high school, how she fell out of a four-story window and broke her neck. Joanna was waiting for the punch line. About an hour after he’d started the tale of woe, it finally came.
“I pushed her,” he said, his words so slurred by then she could hardly understand him. “She was a skank. Total skank. Didn’t deserve to live.”
All the bottles were empty. Gordon teetered to the right, then to the left. He pushed off the bed but fell back onto it, his body half covering hers. She waited a few minutes until he started to snore, then tried to wiggle free.
He woke with a start, reached his arm around her and pulled her even farther underneath him. “Don’t leave me, Jo,” he mumbled.
She didn’t dare move for the rest of the night.
By seven the next morning, sunlight was streaming in through the partially open curtains. Joanna couldn’t believe she’d actually slept, but she must have because time had passed. Gordon had been lying on top of her all night. He’d never moved. She was wide awake now, her mind moving at the speed of light. When he finally opened his eyes, he’d have one hell of a headache, which meant he’d be in a foul mood. He hadn’t raped her last night, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t.
She lay motionless for the next few hours, listening to his soft snoring. At exactly ten after nine, the phone rang.
Gordon jumped. Turning on his back, he looked up. “God, stop that noise!”
He sat up, glanced at the phone, then back at Joanna. Rubbing his face hard with the flats of his hands, he said, “Answer it. Sound normal.” He picked it up and held it next to her ear.
“Hello,” said Joanna, clearing her voice.
“It’s Marybeth. Did I wake you?”
“No.”
“Are you okay?”
“Oh, no,” said Joanna, emphasizing the last word but sounding as casual and chipper as she could under the circumstances.
“You’re not?”
“Yeah, not at all.”
“What’s … I mean … you’re not okay?”
“No, dummy. Don’t be so dense.”
“Is … Christ, is Gordon there?”
“Yup. But I can’t talk now. If you’re around tomorrow, maybe we can connect.”
“Holy shit!”
“Yeah. That’s nice of you to say. Later, babe.”
“Who was it?” asked Gordon, hanging up the phone. He seemed a little dazed, not quite awake. Thank God he wasn’t, or he might have listened to the call.
“My agent.” Joanna needed to use the bathroom but was afraid to ask.
He stared at the phone a moment, then took it off the hook. “We don’t want any interruptions.”
She wasn’t sure what to say. Staying calm was primary. “Want some breakfast?”
He pressed a hand to his stomach, then got up and rushed around looking for the bathroom. Joanna could hear him throwing up. He came back eventually, a wet towel around his neck.
“Feeling better?”
“Yeah. Thanks.”
“Do you think I could use the bathroom?”
He eyed her. “No funny business.”
“None. Promise.”
He took a knife out of his pocket and cut off the tape, then stood outside
the bathroom door until she was finished. She took so long that he told her to hurry up. She assumed Marybeth would call the police. She had to stall until they arrived.
“Think maybe we should have some breakfast,” he said, forcing her back down on the bed.
“Don’t tie me up again. Please?”
He gave her a grumpy smile. “I never wanted to do that.”
“I know. The menu’s on the couch.”
He stepped over and picked it up. “Hell, let’s just order what we want.” Pressing the phone back on the hook, he punched in the number for the restaurant. “What do you feel like?”
“Whatever you’re having is fine.”
He ordered eggs over easy, bacon, toast, American fries, orange juice, and coffee black. He listened a moment, then said thanks. “About half an hour,” he added to Joanna. “Hmmm, wonder what we could do to while away half an hour.”
Her stomach flipped over. “Gee, don’t know.” She forced a smile.
“God, but you’re beautiful.”
His breath stank of vomit, but she kissed him anyway. He came so fast he couldn’t even get his pants off. Lying on his back, his breath was labored and raw. “Let’s try that again,” he said, looking over at her and smiling. “Only this time, let’s do it right.” He ordered her to get undressed while he watched. As she unsnapped her bra, he opened up the bed and crawled in, staring at her with a grin on his face. “Come here,” he said, opening his arms.
Joanna sat down on the edge. She was just about to lie down next to him when the door was rammed open and three cops rushed into the room, guns drawn. Joanna screamed, jumped off the bed, and ran behind them, shouting, “He tried to rape me! Look at my face! He hit me!”
Gordon held up his hands, looking wide-eyed and innocent.
“Arrest him!” demanded Joanna. “He tied me up. He’s been harassing me for months!”
The lead cop scratched the back of his head, then looked at Gordon and said, “I think you better come with us.”
“This is ridiculous,” muttered Gordon. “She’s a liar. You can’t believe a thing she says.”
“I need to call my lawyer,” said Joanna. “He knows what’s been going on.”
“You got a weapon?” asked one of the other cops.
“No,” said Gordon.
“Yes,” said Joanna. “A gun. In his boot, by the foot of the bed.”
“Better get dressed, Ms. Kasimir,” said the lead cop. As he began to gather things up, he found the snarl of used duct tape.
“She likes it rough,” said Gordon, cracking his neck. “Nothing illegal about that.”