Chapter 10: Meeting the Locals

Jimmy Walcott was arriving in his office a little bit late on that December 24. His wife June had demanded that he mounted the Christmas tree in the old cast iron stand before he left, but now he had a few hours to set up the servers for the holiday. Christmas or no Christmas, the people who frequented his websites would be expecting fresh meat. Jimmy was operating a total of seven websites that showed nothing but celebrity material, pics and videos, nudes and embarrassing moments, glamour or mug shots. He was not too picky. After burning his fingers a few times years ago, he had become good at weeding out problematic material, such as frames that also showed minors or other illicit material.

A lot of the stuff he showed was provided by "fans" who clandestinely filmed celebs in public, but he also paid good money to police contacts who provided him with mugshots of arrested celebs. He operated a very efficient upload site and several contact e-mail addresses. The advertisement banners he ran on the sites gave him a good income, even after he paid for the bandwidth he needed.

The last two weeks had been a windfall. He had gotten his hands on footage depicting the late and unlamented Don Brentano lying on his back at the side of Josh Hartwell's pool. A copy of the autopsy report and some long distance telephoto shots of Lana Hartwell's house had made for a 300% increase of the click rates, sending his advertisement income sky-high for the week.

Jimmy had posted those clips with grim satisfaction. Seven years ago, June Walcott, or June Lee, had been a hopeful at Superstar!, Brentano's casting show format. She made the final ten, placing as fourth eventually, and she had no recollection of the next two days. The only things that gave her a hint were a sore vagina and anus, plus an STD she had to cure. She was told that she had gotten drunk and turned wild and that security had to lock her into a room to sober up.

Jimmy had met her at the hospital where he had been treated for an ingrown toenail. He could not drive his car and she had no transportation. She drove him home and the rest was history. Now, seven years later, they had two kids and a loving marriage.

When Brentano was put on trial, they hired a temporary nanny and June spent every morning in court following the proceedings. She had cried when Kylie Henson had testified and she had cried when Melanie Renault had recounted the rape she had suffered. The night after the guilty verdict, June had nearly killed Jimmy in bed, and when the news of his death was broadcast she had visited him at the office for a wild fuck on his desk. Jimmy had to smile remembering the mess they had made.

He opened the in-tray of his primary contact e-mail address. There were only twenty new mails, and the first eleven had old celeb pics in the attachment, stuff that had circulated on the net for years. Number twelve had a small .wmv attachment. After running a virus check, Jimmy had a look at it. The short clip showed a shower stall of some sort from a fixed position high above the ground. A spy video.

Jimmy made a face. Stuff like that was dangerous. A shower stall is not a public place and even a celebrity has an expectation of privacy inside a shower booth. Sometimes, celebs leaked such clips on purpose to resuscitate a stalling career, but this one looked like genuine creepy stuff. He was half determined to commit the e-mail to the trash bin when he saw a small young woman and a wheelchair person entering the field of vision.

He sat up. He recognized the woman immediately. It was Melanie Renault and the guy in the wheelchair had to be that college boy she had almost killed. Again, problematic. The young man was not a celebrity, and showing him naked under a shower would be illegal as hell.

The clip ended here and Jimmy looked at the body of the message.

Jimmy was shaking his head. He knew a few bloggers who would cough up 12 Grand for a clip like that, but he was not one of them. Renault's uncle was Josh Hartwell, a powerful entertainment lawyer, and Jimmy did not feel like re-financing David Olsen's rehab for her. Besides, he would not do this to the girl. She had shown brass ones when she went up against Brentano and even her own mother. She had helped putting the old bastard eight feet under. No, in Jimmy's book, Melanie Renault was sacrosanct. Then he grinned. If he posted any sleazy stuff of her on his blog, June would probably carve him up.

He was halfway through answering that moron, essentially saying no and advising him of the trouble he was sure to get into, when he re-thought things. Somebody would grab the video and run it. The girl had enough on her plate as it was. Besides, it would make June very happy. He looked up the office of Warner, Hartwell & Mitchell, Attorneys at Law, on the internet and punched in the numbers.

"Warner, Hartwell & Mitchell, attorneys at law, how may I help you?" a receptionist asked.

"James Walcott here. I run a celebrity website and somebody offered me a spy video showing one of Mr. Hartwell's clients. I would like to pass on that information so that Mr. Hartwell may take steps to prevent this."

"One moment please. I will connect you to Mr. Hartwell's staff."

After listening to Swing music for a minute, another female voice sounded.

"Jane McCauley here. Mr. Walcott?"

"Yes."

