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  Watch Your Back featuring James Scott Bell

  Copyright © 2007 by James Scott Bell

  All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Center Street

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com.

  The Center Street name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: October 2007

  ISBN: 978-1-599-95071-6

  Contents

  Copyright

  Watch Your Back featuring James Scott Bell

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 59

  Chapter 60

  Chapter 61

  Chapter 62

  Chapter 63

  Chapter 64

  Chapter 65

  Chapter 66

  Chapter 67

  Chapter 68

  Chapter 69

  Chapter 70

  Chapter 71

  Chapter 72

  Chapter 73

  Chapter 74

  Chapter 75

  Chapter 76

  Chapter 77

  Chapter 78

  Chapter 79

  Chapter 80

  Chapter 81

  Chapter 82

  Chapter 83

  Chapter 84

  Chapter 85

  Chapter 86

  Chapter 87

  Chapter 88

  Chapter 89

  Chapter 90

  Chapter 91

  Chapter 92

  Chapter 93

  Chapter 94

  Chapter 95

  Chapter 96

  Chapter 97

  Chapter 98

  Chapter 99

  Chapter 100

  Chapter 101

  Chapter 102

  Chapter 103

  Chapter 104

  Chapter 105

  Chapter 106

  Chapter 107

  Chapter 108

  Chapter 109

  Chapter 110

  Chapter 111

  Chapter 112

  Chapter 113

  Chapter 114

  Chapter 115

  Chapter 116

  Chapter 117

  Chapter 118

  Chapter 119

  Chapter 120

  Chapter 121

  Chapter 122

  Chapter 123

  Chapter 124

  Chapter 125

  Chapter 126

  Chapter 127

  Bonus Material

  Photos

  South LA Home

  Downtown LA

  Southeast Division

  Capitol Records

  Musso & Frank

  Men's Central Jail

  Vine St. Metro Station

  Why I Named the Character Ty Buchanan

  Why I Write About Los Angeles

  FOR CMB

  1

  ON A WET Tuesday morning in December, Ernesto Bonilla, twenty-eight, shot his twenty-three-year-old wife, Alejandra, in the backyard of their West Forty-fifth Street home in South Los Angeles. As Alejandra lay bleeding to death, Ernesto proceeded to drive their Ford Explorer to the westbound Century Freeway connector, where it crossed over the Harbor Freeway, and pulled to a stop on the shoulder.

  Bonilla stepped around the back of the SUV, ignoring the rain and the afternoon drivers on their way to LAX and the west side, placed the barrel of his .38 caliber pistol into his mouth, and fired.

  His body fell over the shoulder and plunged one hundred feet, hitting the roof of a Toyota Camry heading northbound on the Harbor Freeway. The impact crushed the roof of the Camry. The driver, Jacqueline Dwyer, twenty-seven, an elementary schoolteacher from Reseda, died at the scene.

  This would have been simply another dark and strange coincidence, the sort of thing that shows up for a two-minute report on the local news—with live remote from the scene—and maybe gets a follow-up the next day. Eventually the story would go away, fading from the city’s collective memory.

  But this story did not go away. Not for me. Because Jacqueline Dwyer was the woman I was going to marry.

  South LA Home

  2

  AS ERNESTO BONILLA’S lifeless body was falling through the air, I was in the conference room of Gunther, McDonough & Longyear, high above Westwood Boulevard. An African mahogany conference table the approximate value of the GDP of Ukraine separated me from one Claudia Blumberg, plaintiff. She was, at first glance, impossible to think ill of, which was a big consideration here. If this case ever went to trial, and she testified, she could make a great impression on a jury.

  It was my job to see that never happened. I had to tear into her so subtly and expertly that she and her attorney would not dare take this all the way. Do a Sopranos on her with sharp-tongued skill. Which I had in spades.

  The walking ego and boogie-woogie bluster sitting next to her was one Barton Walbert, a Buddha-like figure if you’re going by belly size. But his tactics were anything but divine. He was just waiting to throw legal grenades at me during the deposition.

  And he could do it. Walbert was one of the most successful plaintiffs’ attorneys in the country. He had won twenty multimillion-dollar verdicts, including one for close to a billion against one of the biggest corporations in the world.

  I was a pup compared to Walbert. He was fifty-three and in his prime. At thirty-four, I was just hitting my stride. But the arrogance of youth is a good thing for trial lawyers. Like the young gun who comes to town looking for the aging outlaw, wanting to test the best, I was loaded and ready.

  “Ms. Blumberg,” I said, “your attorney has explained to you why we’re here today, has he not?”

