Meet Me at the Starlight

Chapter 33

MATT

JULY

SEA BLUE BEACH

Between long days of filming, putting his house on the market and moving to his new-old Hollywood Hills place, Matt had yet to call Booker. Not to worry, Harlow gently reminded every few calls.

She was doing killer with her weight loss. Down twenty-five pounds since early May.

Now, after umpteen delays, Matt was in Sea Blue Beach for his court date. “What’s our play here, bugsy?” Matt’s weak James Cagney imitation did not amuse Bodie.

“Our play here is you being cool,” Bodie whispered as the jurors filed into the jury box. “Humble.”

“Pass me a fork and a plate of crow.”

“Don’t play up your celebrity. Look sober and dignified.”

“And a side of humble pie.”

“Judge Harris is serious but fair. The state believes they have an open-and-shut case, having so many eyewitnesses between the diner and rink. But I’ll make them doubt what they saw.”

The case continued to make news, but more in a Matt-Knight-defends-his-grandmother’s-honor kind of way. He’d suspected his former publicist Amelia had a hand in spinning the details. She always had a soft spot for him. This morning, fans gathered outside the courthouse with Free Matt Knight signs.

“We’re cheering for you, Matt.”

“We love you, Matt Knight.”

“Justice will prevail!”

“Free Matt Knight. Free Matt Knight.”

Dad entered the courtroom, wearing his blue work shirt and jeans, his hair combed back, his shoulders square. Next to him, Granny sat straight with her chin raised, and gave Matt two thumbs up. Where was Harlow? She said she’d be here.

Seeing Dad and Granny messed with him more than he thought it would. They deserved better from him. He deserved better for himself. This wasn’t the set of a movie, a role to play. This was his real life. With real consequences.

“Remember, Matt,” Bodie said. “Sober and dignified.”

There was no need to remind him. James Cagney joking aside, sobriety wrapped every part of him.

Matt’s original approach had been to pretend he was on the set of a police drama, playing the part of a man unjustly accused. But seeing Dad and Granny, the judge, the somber faces of the jurors, he could be nothing but regular Matt Knight, vulnerable and a bit scared. Honestly, he’d earned his way into this mess fair and square.

Tapping Bodie’s arm, he leaned in. “I’m going to confess.”

“No, you’re not. With a first-degree misdemeanor charge, you could get up to a year in jail. Don’t you listen to anything I tell you? Now sit back and be quiet.”

The judge entered, and the case of the State of Florida versus Matt Knight was in session. He glanced back at Dad. Where’s Harlow? He shook his head with a shrug.

The assistant state attorney, Marvin Moore, delivered impassioned opening remarks about allowing those who think they are above the law to get away with small infractions while the common man pays the price. “A misdemeanor today means a felony tomorrow. Before you know it, a punch turns into aggravated battery, which turns into murder.”

Bodie shot to his feet. “Objection. The ASA is implying my client is a murderer.”

“Sustained.”

“The state will prove that Mr. Knight’s actions toward Dale Cranston were deliberate and violent. You will have no choice but to render a guilty verdict.” Marvin Moore returned to his table with a glib look of satisfaction.

Bodie approached the jury box. “My client does not believe he’s above the law,” he began in a deep, collected, even voice. “He cares about this community, the people, and traditions. The state will try to paint him as a cold, egotistic Hollywood star who lives for his own glory. Matt Knight is the exact opposite, which we will prove. Don’t see a celebrity in this courtroom today. See a man, an ordinary citizen, trying to do what’s right. Just like you and I would.”

One by one, the state called their witnesses.

Moore: “Did you see Mr. Knight strike the victim?”

Mrs. Philpott of 2020 Ocean Front Lane: “Yes, I did. Smack. Right in the kisser.”

One by one, Bodie challenged their testimony.

Bodie: “Mrs. Philpott, you saw the defendant hit the victim in the kisser?”

Mrs. Philpott: “Yes, sir, I did.”

Bodie: “Can you define kisser?”

Mrs. Philpott: “The lips. The mouth.”

Bodie: “Your sworn testimony is you saw my client hit Dale Cranston in the mouth?”

Mrs. Philpott: “Yes, I did.”

Bodie: “I have here a photograph of Dale Cranston taken after the so-called altercation.” He handed it to the judge, then to Mrs. Philpott. “Can you describe where you see a bruise on this man’s face?”

Mrs. Philpott: “Oh, yes, I see. He has a bruise around his eye.”

Bodie: “Is that the kisser, Mrs. Philpott?”

Mrs. Philpott: “Well, no. Dale, how’d you get that black eye?”

Male Voice: “He ran into one of the projectors.”

