Celebrity Bounty

54

Chapter 1

From Inside Celebrity Bounty’s New York Office

I think we can make a celebrity.

As usual, Kensington Smythe didn’t pay attention to Heléna Midas unless she said something at least twice. She thought out loud a lot. If she said something twice, she meant it. That was his cue to take her seriously.

Ken, I think we can actually create a celebrity. Heléna was staring at her computer screen as she was talking to Ken, scrolling through a news story. She always dressed well. She owned jeans, but never wore them. They were alone in their private office high above Manhattan, but she still dressed and acted as if someone could be taking her picture. Her blonde hair, her nails and her shoes and jewelry were all either gold or had gold accents.

‘Ken’ was actually Kensington Smythe, editor and publisher of the incredibly successful media empire known as Celebrity Bounty. There was a magazine, a website and a television show all dedicated to one simple motto: Everything you want to know, about everyone you want to know. Heléna Midas was, without question, the star of his empire. She wrote a column called Everything I Touch . . . for the weekly magazine and had frequent segments on the syndicated TV show that aired five times weekly.

Heléna, we don’t need to create any celebrities. They just ‘happen.’ People are desperate to be celebrities. Why would we ‘create’ one? He spoke with a strange, unplaceable accent. The nearest equivalent would be an impersonator doing an inconsistent version of a Cary Grant accent. Not British, but not really American either. Ken was also impeccably dressed in a three-pieced Armani suit. He cared about his image. He was a subscriber to the dress for the position you want line of thought.

I think if we can ‘create’ our own celebrity, her eyes got bigger with excitement, "we’ll own them. We will be the media source for information about them. We’ll have such an advantage over all the other tabloids, they’ll never be able to keep pace."

Heléna, it sounds like you have someone in mind already.

Yes. I just don’t know their name yet.

You want to make a celebrity out of somebody, but you don’t know who they are?

Yes, she replied. I want to make a celebrity out of whoever wins the Lottery of America. There is a good chance that the winner will take home over a billion dollars in the next drawing. I think America should really get to know its newest, instant billionaire. I think it would be fascinating to see how a normal citizen copes with the celebrity world, and I’m willing to bet that America will want to watch as they try to hide from cameras everywhere.

Ken nodded thoughtfully. "Heléna, what you’re talking about would be a new step, even for us. I know we created a new tabloid when we started paying our citizen paparazzi for photos. But creating our own celebrity? Most celebrities are actors or musicians. They choose careers where fame is an expected side effect or they sign up for a reality show, desperate to be famous. A lottery winner doesn’t ask for fame."

We’re past that Ken, Heléna countered. We’re in a position now where we can decide who will be famous, and how famous they’ll be.

She stood up and started pacing gazing out the office window as she was walked. Once we have the buylist updated for pictures and information about the lottery winners, I can see us running entire issues about our new celebrity lottery winner. We’ll answer the question that everyone fantasizes about—What would you do if you won the lottery? We’ll follow these new winners around and see every part of their lives. I think our subscribers will want to know.

Still, Ken tried to slow Heléna down. He was holding his hands up defensively, palms facing her. "I know we have gone deeper into celebrity lives than anyone before. I can remember—before Celebrity Bounty—pictures in magazines or online of famous people getting gas or drinking coffee. Stupid shit nobody really wanted to see. Now, readers want to know everything about celebrities, especially their sex lives. That’s what we sell. But you want to turn a normal civilian into a celebrity against their will. It just seems like a new level. It feels . . . wrong somehow."

Wrong? Heléna asked. Is that the new standard we care about now? We’ll only do the ‘right thing,’ whatever that is? When we post on our buylist that we’ll pay someone $200,000 for video of certain celebrities having sex—that isn’t morally wrong? We’ve had a role in breaking up dozens of Hollywood marriages. That isn’t wrong? Ken, ‘wrong’ is what we do. ‘Wrong’ is why we have this office. ‘Wrong’ is why we both have the bank accounts we do. ‘Wrong’ is what our readers, our viewers, our subscribers . . . what the public wants to see. ‘Wrong’ is why you and I are rich.

