“Of course it is, Your Honor,” he quickly backpedaled. “But the D.A.’s request is…severe,” he finished, this time choosing his words more carefully.

Severe. Good way of putting it. I made a mental note to use that word in my copy.

“Mr. Atwood?” the judge asked, addressing the D.A.

“Your Honor, the defendant has considerable means, dual citizenship in the U.S. and Canada. He is a flight risk. And,” he said, shooting Pines a withering look, “considering the defendant is a director with access to all manner of photographic equipment, we feel it is our duty to protect the children of the community by requesting ten million in bail.”

“That’s insane, Your Honor,” defense argued. “My client is being persecuted by the D.A. because of his fame.”

“I’ve heard enough,” the judge said, holding up his hands.

The entire courtroom, myself included, went silent, holding our collective breath as the judge chewed the inside of his cheek, his gaze going from one attorney to the other. No doubt wondering just how this would play out in the press.

Finally he seemed to come to some conclusion.

“Mr. Pines, if you think celebrity is an excuse for immoral behavior, you’ll be sorely disappointed in my courtroom. Bail is set at ten million dollars.”

I let out a low whistle as the judge banged his gavel. The D.A. gave a triumphant lift of his chin, almost exactly proportionate to the slump in Pines’s shoulders as the bailiff accompanied him out of the room.

I slipped my recorder back in my pocket. An interesting development indeed. Whether Pines actually had ten mil in change for bail or not, I had no idea. But a Hollywood director stuck in jail for days? This was almost as good as Paris Watch ‘08. What do you want to bet he’d be claiming mental anguish in under a week?

I mentally rubbed my hands together with glee as I slipped back out the door to find Cam waiting for me. After all, one pedophile director’s mental anguish meant front-page coverage for yours truly.

God, I loved Hollywood.

Chapter Two

After the arraignment, Cam and I hit the Del Taco on Santa Monica. I got my steaming hot burrito, ordering a second to go just in case, and Cam did a taco salad before we parted ways—her to camp out on Sunset for the evening club crowd and me to home.

Which, for me, was South Pasadena, a sleepy little suburb wedged between Glendale and the San Gabriel Valley. Wide streets, palms on every corner, and strip malls with Trader Joe’s and Pier One at all the intersections. Pretty typical American every-suburb, except for the fact that Nicole Richie lived just over the freeway.