Judge Harris: “No shouting from the gallery and the witness will not address the plaintiff.”

Bodie: “Mrs. Philpott, did you actually see Mr. Knight hit Dale Cranston?”

Mrs. Philpott: “I saw him fall over. Right into Blaire. Made a mess of everything.”

Bodie: “The waitress Blaire?”

Mrs. Philpott: “Yes.”

Bodie: “Blaire was in the kitchen.” He offered verified evidence from Audra at the diner that Blaire was in the kitchen, helping her unload a shipment of napkins and Styrofoam cups. “Mr. Cranston fell into Rachelle Dickenson.”

Mrs. Philpott: [hand to her lips] “Well, those girls look so much alike from behind.”

Bodie: “Mrs. Philpott, can you say beyond reasonable doubt that the defendant gave Dale Cranston this black eye?”

Mrs. Philpott: “I guess not. Gee whiz, sorry, Matt.”

Moore: “Objection! Let the apology be stricken from the record.”

“Overruled.”

And so it went. Moore produced his eyewitnesses, and Bodie challenged every one of them. Even Milo couldn’t swear Matt actually swung at Dale that night in the rink.

Bodie: “Is it your sworn testimony, Officer Patitucci, that Dale Cranston was poised to lunge at the defendant’s grandmother, Tuesday Knight?”

Milo: “Looked like it, but then Mayor Smith fell into Mrs. Knight and things got chaotic.”

Bodie: “Did you see the defendant strike Dale Cranston?”

Milo: “Not exactly.”

Bodie: “Yes or no, Officer Patitucci.”

Milo: “No.”

Moore tried to eviscerate Milo’s testimony, but he recited the details exactly the same, no matter how Moore tried to twist up the facts.

Sensing his case shredding, Moore called two character witnesses on behalf of Dale Cranston: Harry Smith, mayor of Sea Blue Beach, and Lloyd Boyd, head of the chamber of commerce. Moore’s questions and their answers were perfunctory and boring. Expected.

“The state rests, Your Honor.”

Judge Harris glanced down at Bodie over the top of his spectacles. “Mr. Nickle, call your character witness. Let’s get this done. All this talk of the Blue Plate is making me hungry.”

“The defense calls Harlow Hayes to the stand.”

Harlow?

The courtroom doors opened, and she strutted into the courtroom and down the aisle like it was a Paris runway. She owned the walls, the ceiling, the floor, and every breathing person in the room. She moved gracefully, eliciting a chorus of oohs and aahs. Her hair with golden highlights flowed over her shoulder in loose curls. She wore slacks and heels, with a blue jacket that turned her eyes into a cloudless sky.

Hubba hubba. Matt was a goner. No way back. Guilty of heart-palpitating love, Your Honor. Give him life without parole.

After the bailiff swore her in, Harlow glanced his way for the first time.

“Bodie,” he whispered, “why’d you call Harlow? She was at the diner. She can’t lie.”

Bodie scribbled on his legal pad. HUSH!

If asked outright, “Did Matt Knight hit Dale Cranston in the Blue Plate Diner?” she’d have to say yes. He didn’t know what she saw at the rink, but at the diner she had a front row seat.

Don’t lie under oath for me, H.

Bodie went to work. “You’re Harlow Hayes of 321 Sea Blue Way and formerly of 432 Park Avenue, Manhattan, New York?”

“Yes.”

“Can you tell us about your career?”

“I was a model with the Icon Agency for twelve years. More recently, I have been employed at the Starlight.”

“Objection.” Marvin Moore was a hot poker fresh from the fire. “What is the purpose of this line of questioning? The state concedes Ms. Hayes is a famous model who owns a residence here in Sea Blue Beach. Can we move on?”

“Sustained,” Judge Harris said. “Move on, Mr. Nickle.”

“Harlow, can you tell us about the day at the diner and the punch in question?”

Her eyes glistened as she swiveled toward the jurors. Oh, H, brilliant move. “Life is never easy, is it?” The women nodded, and the men stared. She was composed, confident, exuding all of her HH qualities.

“I’m sure everyone knows my big heartbreak of ’85.” The redhead with freckles on the end wiped her eyes. “All my life I wanted to be a mom. Not very hip these days, right? Today women are supposed to want careers, to break glass ceilings, but I wanted to be a mom with a bunch of kids. My mom started me young in modeling, and while I’m grateful for the opportunities it gave me, I missed being a part of a family. I never felt my life was my own.”

Moore slowly stood, adjusting his tie and jacket. “Ms. Hayes is not on trial here. Must we continue with the world’s smallest violin playing ‘My Heart Bleeds for You’ in this emotional manipulation?”