  “Yes.” She was cute, with short, auburn hair and intelligent brown eyes. There was a fragility about her that made her seem like porcelain. A jury would warm to her. I was Iceman.

  “You understand that you are under oath and that your answers must be truthful, just as if you were in court?”
r />   “Yes.”

  “Did you confer with your attorney before coming here today?”

  She hesitated a moment and glanced at her lawyer. “I’m okay,” she said.

  “I noticed that you looked at Mr. Walbert just then,” I said. “Is that because you’re not sure what your answers should be?”

  “Objection,” Walbert said. “What you notice is not relevant, Mr. Buchanan. Just ask questions.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do, Mr. Walbert.”

  “Relevant questions.”

  It was all just jockeying for position here. A couple of sumos stamping their feet, circling. Standard stuff. I liked to get the other attorney riled if I could. That might lead to a little game of quién es más macho? I always wanted the other attorney to lose a little cool in depositions, because it would be captured in transcript and maybe come out at trial. Of course, I’d never faced a Barton Walbert before. This could get interesting.

  Modern American litigation makes no pretense of the old collegiality. Back in the days when Melvin Belli was hoisting a skull and crossbones over his San Francisco office, trial lawyers could fight all day in court, then go out for dinner and drinks and tell tall tales of enrapturing juries by the sound of their voices. At least, that’s what my law professors used to say. But now, in keeping with the general tenor of the times, incivility is more the order of the day, and gloves are off. You used to take ten paces, turn, and fire. Now your opponent is as likely to turn on eight and shoot you in the back.

  “You need any water, Miss Blumberg?” I gestured at the silver pitcher on a tray on the table. Little drops of sweat on the outside of the pitcher mirrored what was going on in my pits. Which told me I was ready to go.

  “I’m fine,” Claudia Blumberg said. She was nervous, naturally. This was not her domain. And besides, being deposed ranks with root canals on the scale of things people most like to do.

  She was twenty-three years old and suing our client, Dr. Lea Edwards, for ten million dollars for libel, invasion of privacy, and harassment.

  3

  CLAUDIA’S STORY, AS laid out in the immortal prose of Barton Walbert’s complaint, was this. At seven years of age she was molested by her father. Shortly after that, her parents filed for divorce. The abuse became a central issue in the divorce proceedings, as her mother fought for custody. And won. She won largely because of the expert testimony of a psychiatrist, Dr. Kendra Mackee.

  Mackee was considered an expert in repressed memory therapy. Not everybody believes this to be legitimate science, including our client, Dr. Edwards.

  After the divorce, Claudia continued to see Dr. Mackee. But Claudia, as her story went, could not remember her father’s abuse. Her father, of course, denied the accusation and publicly called Dr. Mackee a quack and a menace. That Mackee did not sue for defamation was seen as a great career move. It got her a lot of publicity and tons more work with victims.

  When Claudia Blumberg was seventeen something startling happened, something that turned Dr. Mackee into a media darling. Under hypnosis, Ms. Blumberg suddenly recalled her father’s sexual trespasses in gross detail.

  And it was all caught on videotape in Mackee’s office.

  Mackee got a whole hour on Larry King as a result, smacking softball after softball into the seats. And stoking the ire of the noted memory skeptic, Dr. Lea Edwards.

  Edwards was so disgusted she wrote an article questioning Mackee’s methods and suggesting that Claudia was either lying or being manipulated. Edwards backed it up with information gathered, it was alleged, through means that invaded Claudia’s privacy.

  Which is why Claudia Blumberg went to Barton Walbert and why we were all dancing that day in the conference room of Gunther, McDonough & Longyear.

  “Ms. Blumberg, you first went to see Dr. Mackee when you were how old?”

  “Seven.”

  “Do you remember that, or have you been told this?”

  “I remember Dr. Mackee’s office.”

  “What do you remember about it?”

  “I remember that it had plants and a nice lady sitting in the front.”

  “What nice lady?”

  “The receptionist.”

  “Do you remember what she looked like?”

  Before she could answer, Walbert said, “I’ll object as to relevance, and instruct my client not to answer.”

  Walbert knew exactly what I was trying to do. If I could show that Claudia Blumberg’s memory of her experience as a seven-year-old was actually pretty sharp, that would undercut her claims of having lapsed into repressed memory. That, in turn, would strengthen my client’s position, as expressed in that article debunking the repressed memory claim in this case.

  The article that had prompted the lawsuit.

  “For the record,” I said, “you are instructing your client not to answer a question about her memory, correct?”

  “Relevance, Mr. Buchanan, that’s all.”

  “Your client’s memory is central to this case, sir.”

  “Your client is being sued for invasion of privacy and defamation, sir,” Walbert shot back.

