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Los Angeles, California, U.S.A.---Autumn, 1977
A group of California State Police cars escorted two ambulances as they turned through the gates of Pescadero State Hospital and drew up in the enclosed courtyard.
An overbearing psychiatric orderly helped the prisoner out of one of the ambulances. She was dressed in the latest style for 1977, sporting bell-bottom jeans, a flowing blouse with colorful patterns, and platform shoes. Her long, wavy hair cascaded down her shoulders, framing her youthful face adorned with oversized sunglasses. Despite the circumstances, there was a hint of defiance in her gaze, a determination to endure whatever challenges lay ahead.
"Doc, we spotted a suspicious vehicle parked across the road from the main gate," the driver of the lead police car reported.
"No worries. We got our eyes on it," the hospital administrator replied. "It's owned by an L.A. news crew. We've opted not to take any action. They'd just exploit it for their own publicity."
The administrator signed for the patient and a security officer, a man in his late fifties, fell in at the head of the prisoner's escort. "Welcome to Pescadero, sweetheart," he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "Hope you enjoy your stay. We got a special room all picked out for you." The girl did not reply. She was concentrating on climbing the ten steps ahead of him.
As the guards drew up at the massive set of doors, pandemonium erupted within the institution. The architecture, reminiscent of Orwellian nightmares, loomed oppressively overhead. The screams of the demented echoed through the corridors, bouncing off the cold, sterile walls. Antagonistic-looking doctors and nurses glared at the young woman as she was escorted through the grim halls. Rows of padded rooms lined the passageways, each one a chamber of horrors. Filth coated the walls, rats scurried in the shadows, and the stench of body odor hung heavy in the air. The young woman's heart raced as she passed by the dismal cells, each one a testament to the inhumanity of their surroundings. At the end of the passage loomed the room she had no choice but to occupy. With a heavy heart, one of the security men reached for the keys on his belt, the metal clinking ominously in the silence. With a practiced hand, he inserted the key into the lock of the heavy wooden door and pushed it open, revealing the bleak chamber beyond.
"Listen up, kid," one of the security officers growled, his voice low and menacing. "This place ain't no picnic. People die here all the time. You'd do well to remember that if you want to make it out alive." His words hung in the air like a sinister omen, sending a shiver down the young woman's spine as she stepped hesitantly into the room.
The young woman found herself trapped in an appalling rubber room, the walls padded with grimy material that seemed to absorb the very light, the windows barred. The air was thick with the smell of disinfectant and despair. The bed, little more than a thin mattress on a metal frame, sat in one corner, its sheets worn and stained. There was no comfort to be found here, only a sense of suffocating confinement. In one corner of the room, a small desk and a wooden chair sat haphazardly, their surfaces scarred with years of use. The desk offered no solace, only a reminder of the oppressive scrutiny under which she would be placed. As the heavy door creaked shut behind her, the young woman felt a wave of despair wash over her, knowing that she was truly alone in this bleak and unforgiving place.
This was no ordinary patient. This young lady had emerged as a rising star in American entertainment, captivating audiences with her talent and charisma. With notable roles in popular television shows and films of the era, she garnered attention for her captivating performances and youthful charm. Her name was Mischa Barton, and her future in Hollywood was hanging in the balance with the potential for her once bright career to be tarnished by the shadows of scandal.706Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJP8wb8UG8R
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Hammersmith, N. London, U.K. ---Winter, 1977
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The grandeur of Lord Paul Barton's ancestral home in Hammersmith, Nr. London provided a stately backdrop for the unfolding drama. As the morning sunlight filtered through the ornate windows, casting golden rays upon the opulent furnishings, Lord Barton found himself ensconced in the tranquility of his sanctuary. Yet, the peace of the moment was shattered by the intrusion of an unexpected visitor—a reporter from Starlight, an American celebrity gossip magazine. With an air of brazen determination, the reporter pressed forward, her probing questions slicing through the genteel veneer of the aristocratic setting.