Chapter 2

Jim Townsend took a minute to check the mirror and make sure he looked lawyerly. He was wearing a suit, tie and an overcoat. All of his clothes were cheap—the bare minimum to convince a judge or jury that he wasn’t an imposter, but nobody would think he was a successful attorney based on what he was wearing. His dark hair didn’t show any signs of gray. He knew thirty-four would be a bit young, but he had a lot of stress and expected to see gray hair show up every morning when he looked in the mirror. He was 5' 11" and wished he could lose a little weight, but that would take time, effort, and money. He couldn’t spare any of those three things just to look better. He checked his watch.

Come on, Sam, he shouted upstairs to his son. We’ve got to get you to the bus stop on time. Sam finally stomped down the stairs in protest, grabbed his coat, and went out to the car with his dad.

Within a few minutes, Jim dropped Sam off at the bus stop and drove to work. As always, traffic was slow. Jim didn’t listen to music or the radio in the car on the way to work. He needed to start to prepare his mind. But he couldn’t block out everything. He noticed the new electronic billboard, basically just a giant screen TV that changed images every seven seconds. Today, Jim caught a new ad selling breast enhancement surgery for only $4,500. It showed a before and after image of a woman who had the procedure. As a lawyer, Jim couldn’t help but wonder how many personal injury suits would arise from accidents caused by people staring at the ad while they should be paying attention to the road. He also couldn’t believe the price. He had never thought about it, but it seemed too low.

Eventually, he got to the courthouse. It was in a truly strange looking building: the Government Center in Minneapolis. It was a pair of towers connected under the same roof. The towers were both placed inside a much bigger building. Jim always thought it was a terribly inefficient design—a lot of unnecessary air that had to be heated in the winter and cooled in the summer. The entire building had an unnatural feel to it. The air, the light, the noise, even the fountain in the middle of the courtyard, which seemed to be filled with black water, all felt like they weren’t quite natural.

The towers were connected on a few floors with sky bridges. There had been a couple of suicides where people just leaving court had thrown themselves over the side of the bridges and plummeted fifteen floors to their death. Since then, all open spaces in the sky bridge had been protected with Plexiglas, similar to what was used around hockey rinks. The building was drab, as were most of the activities inside of it. Criminal convictions, divorce decrees, custody battles and parking ticket payments were what brought most people to this soulless building.

The one hint of color in the entire building was a sign outside of the convenience store on the main level. The big, red neon letters, read TO GO. Every Monday, Jim tried to stop in. He was borderline-addicted to the chocolate-covered Boston cream filled donuts. If he really felt like splurging, he would get a bottle of Mountain Dew to go with it. Nothing healthy about it, Jim thought, but I don’t smoke, do drugs or drink more than seven or eight glasses of wine a year, so, as vices go, this is pretty minor.

He got to the newsstand and threw a quick glance at Marcus Samuelson, the owner of the shop. Marcus had been there since Jim’s first day over eight years ago. He was also the only person who actually seemed friendly and bothered to smile at Jim each workday. Jim had made a point of getting to know Marcus and they spoke a little each Monday morning. When the place was busy, Jim didn’t bother Marcus, but if it was slow, they would talk about the weather or the Vikings or their kids.

As Jim stood in line, he thought about Marcus’ son, Malik, who was an all-state running back. He had his pick of college scholarships. Most kids in Malik’s shoes would have been dreaming of NFL stardom, but Malik was smarter than that. He was well aware that one wrong turn on some turf would wreck his knee or ankle and his chances at NFL riches. His goal was to get a college degree for the career he wanted: bridge engineering. Ever since the Interstate 35 bridge had collapsed in Minneapolis, he had been fascinated with how to design bridges. So, he chose the best school with a decent football program and a good industrial design component specializing in bridges. He even told the football coach who was recruiting him that he would commit to both things, the football team and his studies, but that they would be equal. Malik was good enough that the coach gave him his word that he would make sure football didn’t kill his schoolwork. The coach told Marcus that he could count on one hand the number of kids that had told him something like that, and he knew that Malik was special.

By the time Jim got to the counter, the crowd was pretty much gone, and he stood there with his bottle of Mountain Dew.

You could drink coffee like a grown up, you know, Marcus remarked. They’ll even let you put cream and lots of sugar and whip cream on top so it tastes like soda.

