Chapter 24: Your Move

Los Angeles, California
February 2, 1996

The Gateway Tower building was not really a tower, per se, certainly not by Los Angeles standards. It barely qualified as a high-rise, standing only fifteen floors above the north side of Wilshire Boulevard in Brentwood. Still, it was an attractive building of modern design and construction, with a wide turn-in out front and valet parking. And the neighborhood was pretty nice as well, quite close to the Brentwood Estates recently made famous by a former NFL football player and his late ex-wife.

The offices of Brackford, Redman, and Jackson, attorneys at law, were on the fifteenth floor of the building and were the only tenants located on that level. BR&J, as the partners and grunts called the firm among themselves, did not have a particular specialty, but, rather, several different categories of law they practiced. There was a criminal defense department, a family law department, a will and probate department, a taxation and incorporation department (this was the largest, with eight grunts, sixteen paralegals, and one partner assigned), a personal injury department (this was the smallest, with only two grunts and one paralegal), and a copyright and trademark department. The firm’s target clients were the upper classes of the southern California region—the real estate developers, wealthy business owners, trust-fund children, and others with a net worth in the mid to high six figures who needed some sort of legal representation—and their hourly rates reflected this. As did the attorneys they employed. These were not sleazy ambulance chasers recently graduated from Billy Bob’s School of Law and Automobile Repair, but top of their class graduates of schools such as Berkeley, Stanford, UCLA, Gould, or Loyola. Even the most junior lawyer of the firm was a specialist in the area of law he or she practiced and was pulling in no less than a hundred grand a year, not including bonuses and benefits.

Celia Valdez sat before one such lawyer right now, in a little office that overlooked Wilshire Boulevard. Her name was Anwara Khatun-Nelson. She was an exotically beautiful woman in her early thirties, her skin a rich olive color, her hair jet-black and immaculately styled, her business pantsuit and blouse combo both professional and feminine at the same time, obviously custom-tailored to her curvy body and with no expense spared. She had a wedding ring on her left hand that had to have cost in the mid five figure range. Her English was impeccable and exact, bespeaking of one who was extremely well read, and had not a hint of accent. There were two framed pictures on her desk. One was of a smiling blonde haired, suntanned male in a pair of shorts and a t-shirt and holding a surfboard while standing on a beach. The other was of a beautiful little girl of perhaps five years of age in a sundress. Her skin was of a considerably lighter shade than Anwara’s, but her hair was the same shade of black and her facial features shared an unmistakable familial resemblance. On the wall behind the desk were two framed degrees. One was a Bachelor of Science in Philosophy from UCLA. The other was a law degree from the University of California at Berkeley School of Law.

Anwara was part of BR&J’s Family Law department. Her specialty was divorce. This was Celia’s first meeting with her. The firm itself had been recommended to her by Pauline Kingsley, who had been personally using their services for estate planning and taxation for the past six years and for copyright and trademark issues for KVA for the past three years. Pauline had no experience with their family law department, but she personally knew all three of the major partners and, while they were lawyers and could not be really trusted on that basis alone, she was confident that they would have no hackers or slackers on their payroll and that they would give their wealthy client their all.

Celia was tired and quite worn out as she sat across the oak desk from her new lawyer. Only ten hours before, she had been in Phoenix, just finished with her first of two shows in the desert metropolis. From the show, she had gone back to the hotel room just long enough to pack a simple bag and then head to the airport for a private flight to LAX. She arrived at Jake and Laura’s Granada Hills home just before two o’clock this morning, where she had then struggled to sleep in a strange bed under stressful circumstances. Still, she was dressed nicely this morning, in a black pantsuit and maroon blouse, her hair neatly done and even a light coating of makeup on her face. On the Berber carpeted floor next to her was a leather briefcase.

“That is a terrible story,” Anwara said to Celia after hearing her tale of marital infidelity, a pregnancy, and the coming wave of media publicity that would wash over her when the story broke. “I’m sorry that this has happened to you.”

“Yeah,” Celia said with a nod. “Me too. But I’m going to try to make the best out of this bad situation.”