Kathy Lakas, the young reporter from Starlight, wore a cozy winter sweater in shades of burgundy and cream, paired with dark pants that hugged her slender frame. Her dark hair was pulled back in a neat ponytail, framing her determined gaze as she held a notebook and pen, ready to capture every word exchanged in the conversation with Lord Paul Marsden Barton, a thickset figure embodying the classic British aristocrat, neared 70 years in age.
Seated in the plush confines of his expansive living room, Lord Barton bristled with indignation at Kathy's accusations. His finely tailored suit bespoke a man of refinement and dignity, yet his eyes flashed with righteous anger as he vehemently denied any knowledge of his daughter's purported transgressions. "DUI conviction? State Treatment facility?" Lord Barton's voice rang out incredulously, his aristocratic accent tinged with disdain. "I have no idea what you're talking about, madam. My daughter, Mischa, is a woman of impeccable character and integrity. Such baseless allegations are beneath contempt and will not be dignified with a response." With a dismissive wave of his hand, Lord Barton signaled the end of the interview, his resolve unshaken in the face of slanderous insinuations.
Kathy leaned forward, her expression a mix of determination and solemnity, as she attempted to penetrate Lord Barton's steadfast resolve. "With all due respect, Lord Barton," she began, his voice carrying the weight of undeniable truth, "your daughter's descent into the underbelly of the Hollywood counterculture is well-documented. She admitted to driving under the influence at her trial—a trial that captivated the tabloids and scandalized the public. It's no secret that her struggles with drugs and alcohol have been fodder for the paparazzi for years." Her words hung heavy in the air, punctuated by a somber silence that underscored the gravity of the situation.
Lord Barton's aristocratic facade faltered momentarily as he pondered the reporter's words. His brow furrowed in contemplation, betraying a flicker of doubt amidst the steadfast conviction that had guided him thus far. "Is it true?" he murmured, the question lingering in the air like a haunting refrain. His voice trembled with a note of uncertainty, his mind racing to reconcile the incongruities of the situation. As the weight of the implications sank in, Lord Barton's composure began to crack, giving way to a mounting sense of unease and dismay. "Did she have a lawyer?" he demanded, his voice rising with urgency. "Can this be happening in what is supposed to be the most civilized society the world has ever seen? Why was I not informed? Why was I kept in the dark?" His words spilled forth with a fervent intensity, punctuated by a sense of betrayal and disillusionment that cut to the core of his belief in the principles of truth and fairness.
Kathy's demeanor softened, a sigh escaping his lips as he offered a heartfelt apology to Lord Barton. "I apologize, Lord Barton," he began, her voice tinged with genuine regret. "Starlight—and, I'm sure, the rest of the media—had assumed that you had been informed of your daughter's legal troubles. It's shocking to learn that you weren't notified." Her shock was palpable, his professional facade momentarily shattered by the revelation. The realization that Lord Barton had not been present at his daughter's trial, as expected, cast a shadow of doubt over the entire affair. How could such a crucial detail have slipped through the cracks? How many other misunderstandings and miscommunications had plagued the proceedings?
Lord Barton's features softened with a mixture of resignation and understanding as he absorbed the reporter's apology. "I appreciate your candor," he replied, his voice measured yet tinged with a hint of sadness. "It seems there has been a grave misunderstanding, one that I'm sure you'll rectify." With a thoughtful furrow of his brow, Lord Barton shifted his focus to the matter at hand. "Tell me," he continued, his tone tinged with a sense of urgency, "what project was my daughter involved with at the time of her...troubles? Was it a movie or a television show?" His inquiry was punctuated by a palpable sense of concern for Mischa's well-being, tempered by a desire to uncover the truth behind the events that had transpired. "And who is her producer? Her director? Who is bankrolling this project?" His questions hung in the air, a testament to his determination to unravel the mysteries surrounding his daughter's tumultuous journey through the treacherous waters of Hollywood.