I know, just never got the taste.

Marcus studied Jim briefly. Is there something else I can get you?

You’re out of the Boston cream, it looks like, so it’ll just be this.

Jim, you’re one of the few people in this building that treats me decent. You actually know my name. So you know what I started doing?

What’s that, Marcus?

I pulled one Boston cream fresh off the tray and kept it behind the counter for you. I’ll do it every Monday. If you don’t show up, I guess I’ll eat it.

A smile came over Jim’s face. Thanks, Jim replied. Oh, I forgot, I have something for Malik. Jim reached in his briefcase and grabbed a card. It’s a graduation card with a couple of bucks. Just promise me that he spends it on something he wants, not something he needs.

Marcus took the card, and Jim could see that he was really touched. Jim had never met Malik, but he and Jim had talked about each other’s kids enough that he felt like he knew Sam a little and Jim followed Malik’s exploits in the press. Marcus gave Jim a sincere nod. But he was also running a business, and a couple of customers had walked in. Okay, we have the donut and the Dew. Anything else, sir?

I haven’t looked—how’s the Lottery of America these days?

Marcus smiled. You’re kidding, right?

No, what’s it up to?

Marcus pointed to the red LED sign that listed the amounts of various lottery totals. There it was—$950 million guaranteed.

No lottery had ever gone anywhere near that total. The Lottery of America, which now was generally referred to simply as The Lottery, was one of the few things that Congress had been able to pass for several years that wasn’t seen as a tax increase while still raising money. It was the first federally run lottery, and it had been a massive success, raising over $200 billion in its first three months. The tickets were expensive: five dollars. But the starting prize for the lottery each week was a guaranteed $100 million, after taxes.

I sell a lot more of these tickets than cigarettes, coffee and donuts these days. You want to get in on it?

Jim nodded. What was another five dollars? The Lottery offered big payouts, but it wasn’t cheap to play. Still, it was hard to ignore that $950 million total.

Thanks again, Marcus. We’ll see you soon.

Best of luck, Jim. And hey, thanks again for thinking of my son. This card means a lot to me.

Chapter 3

Most of what Jim did, like any public defender, was come up with plea bargains. At least nine out of every ten cases that Jim worked on ended up as deals. He didn’t like it. No public defender did. But that was the system. He would prefer to fight every case at trial, but he simply didn’t have enough hours in the day to manage his caseload of 250–300 active cases each year and go to trial with every one of them effectively.

Like every public defender, Jim knew that most of his clients were guilty. Even the most cops are evil conspiracy theorists realized that the police don’t like bad arrests that get tossed out of court. Defendants were generally only arrested and charged if there was a good case against them with strong evidence. Like every public defender, Jim also didn’t ask his clients whether they were guilty.

He had one last meeting that Monday afternoon. Jim looked briefly at the file: armed robbery with aggravated assault tossed in. His client, Quantrice Richardson, had a record with plenty of lower level convictions, but nothing major. If he were found guilty, this would be a big step up from his criminal past. He went to meet Quantrice in the jail’s tiny meeting room. It was about as depressing as a room could be. No windows, one door made of prison bars, with a table and a chair on each side. Quantrice was led in with handcuffs and sat down across from Jim with a burly guard escorting him.

Please remove the cuffs, guard, Jim said. His voice was polite, but firm.

You sure there, boss? the guard asked. Jim knew the only reason the guard asked was so he could blame Jim if Quantrice decided to attack his brand new, free attorney.

Jim looked Quantrice in the eyes. He was probably early thirties, African American, and a little shorter than Jim. Yes, I’m sure.

The guard took the cuffs off. Quantrice rubbed his wrists and extended his hand to Jim. Nice to meet you, Mr. Townsend.

You as well, Mr., uh . . . Jim looked down at the file again, having already forgotten his client’s last name. It wasn’t like him to forget anything about work, much less his client’s name.

Richardson.

Sorry, Mr. Richardson. He regained eye contact. Although he wouldn’t ask his clients if they were innocent, he made a point of looking them in the eye when they first met. It was amazing how many sheepish looks he would get, which in most cases turned out to be a guilty look.