“I understand completely,” the lawyer said, nodding confidently. “Now ... you said there was a prenuptial agreement signed by you prior to the marriage, correct?”

“Yes,” Celia said, nodding. “He insisted on it. I suppose I can see his point now. At the time we got married, I had virtually nothing and he was worth around ten million dollars.”

“Virtually nothing?” Anwara asked, surprised. “But ... you got married at the height of La Diferencia’s popularity. I remember because I was a big fan of La Dif back then. And, if I haven’t mentioned it yet, I’m an even bigger fan of your music now.”

“Thank you,” Celia said with a quick smile, “but we were operating under a first-time music contract back then. I’m guessing you don’t deal too much with those, because if you did, you’d know that first-time contracts virtually guarantee the artist or band will not make squat.”

“Really?”

“Really,” Celia assured her. “In fact, when our contract with Aristocrat Records expired about a year after Greg and I got married, La Dif was more than two hundred thousand dollars in debt to Aristocrat from all of the recoupable expenses.”

“Two hundred thousand dollars ... in debt?”

“That’s right,” Celia said sadly. “The music business is a sleazy one. Of course, we didn’t pay them any of that, not after they refused to pick me up under a favorable solo contract. And they never really pushed for it either. When KVA signed with them for MD&P on our previous projects, they finally found it in their hearts to forgive that debt.”

“MD&P?” the lawyer asked, confused.

“Manufacturing, distribution, and promotion,” Celia clarified. “We are not entirely independent of the record labels. We compose and record our own music but have to rely on one of the big four record companies to manufacture the CDs, distribute them across the world for sale, and, most important, to use their contacts to get radio airplay for them and promote them.”

“I see,” she said slowly. “And ... when you say ‘we’, you’re talking about...”

“Jake Kingsley,” she said. “He’s my partner in crime. Not many people realize this, but the two of us founded KVA together, along with Bill Archer and his wife Sharon and Jake’s sister, Pauline.”

“And ... uh ... you and Mr. Kingsley aren’t ... you know ... involved on more than that level?”

“Of course not,” Celia scoffed, putting just the right amount of offended huffiness in her tone. “We’re friends. We have been for years. There has never been anything like that between us.”

“I see,” Anwara said, making a few notes on a legal pad. “Well ... in any case, I’ll definitely need a copy of that prenup you signed with Greg. It will limit how hard we can go after him, but I can usually find a few loopholes and precedents to attack a prenup with. It’s very likely he’ll agree to a settlement of some kind instead of fighting it out. After all, you’re worth considerably more these days, aren’t you?”

“Considerably more,” she agreed. “I’ll be calling my accounting firm later today to get them to start preparing a report for you, but I know that my current net worth is in the neighborhood of eighteen million dollars, plus I’m a one-fourth partner in KVA—an entity that Greg has absolutely no financial interest in and that he will have no claim upon since that same prenup he insisted we sign keeps his greasy little hands off of my assets.”

Anwara nodded, impressed. “I’m guessing he will find that unpleasantly ironic.”

“Probably,” she agreed.

“I only hope his lawyer is not as good as I am. That could lead to a protracted fight from his side if he wants to go after your music income as community property.”

“I seriously doubt that,” Celia said.

“You do?”

“I do,” she confirmed. “I’m not really expecting that there will be a huge fight between Greg and I.”

“You’re not?”

“No, not at all.”

“Uh ... what makes you think this?” she wanted to know.

“He told me he wouldn’t.”

Anwara looked at her client as if she were mad. “He ... told you he wouldn’t?”

“That’s right,” Celia said.

“And ... you believe him?”

“I do,” she said with a melancholy smile. “We’re not your typical Hollywood celebrity couple. Greg may have trouble keeping his zipper closed, but he’s a fair and reasonably moral person. I expect the actual divorce proceedings to be quite amicable. I’m not planning to go after what he has, and he assures me he will not be trying to go after what I have. We have no children to fight over and we’re both worth about the same amount of money.”

Anwara seemed quite confused now. “Then ... we’re not going to go after him either?” she asked.