"You are the proprietor of Nasty Secrets, The Naked Truth and Public Meltdown?"

"Yes, indeed."

"Mr. Hartwell is on leave over the holidays. I am a partner at Warner, Hartwell & Mitchell, attorneys at law, and I am familiar with Mr. Hartwell's clients. You claim that you were offered a clandestine video recording depicting one of our clients?"

"Yes. The video shows Ms. Renault, Mr. Hartwell's niece, in a shower, together with a young man who is wheelchair-bound." He heard a sharp intake of breath. "I very much admire Ms. Renault and I would never run anything that would hurt her. Should I just forward you the e-mail with the appetizer clip?"

"That would be very helpful, Mr. Walcott. It's mccauley at wahami.com. We appreciate your help," the woman said in a serious tone of voice. "I'll let Mr. Hartwell know immediately."

"No problem. It's Christmas after all. Have a nice holiday!"

"The same to you, Mr. Walcott," the voice sounded, before Jimmy put down the receiver. He quickly typed the address into the address field of the forwarding mail and pressed "Send". June would be proud of him he thought with a smile.

James McAdam was busy adjusting the Christmas tree in his living room with his wife specifying the needed adjustments and his daughter trying hard to suppress the laughter. Cliff was with his parents and the McAdams were enjoying a rare family moment.

"Mom, it's as straight as a bent tree can be," Kylie chided her mother.

"It's not bent!" Mabel protested.

"Mom, from where I sit it looks like a longbow, not a fir tree," Kylie kept needling her mother.

"Hah! Since when have Californians a clue regarding firs?"

Just when Kylie wanted to give another smart-ass answer, her mobile rang. She picked up the call.

"Henson," she said.

"Kylie, this is Josh Hartwell. Is your father still the DA?"

"Yes, sure. Why?"

"Would you please get him on the phone. I'm afraid it's urgent."

"Sure, Josh," she answered, looking at her father. "Dad, it's my attorney, Josh Hartwell. He asks to speak with you as the DA."

James took Kylie's phone.

"Clearwater County Prosecutor, James McAdam."

"Mr. McAdam, my name is Josh Hartwell, attorney at law. I have knowledge of a crime committed in your jurisdiction and I'm afraid it might be an urgent matter."

"Can you tell me what sort of crime, Mr. Hartwell?"

"I just learned that a Mr. Terence Herringer of Clearwater, Montana, is trying to sell a clandestinely taken video depicting my niece, Melanie Renault, while she was taking a shower at a local health club. He has offered the video to a blogger in LA for $12,000. The man recognized it for being illegal and contacted my office."

"Herringer, huh?" James rasped. "You say he secretly filmed your niece while she was in the shower? Have you evidence for that?"

"Yes, he sent a short teaser video along with his e-mail."

"Okay, Mr. Hartwell. Let's meet at the Sheriff's office. I'll call Sheriff Cramer."

"She's already with us, Mr. McAdam."

"Is she? Where exactly are you staying?"

"We're at Deputy Judy Olsen's house."

"I'll be there in ten minutes. No, make that fifteen. I've got to call and warn the judge."

"Thank you. I appreciate your quick response."

"Well, we won't have this sort of thing in our county. I'll see you in a few, Mr. Hartwell."

James picked up his own cell phone and pressed speed dial six.

"Judge Herbert? It's James McAdam. Sorry to bother today, but we have another situation with Herringer on our hands. This time he's been spying on naked women at the health club, and he's trying to sell the tapes to porn sites."

"You want a search warrant, James?"

"In a nutshell, yes. I haven't seen the evidence yet, but the guy who made the accusation is a big shot lawyer from LA, and the victim is the little actress in Judy Olsen's house, the Renault girl."

"I followed the case. I'll have the warrant ready for you when you drive by."

"Much appreciated, Justin. See you in a few."

For the umpteenth time on this day, Terry was checking his e-mail. Still, no answer. He fidgeted a little. Damn Christmas! Those jerks at that website were probably out buying last minute presents. Perhaps he should send out teasers to other sites? Or maybe not. Better wait a little bit longer.

There was a sound outside and Terry jumped up to look down into the loading area of the feed store. It was the mailman in his piece-of-shit Jeep. He had a small parcel as he approached the building. Terry was curious. Who would send him a Christmas present? The bell rang and Terry ambled downstairs to open the door. As soon as he unlatched the lock, the door burst inward. Three deputies rushed Terry, throwing him against the wall. He felt the cold steel of cuffs around his wrists.

Sheriff Cramer was standing in front of him waving a piece of paper.

