The Last Exchange, page 26
“She was beyond fair. She’s one of the most giving and generous people I’ve ever met.”
He nodded. “I understand. How would you describe your five years working with her?”
“Some of the best, if not the best, of my life.”
He nodded. “And what were your duties?”
“I was responsible for everything related to her protection. I vetted everyone who came to see her, or places she visited. She never entered a room, car, plane, building, or restaurant that I didn’t enter first.”
“What about physical activity?”
“If she went on a run, I rode a bike alongside.”
He interrupted me. “Why a bike?”
I shrugged. “I couldn’t keep up.”
More laughter.
“Continue.”
“If she and Mr. Syd went anywhere, I accompanied.”
“And by ‘Mr. Syd’ you mean . . . ?”
“Syd Painter. Her ex-husband.” I pointed to Syd, who waved for the cameras.
Munson continued, “Long hours?”
“Yes, sir. Often twenty-hour days.”
“Did you resent that?”
“No, sir. It’s the job.”
“During that time, how would you describe your relationship with Mrs. Joe?”
“Very good, I think.”
“You think?”
“I never had reason to believe otherwise.”
“Define ‘good.’”
“I’ve seldom known such kindness.”
He glanced at Joe and then the crowd. “I’ve heard that celebrities can be a little high-maintenance. Did she ever mistreat you? Even just a little?”
“Never.”
“Come on, Mr. Pockets. Not even just a little? Maybe she was the center of the universe and all the planets rotated around her?”
“No, sir.” I shook my head. “Often when she was filming, she’d work the food tent prior to her scenes.”
“What do you mean she’d ‘work the food tent’?”
“She served the food to all the folks working on the film. And she knew them by name. She was always one of us.”
“I see. Were you ever employed as a bodyguard prior to working with Mrs. Joe?”
I considered the ramifications of this answer. Not wanting to answer, I looked at the judge, then Mr. Munson. “I’d rather not say.”
Judge Thelma Dixon raised an eyebrow.
Mr. Munson said, “I’d rather you did.”
“Sir, I don’t talk about my previous employers.”
“Why?”
“Well . . .” I lifted my chains. “It would bring them dishonor.”
“I’m sure they’d understand. I’m attempting to establish your competency as a bodyguard. So I’ll ask you again, Mr. Pockets, did you work as a bodyguard prior to your employment with Mrs. Joe?”
“Yes, sir.”
I got the feeling that Munson knew the answer but he wanted the admission to come from me. And given the fact that I didn’t want to answer, he wasn’t going to let it rest. When he spoke, he was looking at the jury. “For whom did you work?”
He let the word whom roll off his tongue a little too long. I paused and looked at Joe, who was looking at me. Her eyes were glassy and she looked tired. “Sir, I can’t say.”
Munson was enjoying this a little too much. “And why exactly is that?”
“Sir, I don’t talk about my previous employers.”
Munson looked at the judge, who stared down at me. “Mr. Pockets, answer the question.”
“Mum, my presence here brings them dishonor. And I don’t want to do that.”
Judge Thelma Dixon looked irritated, but Munson was enjoying the theatrics, so he capitalized on the moment. He opened a folder and handed an eight-by-eleven glossy photo to the judge. She studied the picture, then me, then handed it back to Munson, who waved it in front of the courtroom. “The prosecution would like to add photo 1A into evidence.” Then he sauntered toward me and leaned on the bench. “Do you see yourself in this picture, Mr. Pockets?”
I didn’t need to look at it. “Yes, sir.”
“And what are you doing in this picture?”
“Working.”
“For whom?” Again, he let the word whom roll off his tongue.
“My previous employer.”
“Who is?”
“The Queen.”
He placed his hand on the wooden bench in front of me. His disbelief was palpable. “The Queen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“The queen of what?”
A pause. “England.”
The courtroom sucked in a collective breath. And held it.
Mr. Munson paced back and forth before the jury, allowing them to view the picture. If he didn’t have their attention before, he had it now. “Mr. Pockets, I want to make certain, and I want to give you a chance to tell the truth. Sometimes we fantasize about things and Lord knows what experts can do with Photoshop. So I need to establish for the jury whether this is imagined or real.” He waved the picture. “Are you saying you worked personal protection for the reigning queen of England?”
“Yes, sir, I am.”
“So this picture isn’t fabricated?”
“No, sir.”
“It’s real?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And that’s really you?”
“Yes, sir.”
The courtroom exhaled and chatter rippled throughout, forcing the judge to slam her gavel and demand, “Order.”
The judge interrupted. “Mr. Munson, I would imagine that employment record is classified.”
“Yes, Your Honor. We found the specifics and nature of the work would be classified, while the facts of the record would not be.”
“And how have you come to know this?”
Munson faced the rear of the courtroom and pointed to a man in a dark suit. “To verify the validity of the picture, we’ve flown in a British military attorney with knowledge of Mr. Pockets’s employment.” Munson turned back to the judge. “We can call him forward at this time if you’d like.”
