Sordid Details 1

The Courtroom

When I consider the past few months of my life, I develop an anxious gnawing in my gut. It's like one horrible meme after another, detailing my many shortcomings. Does anyone think highly of a porn star outside the realm of sex? In my experience... they don't.

My life has been published on every type of media for at least three months now. Public opinion of me is not one of admiration. These painfully detailed news stories lead to questions that I cannot answer. Did I actually murder my husband in cold blood? Everyone seems to think so, especially juror number six.

Juror number six often glances at me with a look of pure condemnation in her yellow glazed eyes. Her ill-fitting blue cardigan effectively announces she is not trying to be aesthetically pleasing. She is focused on condemning the wicked, whatever their sins may be. She wants the harlot that sits before her burned at the stake before she corrupts any more promising young men.

"Mrs. Walsh," bellowed Judge Weber in his bearish manner, "please focus on what Mr. Fowler is asking you. I'm sure I don't need to remind you how important your testimony is."

Judge Weber is a presence that cannot be ignored. All his features appear to be extra-large. His bullhorn voice could wake the dead in the cemetery two blocks up the street. When he isn't speaking, his troubled nasal breathing constantly reminds you of his presence.

"Mrs. Walsh," continued Bruce Fowler, the very handsome prosecuting attorney, "I'll ask the question more slowly this time since you seem so distressed by it."

I impulsively wanted to answer that I wasn't distressed by his question. I was distressed by my hazy memories surrounding the events he wanted me to recount. My lawyer, Rusty Blake, had yelled at me for blurting my random thoughts. He said it didn't help our case or my character. I wondered how anything could hurt my already ruined character.

"Did you not," Fowler continued as he eyed me carefully, "on the night of March fifth, verbally threaten to throw an empty wine bottle at Mr. Walsh?" he asked as he leaned his left hand on the dark oak mantle of the witness stand. He was staring at me hard with his daunting blue eyes again.

Bruce Fowler should be a name that strikes fear into my very soul. He is the man that will ultimately trip me up and cause me to condemn myself as a murderer. But instead, my body warms at the thought of him. I catch myself watching Bruce as he paces the courtroom floor with calculated steps. He is a vision of masculine grace. He knows how to carry himself in front of an audience. His voice is soothing and often provokes a tingle in my gut.

When he reiterates the details of promiscuous activities I'm accused of, I can't help but blush under his gaze. For me, he is the only pleasant thing about the extremely popular trial that has uprooted my life. There was a time when random strangers could look at me and smile in a friendly manner, but not anymore. Now every random stranger knows the sordid details of my life.

"I... may have said something along those lines. I don't remember exactly," I said as I studied Bruce's eyes.

The blue was similar to mine but richer. I could swim in those eyes. They shined in contrast to his dark hair.

"Can you recount the events of that day?" he asked. "Can you give us something definitive to support a lean towards your innocence?" he asked coolly in spite of his annoyance with my evasive answers.

'Innocence'... I almost laughed at the word in its application to me. Bruce noticed the almost-smirk I caught at the edge of my lips. I wasn't condemning myself as a murderer with that sentiment. I was simply accepting the fact that I am not traditionally innocent. My normal behavior made respectable women cringe and gossip, but that didn't make me evil.

"Yes... of course..." I stammered. "The day began with the photo shoot promoting my new spring clothing line," I said enthusiastically.

My part-time career, designing and modeling clothes, was enjoyable. Rusty frowned at my enthusiasm. I quickly contained it. He was an excellent behavior coach, and he often said I was a terrible student, bound to ruin his career.

"Please elaborate," Bruce pressed with a very subtle hint of a smile on his lips. He was pushing Rusty's buttons by encouraging me to ramble. He enjoyed irritating Rusty.

"My spring line is going to be the crown jewel of lingerie this year. It's sexier and more refined than the rubbish being barged over from Italy," I said proudly.

Disappointingly, my comments were being made true by the trial's constant media coverage instead of my talent. Everyone wanted to wear the scandalous lingerie designed by the murderous vixen Scarlet Walsh.

"And you were modeling the clothes for the shoot, correct?" Bruce pressed.

"Yes, thongs and corsets mostly," I blurted.