"Terence Herringer, we have a search warrant for your premises. Further, be advised that you are under arrest pending charges of interstate trafficking of illicit pornographic material. You have the right to remain silent. If you give up this right..."

By then, Terry was catatonic and did not hear a word of his Miranda rights anymore. He felt numb as the deputies marched him to a cruiser and sat him in the back. He felt numb when they arrived at the sheriff's office and he was placed in a jail cell. He was still feeling numb when Sheriff Cramer sat across from him in the interrogation room.

"Terry, Terry, you're really screwed," Cramer sighed. "Breaking and entering, criminal voyeurism, violation of the Federal Video Voyeurism Prevention Act and violation of the State Code on Surreptitious Visual Observation or Recordation. Add to that interstate trafficking of smut, and you're looking at two years. They'll put you on the Sex Offender List too. What the hell were you thinking?"

The accusations finally woke Terry from his stupor. He felt the anger rise inside. Sheriff Cramer had refused his application. She had reamed him out when he had brought down an armed hostage taker. Had it been his fault that Henson did not shoot the s.o.b. on the spot? He had spent a half year in the pen surrounded by criminals of the worst kind when he was only trying to be a good citizen. And now she was screwing him over again with these trumped up charges. The stupid Renault broad had almost killed young David Olsen, had taken away the chance for a Clearwater-born NBA star. What rights did she have? She was probably giving it away all the time, like all those sluts in Hollywood. What difference did it make if her scrawny ass could be seen by the rest of the country?

He stayed mute while his anger built up.

"Terry, is there any explanation you can come up with?"

"I did nothing wrong. The net is chock-full of those pics and clips showing them famous folks butt-naked. Nobody gets charged for that." The words broke forth from him in an angry outburst.

"Terry, the guy who hacked Scarlet Johanson's cellphone for those nude pics was sent to jail. This isn't just some state law. There is a federal law against what you did. Should I call in the Feds? They love stuff like that. They'll send you away to a federal prison. And once you've served your time, every time they're looking for a kidnapped kid in Montana, they'll be back to give you a hard time. Every time a girl gets raped, they'll come looking for you."

Cramer paused to let this sink in, and Terry had a sinking feeling. What Cramer said sounded just like the stuff he'd heard while in the pen. Sex offender list. The word alone made him cringe.

"Terry, we know that you don't want to be a criminal. You applied here, remember? Give me something so I can talk to the prosecutor!"

"Wha-what?" he croaked, all the anger gone and replaced by desperation.

"First of all, fess up! Tell me how you did it, when you did it, why you did it. Whom did you contact about the clip, who else did you film? Make a clean slate."

"I used to temp at the snowmobile shop. I knew the appliance shed has a crappy lock, so I rigged a small USB webcam and a WiFi router behind the boiler. I had a remote, so I was waiting for the Renault girl only. I didn't spy on any of the local ladies. I'm not a perv. I just need money bad."

"You owe money?"

"The lawyer still wants seventeen hundred off me, and it gets more and more on account of the interest."

"Wait a second here, Terry! What do you mean, you owe the lawyer?"

"Mr. Travers. He defended me when ... after Cliff Henson got shot."

"Why owe money? He was appointed as public defender by the judge. The county paid his fees."

"He said if I wanted real representation I'd have to sign a marker. Not that he did me a lot of good."

"Okay, we'll look into this. Now keep going."

"Not much more to tell. I made a small clip, a teaser, and sent it to that website. I wanted five grand, but I wrote twelve so he wouldn't haggle me down too far. That's all. How'd you cop to me?"

"The website owner forwarded your email to us. I told you, Terry – this stuff is illegal as hell. Plus, it would seem that the guy is a fan of Miss Renault, a real one, not a sick one." Cramer took a breath. "Now, do you have any paperwork about you owing money to Mr. Travers?"

Terry shook his head. "No. He said it's enough that I know I owe him."

"How much did you pay him so far?"

"I have to call him when I cash my paycheck. He waits outside the bank. He takes fifty and I barely make $320 a week."

"Okay, I see. Listen, Terry. I'm gonna go and speak to Mr. MacAdam. Can you post bail?"

Terry shook his head.

"Well, no harm. It's the holidays and you don't have to show at work. Let me try to work things out. You stay put and keep your mouth shut. Understood?"

"Yes, Ma'am," Terry almost whispered.

In the Olsen household the initial outrage over the privacy breach slowly subsided. At first, Melanie had simply been shocked. She had felt safe from the intrusions of paparazzi and other prying eyes in the small township. Then she felt anger at the lowlife who had spied on her and David and the news of his arrest and subsequent search gave her back some balance. She and David nevertheless made it a point to continue the exercises at Linda's health club.

