A Life More Complete(25)
As we follow the sidewalk up to the door, microphones, recorders, cameras are shoved into our faces. Both of us, heads down, walk at quickened pace as questions are shouted at us like machine gun fire.
One reporter screams above the crowd, “Is it true that Trini Walters has been arrested on suspicion of DUI, again?”
I stop and turn to the growing crowd that is moving with us, “We will not be answering any questions at this time. We will be making a statement regarding Ms. Walters shortly.” The mob continues to spout off questions as Melinda and I are buzzed into the police station. We sign in like we do this every day and the sad thing is we’ve both been here more often than we’d like to admit. The woman behind the window purses her lips and slides the visitor badges through the small slot in the bulletproof glass. The look on her face is well known, if I could read her mind it would question the validity of my job and the stupidity of my client, something I’m currently doing.
Trini sits, her head facedown on her knees, her hands clasped behind her neck, in a wooden chair in an interrogation room. She’s been kept separate from the others, given special treatment, which will no doubt cause issues with the public and the media. She doesn’t move when Melinda and I enter the room. The officer follows behind as we all sit around the table. Trini’s lawyer arrives a few minutes later. It’s not the lawyer she hired; they’ve sent someone from their firm. A young kid, he might be twenty-five if he’s lucky and I want to ask him if he’s qualified to handle what has been thrust upon him. He gives muddled reasons as to where Trini’s lawyer is, which basically amounts to “he quit.” He didn’t quit the firm. He quit Trini. Her new lawyer is nervous, he mumbles and says “um” far too often. The legal advice he gives is basic, something in my six years as publicist I could’ve given her. I’ve seen this show play out, each time a different character in the lead, an actor, an athlete, a CEO. It doesn’t matter who, the outcome is still the same. He tells her to plead guilty, pay a fine, lose her license and then move on with her life. That fabulous use of the legal system will cost her at least five hundred bucks. The officer proceeds with the details of her arrest and what she’s been charged with. Trini glances at me, her eyes heavy, crusted and smeared with mascara.
“Trini, we have to release a statement to the press. I think we need to keep it basic and I also think you should consider entering rehab.” I wait for her response and her lawyer nods his head in agreement.
“Fine,” she answers, her voice resentful.
“This is for the best. It’ll show the judge that you’re serious about correcting the situation. It will show your fans and the media that you’ve owned up to your mistake. I know this isn’t what you want, but it will help you maintain your professionalism and your career.”
“Fine. Whatever.” Her words are harsher than before as she stares at me from across the table. Trini follows me out of the station. Stopping at the base of the parking lot, the sun is just beginning to rise and the sky is clear and serene, yet it feels as if it should be swirling with dark, opaque clouds. I take a deep breath and begin to speak, “At 1:04 this morning, Katrina Walters was arrested and booked on suspicion of driving under the influence, cocaine possession and leaving the scene of an accident. This was an error in judgment and she is taking full accountability for her actions. At this time, Ms. Walters has decided it would be in her best interest to enter a rehabilitation center to help rectify her issues. We ask the media to allow her the privacy and the respect she needs to heal. Thank you.”
I quickly usher Trini into my car and we leave the station, heading toward her house. Her father posted her bail, yet wasn’t present. No one is with her except the people she pays to be by her side, not Luke, not her father, not anyone from her ever-changing group of friends.
My phone’s been ringing incessantly since leaving the police station. Numerous requests for interviews, statements and questions bombard my voicemail inbox. Trini agrees to do one interview with a local news station with the rights to air clips on other media outlets.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” I ask as we enter her house.
“Whatever.” Her replies have been one word, clipped and angry since we left the station. She has showered, changed her clothes and I’ve already sent her back to change a second time. I walk into her closet and select a simple navy blue shift dress and pair of navy and white polka dot wedges. I hand the dress to her and she retreats to the bathroom. Several minutes pass and she doesn’t emerge as I expect. I knock quietly on the bathroom door.