“Not unless he goes after me first,” she said. “And he’s already told me he won’t do that. This is not likely to be a contested divorce unless his lawyer manages to talk him into a really bad move. He has the two houses, both of which he bought before we were married, and I don’t want any part of either one of them. I have KVA Records and all of the money I’ve made from it since we started it. He has his golf course project up in Coos Bay and I have no financial interest in that. This whole process will just be a matter of us taking back what is already ours and making it nice and legal.”

“You don’t want a cut of his golf course project?” Anwara said, appalled. “But ... but ... that was purchased after you were married. You could have a reasonable claim on half of it.”

“It was purchased with his money,” Celia said. “We have always kept our accounts separate. No, the golf course is his project paid for with his income. He can keep it.”

“He can keep it?” Anwara asked, shaking her head in disbelief, as if the entire fabric of what she believed in and held sacred had suddenly torn right before her eyes.

Celia simply shrugged. “He can keep it,” she confirmed. “What the hell do I want with a golf course that isn’t even built yet? For now, I just need to get the initial paperwork filed. It’s very important that that be done before the close of business hours today.”

“Why is that so important?” she wanted to know. “Once we file, the story is as good as broken. You do know that, right? Whatever clerk I file the paperwork with will be on the phone to Entertainment Weekly or the American Watcher before I’m even back in my car.”

“I do know that,” Celia said with a smile. “In fact, I’m counting on it.”

Anwar raised her eyebrows. “You’re counting on it?”

“Indeed,” Celia said. “I want the story to break. So does Greg. We want it to be public knowledge that we’re divorcing before Mindy Snow gets a chance to tell her version of events.”

“Her version of events? What is that?”

“God only knows,” Celia said, “but it will be a version that serves Mindy Snow’s interests, which are very unlikely to coincide with the interests of Greg and I, and are likely to be detrimental to them.”

The lawyer shook her head again. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”

“Because you don’t know Mindy Snow,” Celia said. “How about I tell you about her?”

“Please do,” Anwara said.

“And this remains confidential, right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Attorney-client privilege is in effect as of the moment you signed those papers retaining this firm.”

Celia thought this over for a moment and then nodded. “All right then,” she said. “Let me tell you a story.”

She told the tale. And her high-priced lawyer, who had lived through the brutal, bloody war of independence in Bangladesh as a child, who had fought and struggled her way through years of prejudice and indifference after her family emigrated to the United States after that war, who had managed to educate herself, gain acceptance to and graduation from one of the most prestigious schools of law in her new country, and, who had represented dozens upon dozens of upper-class divorce clients during her tenure at BR&J, was shocked.

The papers were filed at the Los Angeles County Superior Court building at one o’clock that same afternoon. At 3:30, only an hour and a half later, Pauline’s business phone began to ring on her desk at the KVA studio building. She picked it up.

“What’s up?” she asked.

“I have Bernadette Tapp from the Los Angeles Times on the line,” said her secretary. “You said to let you know if any reporters called.”

“That’s right,” Pauline said, smiling. “I’ll talk to her.”

“Line one,” she said and then broke the connection.

Bernadette Tapp, Pauline thought with satisfaction. That clerk down at the courthouse has a good connection. Tapp was the lead writer and investigator for the Times’ entertainment department, which was mostly concerned with celebrity gossip. Pauline had ‘no comment’ed her many times in the past. I wonder how much Bernadette pays for information like this. A hundred dollars? Maybe two hundred?

She picked up the phone and punched the flashing button for line one. “This is Pauline Kingsley,” she said pleasantly. “How can I help you?”

“Pauline!” Tapp’s voice crooned in her ear, as if they were old friends who had not seen each other in a long time. “Thanks for taking my call.”

“No problem. What can I do for you today?”

“Well, it has to do with Celia Valdez. You are still her manager and spokesperson, correct?”

“Correct,” Pauline confirmed. “What about her?”

“I have developed some information that Celia has filed for divorce from Greg Oldfellow today in LA County Superior court.”

“Really?” Pauline said, with no hint of surprise in her voice. “Where might you have developed information like that?”

“An anonymous source,” Tapp said.