Kathy cleared her throat, her expression somber yet resolute, as she began to unravel the tangled web of rumors and speculation surrounding Mischa Barton's involvement in the production of The Bionic Woman. "Lord Barton," she began, her voice carrying the weight of undeniable truth, "Mischa was poised to take on the role of Jaime Sommers, the titular character of The Bionic Woman. She was set to star as a courageous and resourceful woman who receives bionic implants after a near-fatal accident, embarking on a series of daring adventures that captivated audiences around the world." Her tone grew increasingly grave as she delved into the events that led to the suspension of the series' production. "But then came the news of the drug bust," she continued, his words tinged with a note of apprehension. "I guess that her agent and the network higher-ups were worried you might come after them with lawyers and private investigators, so they kept it from you to keep their asses covered." As the implications of her words hung heavy in the air, Kathy paused, allowing Lord Barton to absorb the gravity of the situation.
Lord Barton's expression was a mix of concern and determination as he turned to Kathy, his voice steady yet tinged with urgency. "And where is Mischa now?" he inquired, his tone betraying a father's anxious heart. "To which facility was she committed?" His question hung in the air, a testament to the gravity of the situation and the depths of his concern for his daughter's well-being. As he awaited the reporter's response, Lord Barton braced himself for the harsh realities that lay ahead,
Kathy's voice wavered with emotion as she delivered the grim news to Lord Barton, her words heavy with the weight of sorrow and indignation. "They committed her to Pescadero, a mental health rehab facility located between Los Angeles and San Diego," she began, his tone laced with a palpable sense of dread. "But I must warn you, Lord Barton, the reputation of Pescadero is not good." She paused, steeling herself for the difficult task ahead, before continuing, "The conditions within the facility are...deplorable, to say the least. Reports of brutality and neglect abound, and the treatment of patients is often far from humane." Kathy's voice trembled with anger and despair as she recounted the plight of past Hollywood stars and starlets who had been confined within Pescadero's walls. "What happened to them," she added, her words heavy with understatement, "is nothing short of tragic."
As she spoke, the weight of her knowledge bore down upon Lord Barton, a burden no one should be asked to bear alone.
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Kathy sighed heavily as she sat on the edge of her hotel bed, the phone pressed to her ear. "Matt, you won't believe it," she exclaimed, her voice tinged with disbelief. "Lord Barton didn't even know anything about what happened to Mischa."
There was a brief pause on the other end of the line before Matt responded, his voice filled with shock. "Are you serious? That's insane," he exclaimed, his disbelief palpable. "It must be some kind of oversight on the part of the British media. How did he take the news?"
Kathy shook her head, her frustration evident. "Not very well," she admitted, her tone somber. "He was outraged, to say the least." With a heavy heart, she bid Matt farewell and hung up the phone, the weight of the situation pressing down on her like a heavy burden.
As Kathy pondered the interview with Lord Barton, a sudden brainstorm ignited within her mind like a bolt of lightning. She vividly recalled the look of anguish on his face, the raw anger in his voice as he learned of his daughter's plight. Yet, as she mulled over the reality of Mischa Barton herself - the talented yet troubled actress known for her erratic behavior, struggles with addiction, and notorious tardiness to set - she couldn't help but question the fairness of leaving even a flawed individual like her to the mercy (loosely termed) of a hellhole like Pescadero. Despite Mischa's faults, Kathy couldn't shake the nagging sense of injustice that lingered in her conscience. And then, in a sudden epiphany, it struck her: there was one more possibility, one more avenue to explore in the fight for Mischa's freedom.
Shey went over the scheme repeatedly, feeling the tension building in her stomach as she recognized a plan that might just have a chance. With time ticking away, she knew she had to act fast. It would take her a couple of weeks, maybe three, to handle the initial research, but she was determined to make it work. Reaching for the phone at her side, she dialed two numbers. The first call went to her brother in Paris, the second to her colleague in Los Angeles.
"Hey, Matt," she greeted as his voice came on the line, her tone urgent yet hopeful. "Have you seen any other stories about Mischa Barton's commitment?"
"Yeah, I just finished watching 60 Minutes," Matt replied, his voice tinged with disbelief. "You wouldn't believe the things they've uncovered about Pescadero State Hospital."
"Matt, can you call a meeting of the committee?" she asked eagerly, her voice brimming with determination. "Make it for three weeks from today. I promise to be on the next plane home. I think I've come up with a plan to help Mischa and shed light on Pescadero at the same time."
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