DAY TWO OF the trial. The four actresses entered the Palais de Justice the same way, traveling in separate vehicles from different locations. Mischa had spent the night at a local jail on the southwest side of Paris, which she would remember for its stench of body odor and for the two prostitutes, Angelique and Michelle, who were placed in the empty jail cell next to her and who spent the night singing off-key renditions of Britney Spears' "Slave 4U."643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7P03WrzDpi
The next witness was William Mascarenas, the fat American from that fateful night in Monte Carlo. Nine months later, he was still fat. His hair was still greasy, too. But he was dressed in more subdued attire, a blue sport coat and white dress shirt open at the collar, and his mood was decidedly less spirited. When he passed them on the way to the podium, where he would address the court, Mischa noticed that his hairline was wet with sweat. He nodded in the direction of Victoria Barraud, the prosecutor, whose return nod was almost imperceptible.
Because Mascarenas's primary language was English, all the principles concerned with his testimony---the judges, lawyers, and Mascarenas himself----donned headsets like the ones the four actresses in the defense cage were wearing. It lent a stilted quality to the proceedings, with a pause after every statement.
"I'm primarily an investor, Your Honor," said Mascarenas. "I have also coproduced some movies."
"Mr. Mascarenas, please refer to me as Mr. President or the presiding judge. This isn't the United States."
The fat American raised his hand. "Sorry, Mr. President."
"Very well. Mr. Mascarenas, please tell us what you can about the matter under examination."
"We were filming a movie in Paris, and we were on break for the weekend," he said. "I wanted to go to my yacht in Monte Carlo." His voice slightly trembling from nerves, Mascarenas provided a brief summary of the events of that night in Monte Carlo----the trip to the nightclub, the casino, and then returning to the yacht, the Inner Peace. "Finally I went to bed," he said. "I left all my guests, who were still enjoying themselves, and went to my quarters to sleep. That was the last I knew before the next morning, when the French officials boarded my yacht and arrested all of us."
After the questioning was completed, the prosecutor, Victoria Barraud, stood to ask some follow-up questions. She was a tall, thin woman with very attractive features, taking by themselves----shiny jet-black hair, prominent cheekbones, expressive green eyes----but her overall look was severe and humorless. But that was just Mischa's opinion, being biased against the woman who was trying to put her in prison for life.
All business in her black robe, holding the headset up to her right ear, she cut right to the chase. "Mr. Mascarenas, in your testimony you refer to President Diderot. That night, did you know that the man who called himself Diego was the president of the French Republic?"
Mascarenas nodded eagerly----too eagerly. "Yes, Madam Prosecutor. He introduced himself to me at the club. He explained his hairpiece----the toupee---and his beard as a disguise so he could enjoy himself that night without being swarmed by people. To the public at large that night, he didn't want to advertise who he was. But in the small group? We all knew."
"I will convey to you, sir, that this is a matter of contention," said Barraud. "So let me focus on the four women who stand accused. In your presence, did you hear them refer to the man who called himself Diego as the French president?"
"Yes. All of them did. I recall that someone would call him Monsieur le President and he would quickly say 'Diego,' to remind them to keep things quiet. He---for example, I remember he was talking about the American presidential election and how he'd known Hillary Clinton for years because she'd been the first lady and he'd met Senator Obama a few times---things the president of France would talk about."
Mischa shut her eyes. He wasn't just lying; he was creating whole conversations out of thin air. How could this be happening?
"Mischa Barton?" Mascarenas said in response to the question. "Yeah, I remember her specifically saying to me, at the nightclub, what a unique experience it was, having drinks with the president of France."
"You are certain of this?" the prosecutor asked. "Ms. Barton in particular. You are certain she knew this man was the president of France?"643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡADDWQlHzKO
"I am absolutely certain, Ms. Barraud. Because it is the last thing I remember about that night. 643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡCI2R2ExqBc
Victoria Barraud nodded. This felt like a well-rehearsed script playing out before the actresses. "The last thing that night," she repeated back to him. "You testified that you had been using your camcorder to record what was taking place on the yacht."643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡHaHzNnC6oP
"Yes, that's correct. Before I went to bed, Ms. Barton asked for the camcorder."643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpJAC1r6ZHa
The prosecutor paused a beat. "Tell the court why Ms. Barton said she wanted the camcorder." Then she pressed the headset to her right ear to hear the answer translated into French.643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1OiCSP6cCT
The fat American, who had turned to his right to face the prosecutor, turned his attention back to the court.643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡisKVH0FOHv
"She said she wanted to make a sex tape starring Cesar Diderot," he said.643Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡvd14j4YJyv