“Of course,” Pauline said. “And you’re calling me to confirm this allegation?”

“Well ... yes and no,” Tapp said. “I already know it’s not an allegation. I’m holding a copy of the filing in my hand as we speak.”

“Perhaps it’s a forgery?” Pauline enquired. “Have you considered that?”

“No, I have not,” Tapp said blandly. “I am quite confident that this is a legitimate copy of an initial divorce filing.”

“Because of the source that gave it to you?”

“Right,” Tapp said. “Because of the anonymous source that gave it to me. Still, it would be nice to confirm this information with an official source; namely, you.”

“Well ... since it would be nice, I guess I can do that for you. It’s true. Celia has filed for divorce from Greg Oldfellow.”

“For what reason?” Tapp asked, her voice a little hungry now.

“Just what it says on the form,” Pauline told her. “Irreconcilable differences.”

“That is a catch-all phrase. It does not tell a story. The only other options on the form are incest, bigamy, or decreased mental capacity.”

“Then you know it’s not any of those things, right? That’s a story.”

“Not really,” Tapp said. “Details are what makes a story. That’s what I’m looking for here.”

“I have not been authorized to release any details of the situation between Celia and Greg,” Pauline told her. “All I will do is confirm information that is on the form you have.”

“Well ... if that’s the way you want to play it,” Tapp said, disappointed.

“That’s the way I’m playing it.”

“In that case, let me go to Box 3 of the form, the part labeled statistical facts. It lists the date of the marriage as June 14, 1989. Is that correct?”

“It is correct,” Pauline confirmed. “At Martha’s Vineyard, Massachusetts.”

“I covered the event back then,” Tapp said. “Just confirming my facts. Now, on the same line, it lists the date of separation as October 10, 1995.”

“That too is correct,” Pauline said.

“That’s almost four months ago. They’ve been separated all that time?”

“They have,” Pauline said. “This is not an overnight thing. It has been in the works for some time now.”

“But they were together at the Los Angeles premier of Us and Them on October 19,” Tapp said. “I was there. I talked to both of them. They seemed quite happy together.”

“It was an act,” Pauline told her. “They did not want to go public with the separation until after Us and Them had its run. They were actually hoping to keep things under wraps until after Celia came off tour.”

“Why did she file now then?” Tapp asked. “My understanding is that she postponed a concert in Phoenix that was supposed to be tonight. Did she fly home just to file for divorce?”

“I’m not at liberty to discuss that,” Pauline told her.

“She did, didn’t she? And, if true, that implies that something happened to change the timeline, right?”

“No comment on that,” Pauline said.

“How did they manage to be separated from each other for four months without anyone telling us?”

“Oh ... I don’t know,” Pauline said. “Maybe it’s because they have this strange idea that their personal lives are private and that they are not obligated to notify the entertainment press when they’re having marital problems.”

“Don’t be naïve,” Tapp said. “I know that these celebrities seem to feel they have a right to privacy and would not disclose anything themselves. I’m talking about how no one else ever let it slip. I mean, someone will usually contact us when something this juicy is occurring. A member of the house staff, a friend, a landlord or real estate agent who provides housing for whichever party moved out of the primary residence.”

“Well, in this case, all of Celia and Greg’s friends are loyal and respect their right to privacy, as do their house staff. And, as for the housing situation, if you must know, Celia has been staying in Jake and Laura Kingsley’s house in Grenada Hills when she’s in LA, but she has not been in LA much since the separation. She’s been out on tour since the first of the year, remember?”

“Jake and Laura Kingsley?” Tapp said. “What do they have to do with this?”

“They’ve been friends with Celia and Greg for years,” Pauline said. “Jake sang at their wedding, remember?”

“Oh ... yeah, now that you mention it, I do remember that.” A pause. “So ... Jake is taking Celia’s side in this thing?”

“Jake is taking nobody’s side,” Pauline said. “He’s just helping out a friend.”

“Oh ... I see,” she said. “Well ... does Celia have any statement that she wants me to quote in the article?”

“Just that she confirms that she has filed for divorce, that she and Greg are parting on good terms and will remain friends, and that she would request privacy in this trying time.”