Bruce raised a pleased eyebrow at me, causing a rush of heat in my face. If I were visibly blushing through the layers of anti-blush foundation on my cheeks, I would hear about it later from Rusty, and he would be yelling. I quickly glanced at Rusty and saw fury kindling in his steady hazel eyes. I was embarrassing him again. Then movement from the jury box caught my attention. Juror number six was shaking her head at me.

"Objection, your honor," Rusty announced, pulling all eyes to him, except for Bruce's eyes. Bruce continued to stare at me. "These questions are irrelevant to the case," he declared.

Rusty glared at Bruce like he was hoping to burn a hole through the back of his head. Rusty was very handsome when he was brooding. I often imagined him as a rugged cowboy that liked to dress up for the courtroom. He had shaggy brown hair, tanned skin, and big hazel eyes that expressed emotion easily. Rusty was born in Texas and moved to New York after winning a high profile case involving a promiscuous NFL player.

"Objection overruled. Please continue, Fowler," ordered Weber.

Bruce smiled at Weber before he turned his gaze on me again.

"Mrs. Walsh was at the Walsh residence on the morning of March fifth along with Eric Grady and Lea Holt. They said they were assisting with the photo shoot. Was Damon Walsh also home that morning?"

"Yes," I replied.

"According to Eric and Lea's testimonies, Damon interrupted the photo shoot demanding to speak with you about some other business matter?"

"Yes, he did."

"Please correct me if I'm wrong, but Lea and Eric agreed that Damon appeared mildly intoxicated when they encountered him. Was he?"

"Yes, I could smell it on his breath. I also saw him with a whiskey sour before the shoot."

"Did Damon often drink hard liquor in the morning hours?" Bruce asked with an eyebrow raised.

"Almost every day."

"Eric and Lea both claim they heard brief yelling after a heated conversation between you and Damon. Did you fight with your husband that morning, Mrs. Walsh?"

"Yes."

"Would you please elaborate on the subject and mood of the argument you had with your husband?"

That was the first question I had been dreading. I glanced at Rusty with my stomach fluttering. He looked at me steadily and nodded so slightly it was almost undetectable. That simple motion calmed my nerves. We had practiced how I would answer this question. I was ready.

"Damon wanted me to cut the photo shoot short so that my personal assistant, Jenna Deacon, would have time to dye my hair blond before filming began later that day. He decided at the last minute that he wanted a blonde lead instead of a redhead. I told him that was stupid because red hair is part of my image. He flew into a rage and called me a stupid cunt for trying to ruin his ideas. He said I was off the project and he would find a replacement. I told him I didn't care because I didn't want to work for him anymore. We both left the room after that."

"Did you often fight with your husband, Mrs. Walsh?"

"Yes."

"Did your husband dislike you being a designer?"

"Yes."

"Why did he disapprove?"

"He was jealous because it made me happy," I said plainly.

That caused a stir in the courtroom. I didn't dare look around. My eyes were locked with Rusty's. If I lost my focus, I would get emotional. Elevated emotions caused me to babble like an excited toddler. Suddenly, Bruce stepped into my field of vision, completely blocking Rusty. I met his blue eyes with a start. He saw my fear. He held me in his questioning gaze, making me very nervous. He knew exactly what he was doing.

"Scarlet, did it displease Damon to see you thriving? Did he like seeing you hurt?" he asked in a caring, velvety tone.

His smoldering gaze completely disarmed me, and when he addressed me informally for the first time, it completely shattered what was left of my senses. Bruce had what I called Hollywood Eyes. They demanded attention with their alluring brilliance. They captured you in a glance and made you feel weak, vulnerable, and in love. My heart began racing as tears threatened to fall from my eyes. He had provoked me and trapped me, and I was taking too long to answer his question.

"Yes," I squeaked, fighting with all my might to keep my tears from falling down my cheeks.

"Scarlet... you poor thing. You hated your abusive husband, didn't you?" he asked in sweet concern, stoking the unstable passion that was about to explode out of me.

"Objection! Your honor, the question assumes facts not stated in the evidence," Rusty announced, rising to his feet and slamming his palms against the desk.

I jumped at the startling sound. It prevented me from blurting out my answer. A momentary look of rage flashed across Bruce's handsome face. He quickly organized his expression before he turned to glare at Rusty.

"Sustained. Continue, Fowler," ordered Weber as he narrowed his eyes at Rusty.

Rusty couldn't hide the relief on his face after that victory. It was rare that Weber sided with him. Bruce was obviously the favorite in the courtroom.