“Will he corroborate your story?”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
“Leave it. We’ll come back to him if needed.”
Munson turned his attention back to me. “Did your employment with the Queen end on a good note?”
“Well, sir, it never really ended. Maybe suspended is a better word. I was given leave after I requested it.”
“So you requested to leave the employ of the Queen?”
“Yes, sir.”
“To work for . . . ?”
I pointed at Joe. “Mrs. Joe.”
“Wasn’t working for the Queen a pretty good gig?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good perks?”
I figured the less I said the better. “Yes, sir.”
“But you left there to work with Mrs. Joe here. Why?”
“I had worked as a consultant on a script she and Syd were filming. A few weeks later, she called and asked if she could hire me on a short-term basis as her bodyguard.”
“Given that you had just come from working with the Queen, is it safe to say you understood what was appropriate behavior and what was inappropriate behavior? Things you could do and things you would never do?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Would appropriate behavior be a focus in your job?”
“Well, sir, in a sense, it is the job.”
“Explain.”
“In the trade, it’s called ‘the line.’”
“The line?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Can you define that, please, for the court?”
“It’s an invisible line of protocol. Something we work hard to maintain and never cross.”
“Give me an example.”
“At its root, it’s a way of thinking. And remembering. We are the protector and they are the protected. Respecting the line demands we remember we are there to serve them. So we never think more of ourselves than we should, even though we have access to intimate personal moments, and we never pretend to be a confidant even though, at times, we are invited to be one.”
“Were you ever a confidant to Mrs. Joe?”
“I’d like to think so.”
“So you crossed your own line?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Did you ever cross a physical line with Mrs. Joe?”
“No, sir.”
My attorney finally woke from his slumber and stood. “Objection, Your Honor. What does this have to do with Mr. Pockets’s employment with Mrs. Joe? My client is allowed a personal life.”
Munson spoke up. “Judge, it has everything to do with his character. I’m trying to establish the nature and rules of their working relationship.”
“I’ll allow it.” Judge Thelma Dixon seemed to be enjoying this as much as the jury. “Continue.”
“Thank you, Your Honor.”
Munson wasted no time putting me on my heels. “Did you want to?”
A pause. “Yes, sir.”
“Did you make advances that she refused?”
“No, sir.”
“Were you frustrated in your position with her?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she ever do anything to make you uncomfortable?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she ever cross the line and make you uncomfortable?”
“No, sir.”
“Not even just a little? Maybe slight flirtation?”
“No, sir.”
“Did she ever give you reason to believe that your relationship with her was more than protector and protected?”
“No, sir.”
“Fast-forward with me to the end of your employment with her. What happened after five years?”
“I was convicted of aggravated battery and excessive bodily harm to Mr. Syd, sentenced to fifteen years, which was reduced to seven, and I served six and a half before I escaped.”
“You don’t deny that?”
“No, sir.”
“Why did you escape?”
“Well, that’s part of a longer story we’re skipping over, but . . .” Laughter again. “It started with kidnapping Mrs. Joe.”
He laughed. The look on his face made it clear I was doing all the heavy lifting for him. “And you don’t deny that either?”
“No.”
“Mr. Pockets, three days ago, you pled ‘not guilty’ to the charges against you. Would you like to change your plea to guilty and save us all a lot of time?”
“No, sir.”
“But you just admitted to kidnapping Mrs. Joe.”
“Yes, sir. That’s because I did.”
“Against her will?”
“Yes, sir. At least against her will then.”
Munson paused and paced before the jury. “What do you mean?”
I clarified. “Her will at that moment and time.”
Munson paced. Chewing on my words. “As if it was or is somehow different than her will at any other time?”
I shrugged. “Sir, I don’t know how to joust with you, and if you could just let me—”
Judge Thelma Dixon interrupted me. “Mr. Pockets, answer his question.”
“He’s skipping over aspects of the story and not allowing me—”
The judge interrupted me again. Her voice loud and stern. “Mr. Pockets, you will—”
“Mum, if you’d please let me tell the whole story from beginning to—”
The judge sat upright and slammed her gavel. “Mr. Pockets. I will not suffer fools in my courtroom. Answer his question.”
I looked at Munson. “Yes, sir. When I kidnapped her, that was against her present will at that moment in time. But not against her will at another time.”
Munson folded his arms. “I don’t follow you.”
I craned my neck to stare around him at Joe. “Can I talk to you privately, please?”
Joe’s eyes were glassy. A tear in one corner. The judge sat up and slammed the gavel again. “Mr. Pockets! You will not make a mockery of my courtroom. Do you understand me?”
“Yes mum.”
She looked like she’d eaten something bitter. “What did you say?”
“Yes mum.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“No mum.”
She collected herself. “You will answer when spoken to and only when spoken to. Do you understand?”
“Yes mum.”
“And you can respond to me with ‘Yes, Judge’ or ‘Yes, Your Honor.’”
“Yes, Your Honor.”