Marvin Moore had just made a fatal mistake. The women scorned him, and the men appeared perturbed. For sure Amos Luckenbach, at seventy-eight, had never heard Harlow’s story. The man lived on a boat.

“Overruled,” Judge Harris said. “Go on, Ms. Hayes, but do get to the part about the defendant.”

“Yes, Your Honor.” She couldn’t be more sincere and humble. Something had happened to her. Matt leaned for a deeper look. She was different. Brighter. “Anyway, I first met Matt on the set of Talk to Me Sweetly, and—”

“I loved that movie.”

Judge Harris slapped his gavel. “Juror Number Four, please refrain from speaking.”

Harlow detailed her friendship with Matt on the set and their surprising meet-cute at Tony’s Pizza, depicting the scene quite accurately, recounting her embarrassment. “My dress was hiked up to kingdom come, showing off my underwear.”

“Oh mercy, ain’t that the worst? Had something similar happened to me when—”

Judge Harris slapped his gavel. “Juror Number Four, one more outburst and I’ll remove you from the room.”

“Anyway,” Harlow said, “there I am with a mouth full of pizza and the Matt Knight kneels down in front of me and says, ‘H, what are you doing here? Wow, it’s so good to see you.’ He didn’t stare or gawk. He didn’t laugh or curl a lip. He made me feel...” She glanced down at her hands. “Special. And I hadn’t felt special in a really, really long time. Maybe not ever.”

Oh, Harlow ... Matt’s lips buzzed something fierce.

“He hired me to work at the Starlight before I even applied. I didn’t even know how to skate, but Tuesday taught me. Though I secretly think she wanted me to dust the floor, because I spent a lot of time on my backside.”

Marvin Moore moaned and slumped down in his seat.

“Ms. Hayes, let’s move on to the day in question. Did Dale Cranston stop by your table as you dined with Mr. Knight?” Bodie said.

“He did. He ridiculed the Starlight and me. Matt told him who I was, but Mr. Cranston said I was too fat to be Harlow Hayes. However, he did suggest I was pretty enough to be used for a one-night stand or two.”

The jurors and every spectator in the courtroom gasped.

Moore was on his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Dale Cranston is not on trial. Insulting someone does not warrant being assaulted.”

“Well, it should.” Juror Number Four again.

The atmosphere exploded with shouts and gavel banging.

“Order!” Judge Harris said. “I will have order in my courtroom. Mr. Nickle, get to the point. Now.”

“Ms. Hayes,” Bodie said, “did you see Matt Knight punch Dale Cranston?”

“Actually, no, I didn’t. I was staring at my plate. Because of what Mr. Cranston said about me. I was ashamed.”

A collective gasp was followed by a low din of spectators talking among themselves. The jurors leaned together in a discussion accented with wild gestures. Outside, the “Free Matt Knight” mantra continued.

“Did you see Mr. Knight strike Dale Cranston at the Starlight on the night of May 26?” Bodie continued.

“No, I did not. I only saw Mr. Cranston lunging at Tuesday, but the mayor got in the way. I tried to keep Tuesday from falling.”

Bodie glanced back at Matt and mouthed, “Boom.”

Boom was right. Once again, Judge Harris banged his gavel, trying to bring order. Everyone talked at once.

Through the noise and chatter and the “Free Matt Knight” chants, Harlow glanced his way, and her eyes pulled him from his chair like a scene from Close Encounters of the Third Kind. He passed through the chaos and stepped into the witness box.

“Is this going to be a thing with you? Kissing me in crowded public forums?” she said.

“Maybe, but I have one question, and remember, you’re under oath.”

“I’m listening.”

“Marry me, Harlow.”

“That’s not a question.”

He grinned through all of his buzzy, fuzzy sensations. “Will you marry me, Harlow Hayes? I know what we said in the jail cell, but something has changed. You’re free. I can see it in your eyes, and I want what you have.”

“It was Immanuel.”

“Granny’s Immanuel?”

“My Immanuel.”

He brushed her lips with his. “Marry me, HH.”

She gripped his shirt. “Better believe I will, Matt Knight, and have a passel of babies.”

Pulling her into his arms, he knew he was holding his heart and his future. Her kiss unfurled a vision of laughter, tears, arguments, late colicky nights, diaper changes, school plays and sports, birthday parties and exhausting family vacations, and mad lovemaking, even when they were too tired. Every movement of her body against his said it was so.

When they broke apart, the courtroom was silent, every eye on them. The redhead in the jurors’ box gushed, breathless, “Not guilty, Your Honor. Not guilty.”

At that point, the judge gave up on any sort of order as Mr. Moore shouted, “The state withdraws the charges” and Judge Harris brought his gavel down.

“Matt Knight, you’re free to go.”