  “And truth is a complete defense to the latter, sir.”

  All these sirs were like little gloves to the face. We were a couple of sword fighters insulting each other.

  “Ask your questions, Mr. Buchanan, and I’ll decide if they’re relevant, and if you disagree you can go ask a judge.”

  That was another ploy guys like Walbert used to great effect. If you had to keep going to court to get a judge to rule that a question had to be answered, the game could get pretty expensive.

  I went on. “So you recall certain things about Dr. Mackee’s office when you were seven, only those things your attorney has allowed you to share with us today.”

  Walbert’s cheeks pinkened like a Christmas ham. He touched Claudia’s arm and shook his head. Don’t dignify that with an answer, he was saying.

  I let it pass. “Did you continue to see Dr. Mackee after that first visit?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you continued to see her up to the present time?”

  “Yes.”

  “That would be about sixteen, seventeen years, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “And would it be fair to say that over the years Dr. Mackee and you discussed on numerous occasions the alleged abuse by your father?”

  “Objection,” Walbert said. “Doctor–patient privilege.”

  “I’m not asking about any content,” I said. “Just if such discussions happened.”

  “Same objection. I’m instructing my client not to answer.”

  I looked at Claudia Blumberg. “You can ignore your counsel’s advice and make life much easier.”

  Walbert stood up. “You will not address my client, Mr. Buchanan, unless it’s with a relevant question. Do it again and I’ll walk her out of here and seek sanctions against you.”

  Quién es más macho?

  I stood up, too, because Barton Walbert was about five-ten and I am six-two and wanted him to be reminded of that at every opportunity. “No need to blow, Mr. Walbert. The truth is what we’re after.”

  “You’re wasting everyone’s time. And if that’s what you want to do we’ll just end it right here.”

  “If you would allow me to ask a question, Mr. Walbert, we won’t have to waste Ms. Blumberg’s time by dragging her in here again.”

  “Relevant questions, Mr. Buchanan.” Walbert sat down again, as did I.

  “Ms. Blumberg, since Mr. Walbert is giving such sterling advice, perhaps he has discussed with you the concept of free speech, which is quite relevant to a suit for defamation. Has he?”

  “Objection. Attorney–client privilege.”

  “A whole lot of privilege going on,” I said. “I’ll ask you, Ms. Blumberg, if you gave Dr. Mackee permission to videotape your sessions.”

  This detail was key, and I knew Walbert could not in good faith object. Our contention was that by giving Dr. M
ackee permission to shoot video, Claudia Blumberg had waived any claim to privacy, which was part of her lawsuit.

  “Yes.”

  “And did Dr. Mackee tell you the reason she wanted to videotape your sessions?”

  “Yes.”

  “Tell me what she said.”

  Walbert said, “I’m going to direct my client not to answer, on grounds of privilege.”

  I was ready for him. “Then I’ll ask my question this way, Ms. Blumberg. And I remind you again that you are under oath here, just like you would be in a court of law. Dr. Mackee told you she wanted to video the sessions because she thought you were on the verge of a breakthrough, and that this breakthrough could be very informative and helpful to all sorts of victims suffering from repressed memories of abuse, and that she would call you Margaret and that would protect your identity, and here was your chance to do a great service to humanity. Have I got that pretty much right, Ms. Blumberg?”

  Claudia Blumberg’s eyes got as wide as truck tires and I knew I’d nailed it.

  Walbert knew it, too. His face twitched. In the world of Barton Walbert versus everybody, that was a taste of victory for me.

  What they didn’t know was that I had prepared this question based on a mere hunch. Having read everything there was on Dr. Mackee, I had gotten sufficiently into her head to know she was a supreme self-promoter. She had made a lot of speeches and presentations to both psychological and legal audiences, and made the video of Ms. Blumberg a big part of the show. She had to have suggested something like I’d imagined.

  “Isn’t that right, Ms. Blumberg?” I repeated.

  Walbert knew better than to object at this point. It would look too much like he was covering up the truth, and this section would be brought out and read to the jury at the appropriate time.

  “Not in those words,” Claudia Blumberg said.

  “But that was the substance of what she said, right?”

  She nodded.

  “I need a verbal response for the stenographer,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  So there it was. Maybe the most important piece of evidence in the whole case. Because if we could show that Claudia Blumberg knew she was going to be used in public, her claims of invasion of privacy would evaporate and would make defamation that much harder to prove.

  I had to work hard not to dance on the table in front of them both. That wouldn’t exactly have been in keeping with the decorum demanded by the firm of Gunther, McDonough & Longyear, where I was about to be deemed a superstar.