Syd was smiling. Joe looked uncomfortable.
Munson continued. “Since you brought it up, let’s talk about the kidnapping. Would you tell the court the sequence of those events?”
“One of the prison guards was a regular reader of newspapers and tabloids. She often left them in the van that I drove making deliveries and pickups. This allowed me to keep abreast of Joe’s situation.”
“Did Mrs. Joe allow you to call her ‘Joe’?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Isn’t that informality a danger to your occupation?”
“It can be.”
“Was it?”
“You could argue that.”
“I intend to. Let me back up. You said the tabloids allowed you to keep abreast of Joe’s situation. And by ‘situation,’ you mean . . . ?”
“Her difficulty getting pregnant, along with the betrayal of her surrogate, Amber Paxton.”
“Did you possess other sources of information other than the tabloids?”
“Yes. Radio and the prison grapevine.”
“What do you mean by ‘prison grapevine’?”
“One of Ms. Paxton’s boyfriends, whose name is Frank, had a brother who was locked up in my block. He talked a lot. I never knew what to believe, but he liked to talk about what all they were going to do with the money they were getting out of Joe.”
Mr. Munson straightened his lapel, buttoned his coat, and smiled at the jury, who seemed to be enjoying my confession. “The prosecution would like to enter into evidence File 107, which details the conviction of Amber Paxton for acting as a surrogate for Mrs. Joe, accepting the money, and then stealing the baby only to blackmail Mrs. Joe for over 1.2 million dollars. Ms. Paxton is currently in Ochoa Women’s Prison serving a ten-year sentence.”
The judge nodded.
Munson again. “Continue please, Mr. Pockets.”
“I knew Joe had hired her former makeup artist as a surrogate, and she was using the baby to blackmail Joe. I also knew Joe was wrestling with an Oxy addiction, which I suspected was worsening, and that she would need to be clean if she wanted to be the kind of mom I knew she wanted to be. I also knew she had trouble getting clean in the past, and with all of the present turmoil in her life, it would be all the more difficult.”
“And you knew this why?”
“Because I’d driven her to rehab seven times before I went to prison.”
Joe closed her eyes as a single tear trailed her face.
Munson gestured. “Continue please.”
“After Amber disappeared with the baby, the clock started ticking. I knew that if Joe was to get clean, I would need to act by a certain date, so I projected the due date from what I could piece together.”
“And by ‘act,’ you mean?”
“Kidnap her.”
Munson smiled and shook his head once. “Continue.”
“So I backed into how much time I needed, which just so happened to coincide with the Academy Awards. Once I’d set the timeline, I developed a plan to act as her limo driver and take her after the ceremony. On the day of the awards, I stole my work release van, then ditched the van, walked fifteen-plus miles to Joe’s hangar where she kept both her plane—which I later borrowed—and a restored ’80s Ford Bronco, which she bought following work on a beach film where the car featured, and made my way to the limo business. Aside from the fact that I could not rent a car since I had no credit card, the Bronco was useful to me because it contained no computers and no chips, so it could not be tracked and, as I had guessed, was not missed. Knowing security protocols on the night of the Academy Awards, most of which I had installed during my employment with her, and given that I had attended twice before, I disguised myself, subdued the hired limo driver, and proceeded to drive Joe to and from the ceremony.”
“What did you do with the limo driver?”
“Restrained him in his own vehicle, then called the police to let them know where he was—after I had kidnapped Joe.”
“Can you prove this?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t tried, but if you request the recorded call, you’ll hear my voice.”
Munson lifted a stack of papers from his desk. “The prosecution would like to enter limo driver Sam Ramsey’s deposition into record, which corroborates Mr. Pockets’s story. We would also like to reserve the right to call Mr. Ramsey as a witness if needed.”
The judge nodded and motioned for Pockets to continue.
“After Joe won, I drove her home, waiting long enough for her to pass out from the sleeping medication.”
“What made you think she would take sleeping medication?”
“The nature of her addiction. She used one type of drug during the day to stay awake, then she used another type at night to sleep. A vicious cycle. I suspected that between the blackmail and not knowing where her child might be, she’d be using more than normal, which would put her in a deep sleep that would allow me to get her out of town.”
“How did you get in her house?”
“I had programmed her security system.”
“And they had not changed it?”
“No, sir. I was supposed to be in prison.”
“I see.” More laughter. “Continue.”
“With Joe asleep, I loaded her into her Escalade and exited the property. A few miles away, I switched her to the Bronco and then drove to her hangar where I borrowed the twin-engine Cessna she used to earn her pilot’s license. I then flew her to a small private airport in Montana, where she owned another small hangar and kept a Chevy Blazer for personal use. Using the Blazer, I transported her to her cabin in the mountains, securing her in the basement while I readied the upstairs for what I hoped would only be a monthlong stay. Before she woke, I installed a stun-cuff around her neck, which I stole from the prison detail.”
“Explain ‘stun-cuff’ for the jury.”