Linda was even more crushed after hearing about Terry's spying operation in her shower stalls. If the spying had been going on for some time and if more of her customers had been filmed, she might face the loss of her business. Therefore, when she heard that Terry had targeted only Melanie Renault, she breathed a sigh of relief. She was effusively apologetic to Melanie nonetheless.

Melanie felt sympathy for the young woman and assured her that there would be no fallout from her side. She simply wanted to continue the exercises with David. Besides, how could Linda know or suspect such a thing? Therefore, Melanie and David went about their routines as on the days before.

David had been on the rower for about five minutes, when two other customers entered the room. Both were young women in their late twenties, a dirty blonde lanky woman and a black-haired woman with an impressive bust. She had a slight touch of the Goth scene with a cobra tattoo showing over her neckline. The two women ignored David and Melanie.

While the Goth chose the Stair Master machine, the blonde went through a series of stretching exercises. She had to be limber as hell Melanie thought. Once the warm-up was completed, the blonde moved to a large sandbag that was hanging from the rafters. She slipped on a pair of thin boxing gloves and started a series of hits of increasing force. After five minutes, she took off her sweat shirt and Melanie could see the play of muscles under the skin of her arms. Then she focused on the bag again with an attitude that showed this was not just some workout for her.

While the blonde was punishing the sand bag, Melanie was stretching on a floor mat, going through the exercises she knew from years of ballet and yoga classes. Lana had been of the opinion that Melanie needed ballet skills for her career and for the most part, Melanie had participated willingly. After the rape, when Lana lost any authority over Melanie, she had abandoned ballet in favor of yoga classes. She was small and limber and the stretching exercises had always come easy to her. Soon she was lost to the surroundings, concentrating instead on the exercises. She snapped out of it when she heard a snide voice.

"Oh my God! Carlisle must really need the money to let in trash like you!"

Melanie looked up to see a tall blonde confronting the two other young women, her hands on her fleshy hips. She was a tad too heavy for the spandex pants she wore and some flesh was spilling over the top.

The blonde at the sand bag turned around, a sheen of sweat covering her arms and upper body.

"Why, if it isn't the queen of Clearwater! You've gained some weight, haven't you?" Clearly, the blonde was not a friend of the newcomer.

"Be nice, Lori," the black haired woman interjected. "She's coming here, so she must be trying to lose the spare tire. Hi, Maxine. Long time, no see. I hear your boyfriend broke up with you? Well, that's déjà-vu all over again."

"Why, you slut! The nerve you have to show your face here! And with David Olsen and poor Miss Renault being here! I'll talk to the Carlisle woman. What if somebody sees Miss Renault with trash like you? The reporters will hound her for weeks!"

Three heads swiveled towards Melanie who was surprised to be the center of attention all of a sudden. She rallied quickly though, annoyance coming to her help.

"I don't know either of you ladies, but I assure you that, should I feel uncomfortable, it is over your tactless intrusion. The ladies were exercising and not bothering us. I can't say the same about you. I ask you to behave and do your exercises, or I will complain with the owner."

With that she tried to resume her exercises, but the newcomer wasn't done.

"Well, isn't that just nice? You run over poor David and cripple him for life, and now you get to decide..."

"Miss Jameson, shut the hell up!" David growled from his rowing machine. "I'm not crippled for life, and let me I remind you of your own DUI conviction last year! You had 0.12 and you were speeding. So mind your own business!"

The woman stared at David and Melanie expected steam to come from her ears, but she turned sharply and left.

"Well, that was fun," the black haired woman stated. Then she looked at Melanie.

"I'm sorry. I didn't recognize you."

"Me neither," her blonde friend concurred. "Then again, who'd expect a Hollywood star in Clearwater?"

"It's okay," Melanie answered, her anger waning. "I thought that everybody knew about us here."

"I only arrived day before yesterday," the blonde explained. "I live in Maryland and we come here for Christmas with my family. I'm Dolores Dresdner."

"Alex Greenbaum," her friend added. "I'm not from here at all, but Lori's brother is my boyfriend, or fiancé, or whatever."

Melanie was fighting the urge to ask why she might feel offended by their presence.

"Nice to meet you. I'm here with David's family. I usually live in LA, but we needed some time away."

Alex nodded sagely. "Yeah, I read about all that stuff in the news. My condolences, by the way." The blonde looked her question. "The Don Brentano trial? Brentano killed Miss Renault's mother and was shot when he tried to kill her too. It was all over the news two weeks ago."