Richardson didn’t have that look. The look he exuded was, more than anything, confidence. Jim had played a bit of poker in college and loved to watch it on TV. He especially focused on the appearance and demeanor of people when they were bluffing. Richardson had the look of someone with a winning hand, and he didn’t care who knew it. In Jim’s line of work, this was unusual.

Jim had been doing felony defense work for just two years. He had started with the meat grinder work of driving without a license cases. These defendants were all guilty, having been convicted of drinking and driving and having their licenses taken or suspended. But the Twin Cities are, more than anything, a driving area, so these defendants had taken their chances driving to work even without a license. One stop for speeding or a taillight being out, and they’d have to appear in front of a judge for driving with a revoked license.

Eventually, he worked up to the much more interesting world of felonies. Not the big ones—no murders yet—but he was able to work on cases like Richardson’s.

Wait, how did you know my last name? Jim asked. He realized that was what had tripped him up when they shook hands. Clients never knew which public defender they were getting until they met.

I picked you.

Sorry.

You heard me right, I picked you.

How, exactly, did you do that?

Well, Richardson said, my associates and I are familiar with most public defenders in the system. We know who will plea out every case and who will really fight for a defendant. My case is strong, and I know that you like cases that you can roll the dice on, so I picked you. Jim noted that Quantrice was speaking to him like an equal. There was no deference in his voice and Quantrice wasn’t using any language that made him sound like he was from the street.

This didn’t make a lot of sense to Jim. Why would Richardson and his associates, which Jim assumed meant gang members, bother to know which public defenders were good or bad? And more importantly, how could Quantrice select him? Judges assigned cases, not defendants.

I can see by the look on your face that you don’t know what to think, Mr. Townsend. So let me explain it to you. I’m higher up in my … ‘association.’ I can pull rank when I need to. I’m not guilty of this crime, and I pulled some strings to get put on the most likely calendar where a judge would assign me to you.

Jim was trying to catch up. He could understand how gang members would form and share reputations about public defenders, prosecutors and judges. He just didn’t know that anything was this formal. He was surprised that any defendant that would qualify for a free public defender would have this kind of influence, but it made sense. Most gang members didn’t declare their income when they file taxes (if they file taxes), so Quantrice was probably squarely in the poverty range regardless of his real income. On paper, Quantrice qualified for a free public defender.

Okay, Jim said, very deliberately. He wanted to slow the pace and somehow regain control of this interview. You know a bit about me, and you know a lot about the system. Why don’t we talk about your case?

It’s simple, Quantrice began. This woman claims she saw me coming out of a convenience store where a clerk had been shot during a robbery. It wasn’t me. There were no cameras that caught the face of the guy who did it, just the back of his head. So it’s just her eyewitness testimony. And, like I said, I didn’t do it.

You have any alibis that will back that story up?

Look, I can get fifty guys to testify that I was at the library that night, but they’d be lying. Truth is, I was in charge of a transaction at the time. It wasn’t strictly legal. So, my alibi is airtight, but it would make me look even worse than this.

Okay… Jim said. He thought the situation through. Quantrice was being remarkably candid with him. And his intelligence was obvious. I think we can plea this down, Jim said. We can ask for ten months . . .

Counsel, I didn’t pick you so you can get me a plea bargain, Quantrice interrupted. "I picked you because you go to trial with cases that should win. I know you can’t guarantee me a victory. I get that. But if I lose, the worst thing that happens is I get five years. In my line of work, that’s not that bad. I can still control a lot of shit from inside."

Fair enough, Jim said. He wasn’t comfortable with what he was hearing. Who is Quantrice? Jim thought. Aren’t you worried about how this will look on your record when you get out in five years? It’s not easy to get a job or even an apartment with a conviction like this.

Mr. Townsend, Quantrice said with a hint of condescension, you clearly don’t know who I am. I’m going to tell you, because I believe you’re in better shape to defend me if you know everything. I’ve seen clients surprise their own lawyers in court. It never works out well for the defendant.

Jim nodded in agreement.

"You’re aware of the two biggest local gangs? The Raiders and the Mayhem? In this state, I’m the man at the top of the Raiders food chain. I call the shots. There is nobody above me. Prison is actually physically safer for me than being out on the streets. I could easily get gunned down outside of a Dairy Queen one