Rusty knew he had ruined Bruce's plan to force an emotional confession out of me. Had I admitted to hating my husband, it would have likely turned the jury against me. Rusty smiled and winked at Bruce before he adjusted his tie and sat back down. Rusty had won that round.

Bruce sighed and looked at me for a brief moment. He was judging my stability. I had regained my senses by that point and was gently dabbing tears away with a handkerchief. All his hard work that morning had been thwarted.

"Allow me to rephrase. Mrs. Walsh, did you harbor negative feelings towards your husband for his behavior that day?" he continued.

Bruce's demeanor was subdued at that point. Rusty had rescued me from him at a critical moment, just like he promised.

"I was angry at him, but I didn't hate him," I stated sincerely.

My earlier rush of emotion helped me appear honest. I did hate my husband after that fight, but I didn't want to murder him. Rusty assured me that being brutally honest was not always necessary in a trial. Sympathy would be my lifeline, and we had enough evidence to play that card, but we knew Bruce was good enough to prove me a sham. The big question was, could he prove me a murderer? More importantly, could Rusty prove me innocent?

"That remains to be seen," Bruce said skeptically.

His enchanting eyes lingered on me, making me feel very uneasy. He sighed and turned his attention to the jurors. He was checking the emotions on their faces before he continued.

"Let's move forward to the production luncheon. Eight people were known to be at the Walsh residence by 12:30 pm. We have testimony from the seven that are still alive. All of them claim involvement in the production of Naughty Housemaid 2, Damon Walsh's unfinished film. Please, Mrs. Walsh, tell me the names of everyone present at the luncheon and why they were there," Bruce ordered.

I nodded and glanced at Rusty to draw strength from his cool and collected demeanor. It was time to talk about my primary career, something that brought me little joy. My day job provoked unsettling reactions in everyone listening, especially juror number six. She would sometimes audibly gasp while I was speaking.

"I was there because I live there. I was also supposed to play the lead in the film. Damon Walsh was there since he was the producer, director, and owner of the house. Eric Grady and Lea Holt were there, helping with staging. Eric is my manager, and Lea is our personal photographer. Jake Foster was there since he's our favorite cameraman. Lisa Nelson was there to play the part of the housewife. Vince Elliot was there to play the part of the husband, and Tate Weaver was there to play the naughty gardener. If anyone else was in the house at that time, I didn't know about it."

"Thank you, Mrs. Walsh. You obviously knew everyone that was there and worked with them before, correct?"

"Yes."

"Are you sure about that?" Bruce asked with an eyebrow raised, causing my heart to sputter.

"I... yes," I repeated in slight confusion as to why I was second-guessed.

I glanced at Rusty. He was staring at Bruce with a guarded expression. I wasn't sure if I should be worried or not.

"According to Vince Elliot's testimony, he never worked with you before this project."

"Yes, he did. He was in Naughty Housemaid 1. We first met during its filming at my house last year. I helped him practice his major scene. He was nervous because it was his first time working on a professional production," I said confidently.

It was nice speaking freely about something I knew for certain. I glanced at Rusty. He looked slightly horrified by my words. My heart crashed into my stomach. I was doing something Rusty told me not to do. I had blurted unnecessary information. The pleasure in Bruce's eyes from the fresh fuel I gave him scared me.

"I need some clarification on this, Mrs. Walsh," Bruce began with a hint of a smirk. "Are you stating that you did work with Vince Elliot last year on Naughty Housemaid 1?"

"Yes."

"According to Vince's testimony, you weren't on the production team for Naughty Housemaid 1. I have a copy of the original contracts from that production. Your name isn't listed on any of them," he said as he flipped through the papers in his hand.

"Oh, that's right. I wasn't actually part of that project, but it felt like I was since I was there during all the filming. I was working on a different movie in the house at the same time."

"How exactly did you help Mr. Elliot practice his major scene?" Bruce asked with a gleam in his eye.

"Objection! Your honor, this information is irrelevant to the case," Rusty announced quickly, rising from his seat. He looked distraught.

"Overruled. Please answer the question, Mrs. Walsh," Weber ordered.

Rusty looked at me nervously, then he slowly sat back down and put his hand over his eyes. I had seriously screwed up somehow.

"So, Mrs. Walsh... how did you help Vince Elliot practice?" Bruce asked.

"We had sex in character. I pretended to be the sexy maid, and he played the unfaithful husband," I said as if it were common knowledge.

