Now I was facing eight pages of dramatic dialogue during which I was to break down sobbing on the witness stand and proclaim my innocence. It was the pivotal moment of the picture, and though Robert Verona was the star, the scene hinged on my performance.

I was petrified. On Circle of Life, when I had to cry, they’d stop the camera before my close-up, and Katie would rush over and puff menthol in my eyes. It wasn’t as though I’d had to conjure up any real feeling. For this film, I’d spent the last month working on the script with Casey Adams, a method acting coach. Brett had used Casey on his last film and swore by her. But he’d played a sheriff who hadn’t had to cry. Casey had instructed me to focus on my character’s “inner life” and how she’d feel being accused of a crime she didn’t commit; to be a woman abused and berated by men. “The tears will come,” she solemnly promised me.

“How are you feeling, Jackie?” Devon Carr, the director appeared at my side. Pale, freckled, not yet thirty, he had a disturbing habit of checking his neck pulse.

“Me? Couldn’t be better,” I lied. Devon couldn’t save me. This was only his second film. His first had been a low-budget buddy picture with a kid and a German shepherd.

“Oh, uh, great, great.” His eyes trailed off me, following something I couldn’t see. “Andre!” he called sharply to the D.P. “Too yellow! Too bright!”

He dashed away in the direction of the camera crew. Our working relationship was cordial, but I’d a hunch Devon was behind the rumors about me. Not that the accusations were entirely unwarranted. I had held up the production on several occasions, having overslept my call time twice. I was plagued with insomnia and anxiety. I’d spent one morning hyperventilating, locked in my trailer. My hives had cleared but I was still seething over the tabloids and that letter from my mother. Every night I lay awake composing my reply. I hadn’t sent it because each night I came up with something meaner to say. Let her rot in her own gin-soaked skin.

Robert Verona, instantly recognizable with his imposing figure and iconic craggy face, walked onto the set, parting the sea of crew, cast, and extras. In his seventies, having won two Oscars, he was still a major star. We’d already shot two of our smaller scenes and it would be an understatement to say I’d found him intimidating.

The A.D. called for final touches. I climbed into the witness box trading places with my stand-in. I searched for Nicole and Penny and saw them behind the camera chatting up the studio thugs. I was nauseous. Why had I let them talk me into doing a part that required all this acting?