THE CELL DOOR OPENED. Huey Nickerson peered in before entering. The actress was sitting on the floor in the corner, her elbows on her knees. Her sandy blonde hair was shoulder length, greasy, and flat against her head. Her normally beautiful face was pale and drawn. Her eyes were heavily bloodshot and vacant. Her gaze slowly made its way up to him.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡTR6dvJZ63m
"Mischa Barton?"
She wet her lips and raised her chin. "And you are.....?"
"Huey Nickerson, legal attaché for the U.S. Embassy, ma'am."
"Well, whoop-dee-doo-and-Piccadilly-too!" Her head fell back against the wall. The cell was all concrete. It was cold and clean.
But where could he begin. After all, he'd never talked to a famous actress before.
"Are you all right? Have they hurt you?"
She rolled her neck. Those were probably dumb questions. Four days in French custody, being mercilessly interrogated. "They took away my Parliaments, but otherwise I'm all right."
"I'm serious."
"Oh. You're serious." Her eyes tracked up to the ceiling. "But not so serious to come visit me even once during four days of this shit?"
"They denied me access," he said. "This isn't like Ameri...."
"Jesus Christ! If another person reminds me that I'm not in America, there's going to be a third murder to prosecute."
Well, he couldn't blame her. She didn't look like the kind who had a long history of spending time with angry cops and investigators. They must've put her through sheer hell.
"How are the others?" she asked. "Have you talked to them?"
"Only Nicole Richie," said Nickerson. "I haven't gotten to Ms. Lohan and Rihanna yet."
"How is Nicole doing?"
Nickerson thought about his answer. He prided himself on his bluntness. An FBI agent once told him that he didn't talk like a lawyer. He took that as a compliment. "It's a tough situation," he said.
"I didn't ask you if it's a tough situation. Actually, I figured out that much all on my own. I asked you how Nicki is doing."
He deserved that, he thought. "She's distraught," he said. "Terrified."
She nodded slowly. The sleep deprivation was evident. She seemed to be numb at this point, suffering from sensory overload. Four days of fear, anxiety and manipulation was too much for anyone. Had Nicole Richie confessed? Most would under these circumstances.
"I didn't kill anybody," she said.
He didn't answer. It wasn't relevant----not for his purposes. Despite her British background, she was technically an American citizen, and his job was to make sure she was given her rights, not to exonerate her.
"And I sure as fuck didn't know that guy was their goddamn president! How was I supposed to know that?"
It was the same thing Egor Tabarasov had said in his office a few days ago. How were they supposed to know who he was? Nickerson didn't have an answer then and he didn't have one now.
"Have you talked to my boyfriend?" she asked.
"Of course. He'll be here soon."
"And what about my sisters?"
"They've been informed, and they're end route to France as we speak," he said.
She didn't look like a killer, he thought, even knowing how absurd a thought that was. He'd seen all kinds as a prosecutor. Some of the quietest, tamest people were some of the most vicious criminals. You just never knew.
"The press knows about this, don't they? That we're in trouble. Dammit, my career's over. Nobody'll hire me for so much as even a school play now after this, I can feel it."
"Ms. Barton, I think your career is the least of your worries right now," Nickerson said flatly.
Mischa tilted her head in the direction of the door. "What are they telling you? About the evidence."
He shook his head. "Nothing."
She stared at him for a long time. "Mr. Nickerson, do me a favor and be the first person in her who doesn't fuck around with me."
Well, it did seem in character, the foul language. Yet, for some reason that he couldn't pin down, he had feeling that Mischa Barton was, despite her past indiscretions, a good person.
He would see her on almost a daily basis now, assuming they incarcerated her somewhere close. He'd watch out for her and her friends. They were American citizens. He owed it to them. It wasn't his job to save their hides, but he'd look out for them as best he could. His chest puffed out at the thought.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡpWWt8uHyrQ
"All right, I won't 'fuck around' with you, as you put it," he said. "This thing is quickly spiraling out of control. It's a lynch-mob mentality. A very popular president is dead, and right or wrong, everyone seems to think that four beautiful, famous foreigners did it. The people of France want blood. They want to bring back the guillotine just for you. The U.S. government wants to duck down and hide, because the suspects are famous Americans. My advice would be to get the best lawyer you can find."676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJbvDG82N3U
He took a breath. Mischa's face disappeared into her knees.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ1bkq5mxMKK
"However, we might---just might---be able to arrange for this case to be tried in a Stateside court, rather than a French one. You'll have a better shot at a fair trial that way. I must caution you not to get your hopes up, though."676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡT4NNZs5Wqu
She nodded her head, her face still buried between her knees. It was her way of showing appreciation for his candor. She probably felt incredibly alone right now.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡJlyDeCStuP
He wiped sweat from his face, as if Mischa Barton's anxiety had transferred itself to him. This was perhaps the biggest case the French had ever prosecuted, he realized.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡYnQVfy6Kgf
Stateside court? Hell no! The damn French would never agree to that! But the woman was at her wits' end, so he had to say something to keep her calm, even if it wasn't true.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgD3cPo8lDG
Realistically, there was no way they were going to let these women walk free.676Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡVc6VPeng9B