Half the courtroom gasped in disbelief, followed by an eruption of commotion and whispers. Juror number six put her hand over her heart like she was about to have a coronary block. Bruce simply smiled at me like he was the devil himself. It sent a pleasant tingle through my gut.

"Order in this courtroom!" Weber bellowed as he slammed his hammer down noisily, causing me to flinch. The room fell dead silent except for Weber's loud breathing.

"Let me get this straight, Mrs. Walsh," Bruce continued. "Are you admitting to cheating on your husband with Vince Elliot last year?" he asked calmly, but his eyes were alive with his potential victory.

He was continuing his effort to destroy my already damaged character from a different angle. Making me look bad was always good for him. I was suddenly livid from the false accusation. He was twisting my day job into my personal life. I wasn't going to stand for it.

"How dare you assume that I love Vince Elliot because I had sex with him under professional circumstances?" I demanded. "We are both porn actors, and sometimes we fuck to improve our acting. We didn't do it to be deviant. We did it for practice. You're an idiot to assume a porn star is comparable to every other sex-starved individual on this planet. It's a job for us. We can enjoy it if we try. I admit Vince gave me an excellent orgasm, but I don't love him. I loved Damon," I snapped angrily.

Everyone in the courtroom began whispering again as I sat on the witness stand, fuming. Bruce had sucked his lower lip between his teeth and was chewing it as he stared at me in admiration. That was the most distracted look I had ever seen on his handsome face. I was pleased that I caused it. I glanced at Rusty. He was smiling at me with an eyebrow raised.

"Thank you for clarifying that for me, Mrs. Walsh," Bruce continued as he looked down and flipped through his papers again.

He was actually avoiding my gaze at that point.

"According to previous testimonies, you and Damon had another argument during lunch. Please briefly recount the argument for the jury," he said as he tossed his papers back on his desk. Then he proceeded to pace the floor in a contemplative manner.

"Fine... Damon was tolerably sober at that point. He hadn't found a replacement for me yet. Eric began pleading with him to reconsider me for the lead. We were on a time budget, and we needed to complete the film. He said he would reconsider if I dyed my hair like he asked. I refused, and we repeated our earlier argument in front of the team. He eventually revealed that he was tired of my current image because it wasn't extreme enough. That felt like a challenge, so I told him I would kick things up a notch if he let me keep my natural hair color. We made up after that and finished lunch. Damon encouraged everyone to drink themselves tipsy but not get drunk. That was common practice before a shoot."

"You seem to be leaving out some important details about the nature of this particular fight, Mrs. Walsh. Did you forget about the heavy crystal champagne flute you threw at your husband?" Bruce asked as he stopped pacing and looked at me.

I groaned internally at the memory of what I did during that fight. It was not a very graceful moment. I was furious and hurt by Damon's sudden hatred of my image. I accused him of trying to ruin me so that he could continue to control my life.

"I remember throwing the flute. It hit Damon on the shoulder and left a nasty welt," I said while letting my gaze fall to the floor. Disapproving eyes were burning holes into me at that point.

"Other notable things happened," Bruce added. "Would you care to elaborate in your own words? Or, shall I tell the jury what my private investigators discovered?" he asked as he stepped closer to me while holding me in his handsome gaze.

Rusty had warned me this would happen. He advised me not to let Bruce tell the story. Bruce was a master at winning over juries. It was better for me to talk and screw it up than let him condemn me completely.

"I'll explain what happened," I began. "Damon was beside himself with rage after I hit him with the flute. He called me many nasty names and declared I was fired... and that he wanted a divorce. I told him I was sorry and begged for forgiveness."

"Why didn't you agree to a divorce, Mrs. Walsh?" Bruce interrupted. "I am not sensing any love in your marriage."

"I know it's hard to believe, but I did love Damon fiercely for a long time. I even signed away all my property and money to him as proof that I loved him. I realize now how stupid that was. I was young and naive. Damon's first wife took everything when they divorced. He never really trusted me because of his first wife. I was beside myself with fear that he really would ruin me and leave me homeless, so I promised to make Naughty Housemaid 2 popular. I threw myself at his mercy. He could use me how he wanted. He calmed down after that and told me he forgave me. He even said I could keep my natural hair color. I took extra care to be nice to Damon for the rest of the day, but it didn't do any good," I trailed off as tears filled my eyes.