“That’s all?”

“That’s all,” Pauline confirmed.

“Kind of boring,” Tapp said.

“I’m sorry that their divorce is not more entertaining for you,” Pauline said.

“That’s okay,” Tapp said. “It’s not your fault.”

After writing up her notes from her conversation with Pauline, Bernadette Tapp opened her notebook to a fresh page and then called John Stapleton, Greg Oldfellow’s long time agent. She was not expecting him to tell her anything but ‘no comment’, was not sure that Oldfellow even knew that his wife had filed for divorce yet, but, to her surprise, Stapleton was not only aware of the filing, but was willing to talk a little bit about it. He told her much the same things that Pauline had just shared: The marital problems between the two of them had been going on for some time, they had separated from each other back on October 10, had played nice together for the Us and Them premier, had been hoping to put off the filing until after Celia’s tour, but that something had occurred that upped the timeline. As to what it was that might have occurred, Stapleton was mute.

After ending the conversation, she got on her computer and went right to work. In only two hours she was able to pen a four-thousand-word article on Celia Valdez’s divorce filing, complete with background on the wedding, quotes from both Pauline and Stapleton, a strong implication that Celia had cancelled her Phoenix show just so she could fly home and file for divorce, and even a little bit about Jake Kingsley, not forgetting, of course, to mention that he had once snorted cocaine from a girl’s butt crack (allegedly). She then saved her work to a file on the computer and then walked over to the editor’s office carrying her documentation.

“Hey, Chief,” she greeted once she was in his office. “I got something you’re going to want to run in the morning edition. An exclusive.”

“Yeah?” he grunted. “What is it?”

“Celia Valdez filed for divorce from Greg Oldfellow today,” she said.

That got his attention. “This is legit?”

She dropped the copy of the State of California Form FL-100 on his desk. “It’s legit,” she said. “I’ve called the spokespeople for both of them and they confirmed it. They’ve been separated since October 10 and Celia cancelled a show in Phoenix for tonight and flew home to LA. She filed this afternoon, citing irreconcilable differences. She’s scheduled to make up the Phoenix date tomorrow night, so, presumably, she’s planning to fly back to Phoenix in the morning. Her manager would not actually say that she flew home just to file for divorce before the close of business hours today, but her actions certainly imply it.”

“Interesting,” the editor said. “And nobody else knows about this yet?”

“Nope,” she said. “We’ll be the ones to break the story.”

This put a smile on his face. “Let’s see what you got,” he said.

She told him where to find her file and he quickly opened it and began to read. He liked it, only making a few minor changes and not cutting anything out.

“We’ll put it on the front page,” he said. “Below the fold. I’ll need to dig up some file photos of the two of them.”

“Shouldn’t be that hard to do,” she said. “Maybe we could get that one of the two of them at the film premier back in late October.”

“I like it,” he said. “Let’s get to work.”

They got to work, and the next morning, the subscribers to the LA Times were treated to a front-page story about the pending divorce of the hottest popular music star of the past two years and her A-list actor husband.

Once the story was broken, it took on a life of its own. Before the day was out, Greg and Celia were top stories on television news broadcasts across the country. The entertainment press, miffed to have been behind the eight-ball on this, scrambled to catch up and pen or produce their own reports. They called Pauline and Johnny, fishing for more information, more quotes, more background. They got nothing. Neither of the agents even answered the phone; they just instructed their secretaries to say ‘no comment’ on the issue. Undeterred, they sent their reporters out into the field, usually with a photographer or a videographer in tow. They stalked Greg in Los Angeles, staking out his home, but he never left it.

Celia, on the other hand, was easier to find and stalk and did not have the luxury of seclusion. She had flown back to Phoenix and performed her show that night, apologizing to the crowd for the postponement but offering no other hints at what was going on in her personal life. When the band left the arena that night after the show, dozens of photographers, videographers, and reporters were waiting for her. They swarmed around her, flashing their cameras, shouting questions, so intent on getting something out of her that they did not even notice that Jake Kingsley was part of her entourage. She said nothing to them, not even ‘no comment’.

The break between the Phoenix shows and the Salt Lake City show had been intended to be an extended travel day. Unfortunately, because of the postponement, that was not to be. The roadies worked quickly and tore down the set, packing it into the trucks. Instead of heading off to hotel rooms, however, they climbed onto the buses and started the ten-hour drive to the capital of Utah. There was a show to do tonight and they needed to start setting it up by ten o’clock in the morning. They would sleep on the buses. The truck drivers would sleep when they got where they were going. Nobody was really happy about this, but once they heard the reason for it (all had seen the newspaper article, or the television reports, and a few had even been approached by reporters sniffing for details), they understood. Most could not help but wonder what kind of idiot would piss off Celia Valdez. After all, she was smoking hot and a great boss.

Celia, the band, and Jake had things a little easier. It was only a two-hour flight to Salt Lake City, so they were able to stay in their hotel room that night and then head to the airport after breakfast. There was a crowd of reporters and paparazzi at both places, but they ignored them.

“All right,” Celia said once they were airborne. “So far, so good. Now things start to get a little tricky.”

“How so?” asked Jake.

“Because we have to rely on the media sending us a troll,” she said. “What if that doesn’t happen?”

“It’ll happen,” Jake said confidently. “Trust me.”

“If you say so,” she said. “And what about Mindy? What if she decides to break her news early now that we’ve let the cat out of the bag?”

“I don’t think she will,” Jake said. “She’s going to want the initial sensation of the divorce filing to die down a little before she steps onto the stage for her part. She won’t want to be upstaged in her own story. I think she’s still probably planning to drop her bomb just before the nominations.”

“Let’s hope so,” Celia said.

“Yes, let’s hope I really can get inside her head and I’m not just talking out of my ass.”

There were even more reporters and paparazzi in Salt Lake City. They were also much more aggressive, demanding to know why Celia was divorcing Greg, demanding to know why she had told no one of the separation. They finally noticed that Jake was there as well, leading to another ridiculous line of questioning.

“Is it true that you and Jake have been having an affair and that’s the reason for the divorce?” shouted one reporter.

Jesus fucking Christ, Jake thought, unable to resist rolling his eyes and shaking his head. Even if that were true, like I would admit it in front of my wife, who is walking right next to me. These people truly are morons.

The band did the normal rounds of radio station interviews and record store signings. The paparazzi and the reporters were at each one but were kept at a distance by the security team. At the radio stations, the DJs who would be interviewing them were instructed to not ask anything about Celia’s divorce or her relationship. All agreed and all abided by their agreement. The same could not be said of the fans at the record store signings, however. Nearly all of them brought the subject up in one way or another. Many just told her they were sorry and that they were praying for her. But many others seemed to think it was appropriate to ask her questions about it. To all, she politely thanked them for their interest and told them that she preferred to keep her personal life separate from her music. Most accepted this. Those who did not got no autograph.

At 7:30 that night, she stepped onto the stage at the Delta Center, home of the Utah Jazz, and put on her show before nineteen thousand enthusiastic fans. She played her guitar and sang as she always did, and she entertained well. She said nothing about her personal life in her between-song banter. After the show, she had a few glasses of wine and ate her catered dinner. Once the arena was empty and the roadies were well into the process of tearing everything down for the trip to Boise the next morning, she, the band, and Jake all climbed into the limousine for the trip to the Hilton Salt Lake downtown. There were no groupies on this night, not even for Charlie and Coop, as Coop thought it might be disrespectable under the circumstances and Charlie feared that if he violated a Mormon girl he might be putting his immortal soul at risk.

Everyone headed directly for their suites upon arrival. All of them, with the exception of Jake and Laura, planned to hole up for the night. Jake and Laura took the time to smoke a little reefer out of her pipe and then headed downstairs to look for a troll. Thanks to religious-based alcohol laws in the state of Utah, the only bar in the hotel was in the steakhouse restaurant in the lobby, and, in order to drink there, the Kingsleys had to join the “Steakhouse Club” as members. Their membership cost them a dollar apiece and there was no attempt made to verify their information on the club applications they had to fill out.